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PREFACE. 


“THe art of poetry,” says the old Spanish Jew, Alfonso: de Baena, ‘the gay 
science, is a most subtle and most delightful sort of writing or composition. 
It is sweet and pleasurable to those who propound and to those who reply; to 
utterers and to hearers. This science, or the wisdom or knowledge dependent 
on it, can only be possessed, received, and acquired by the inspired spirit of the 
Lord God; who communicates it, sends it, and influences by it, those alone, who 
well and wisely, and discreetly and correctly, can create and arrange, and compose 
and polish, and scan and measure feet, and pauses, and rhymes, and syllables, and 


And 


even then, so sublime is the understanding of this art, and so difficult its attainment, 


accents, by dextrous art, by varied and by novel arrangement of words. 
that it can only be learned, possessed, reached, and known to the man who is of 
noble and of ready invention,-elevated and pure discretion, sound and steady 
judgment; who has seen, and heard, and read many and divers books and writ- 
ings; who understands all languages; who has, moreover, dwelt in the courts uf. 
kings and nobles; and who has witnessed and practised many heroic feats. 
Finally, he must be of high birth, courteous, calm, chivalric, graciou: 
be polite and graceful; he must possess honey, and sugar, and salt, 1a facility 
and gayety in his discourse.” 

Tried by this standard, many of the poets in this volume would occupy a smaller 
space than has been allotted to them; and others would have been rejected alto- 
gether, as being neither ‘of ready invention, elevated and pure discretion, nor 
sound and steady judgment.” But it has not been my purpose to illustrate any 
poetic definition, or establish any theory of art. I have attempted only to bring 
together, into a compact and convenient form, as large an amount as possible of 
those English translations which are scattered through many volumes, and are 
not easily accessible to the general reader. In doing this, it has been thought 
advisable to treat the subject historically, rather than critically. The materials 


have in consequence been arranged according to their dates; and in order to render 


the literary history of the various countries as complete as these materials and 


the limits of a single volume would allow, an author of no great note has some- 
times been admitted, or a poem which a severer taste would have excluded. The 
and in judging 


any author, it must be borne in mind that translations do not always preserve the 


Ss. 


; he must 


ie SNS 


ee 


pnt A 


PREFACE. 


rhythm and melody of the original, but often resemble soldiers moving onward when 
the music has ceased and the time is marked only by the tap of the drum. 
The languages from which translations are here presented are ten. ‘They are 
the six Gothic languages of the North of Europe, — Anglo-Saxon, Icelandic, Dan- 
ish, Swedish, German, and Dutch; and the four Latin languages of the South of 
Europe, Spanish, and Portuguese. In order to make the work 
fulfil entirely the promise of its title, the Celtic and Sclavonic, as likewise the 
Turkish and Romaic, should have been introduced; but with these I am not 
acquainted, and I therefore leave them to some other hand, hoping that ere long | 


a volume may be added to this which shall embrace all the remaining European 


tongues. 
The authors upon whom I have chiefly relied, and to whom I am indebted for 
the greatest number of translations, are Bowrine, HEerBert, CosTELLo, Taytor, 


Jamieson, Brooxs, ApAMson, and THorpe.* Some of these are already beyond 


the reach of praise or thanks. ‘To the rest, and to all the translators by whose 
labors I have profited, I wish to express my sincere acknowledgments. I[ need 
3; they will, for the most part, be found in the Table of 
ist entitled “Translators and Sources.” 
of this work I have been assisted by Mr. C. C. FEtron, 


Who Nas iutiuisicc u.2 with a large portion of the biographical sketches prefixed 


teh the translations. I have also received much valuable aid from the critical taste 


| 


and judgment of Mr. Grorce Nicwoxs, during the progress of the work through | 


‘the press. 


Campripce, May, 1845. 


* Since the Anglo-Saxon portion of this book was printed, a copy of the ‘* Codex Exoniensis,” 


published by Mr. Thorpe, with the following title: ‘*Copmx Exoniensis; a Collection of 


Anglo-Saxon Poetry, from a Manuscript in the Library of the Dean and Chapter of Exeter, 


with an English Translation and Notes, by Bensamin Tuorpr, F.S, A.” London. 1842, 8vo. 
The following translations may also be mentioned: “ Masrpr Wace unis CHRONICLE oF 
tue Norman Congvuest, from the Roman pu Rov,” by Epcar Taytor, London, 8vo.; and 


“REYNARD THE Fox, a renowned Apologue of the Middle Age, reproduced in Rhyme,” by - 


spoken of on pages 6, 7, as “‘ the Exeter Manuscript,” has been received. The work has been 
S. Naytor, London, 1845, 8vo. 


- ee este serene seasons eee NESS SSE SSeS eeeeeesneeseeeeeneete 


CONTENTS. 


ANGLO-SAXON. 


e 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY 1 
POEM -OR2BEGVWAUL EV tater test a hell slp elles. Yer se sec cane 

Beowulf the Shyld . eines Eieh W. Taylor. 8 
The. Saitingsommep wail ii ts) 4) 6 fap tek oot) tot EDs ols 
Beowult’s Expedition to Heort . . . H.W. Longfellow. 8 
An Old Man’s Sorrow < oe sade at blr Kemble. . . 10 
GoodiNiRNGaey Beis north sas Vhs; Wels et heh 0i) DO a pel 
CLD MONTE ener A fal 6 Ser fom. we a) nel Va ohectivee UD 
The First Day >. RUE ae Thorpe. . » 10 
The Fall of the Rebel ihugels apis tet Es pac VeRO D wiecmheies NLD 
Satan? SMPRCCMM oe tewn on ol ey Sere Bile ote LOR! Gets de 
PheiTemptationor Bye, .0 0.9806 fo lela er EOD Sea. 4B 
The Phighpief thevleraelites «6 jie (ie) 6 6 (LO. be 0 NT 
The Destruction. of Pharaoh...) « « «0 Hb. «a 8 
HISTO RICHMODRS Simmer os peer a a oS a ok Te Sec a ee 
The Battle of Brunanburh dine Ingram. . . 19 
The Deathioh Mie RASA ei hac’ ob. el ee ULDe Ley) whe 
The Death of King Edward. . . . Ee iy sR hk My sae bed 
POEM FROM THE POETIC CALEND AR . Turner. wee! 
KING ALFRED’S METRES OF BOETHIUS For. .. . 28 
ROEM QE FUR aaree seal da ls cite be 9 oA 8) duis) hie) bt G 
The Revel of Holofernes By ae Turner. « » 26 
The Deathiof Melemernes . 8. 4. ge ee ay HO. je eh a RE 
IVIISCELLANEOUSPPOERMAS)  .o sem 6s ere, til at porte, Ne 
The Exile’s Complaint . . « Conybeare.. . 27 
The Soul’s Complaint . H.W. Longfellow. 28 
TheGraye, -eacteMedeaas lira sie apie. Gb ey Lay as wih hae 
The Ruined Wall-stone . ., . « « Conybeare. oi neesn 
The Song of Summer Warton. .-.. 29 


ICELANDIC. 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY.....*. . 30 
SZOVEIN DS) HDD Ae) els go erate ecb Velyee oe) cao eh es tae 

The Voluspa . ao ORIG Henderson. . 3 

The Have-male ye ot tellers. : shlis ie UEM be GY LOM) 6-200 
Vaithradrl’ s2palanuye) ovis sr kale etee Ww tye! kB ohe! s, aus) AL 

Thrym’s Quida . SNe Me sielh Maca ie MU ERRORT EG hy “tie! CAS 
Skirnis-for. . . Srediot fain San} spe ee EE aa tka ara t ae 

: Brynhilda’s Ride to ‘Hell . Malo ck 0) ee a ROR Ty 8S volcan AG 
s Grotta-saViEtine screies thy se) ies be) w) POMEION. 6) 6 47 
Vegtam’sQvida 4 2... . Pigott. sera 

Gunlaug and Rafen Ae LES MPI RE Ss ¢-7/1: 13: Ska ame 48) 
MISCELLANEOUS? TORINS: 060. ee 8 ee se BL 

The Biarkemaal . eee < Pigott. Sid Ok 

The Death-song of Regner Rdbrock c Terberts 6). iB} 


ao 


-: The Battleof Hafur’s Bay . . . 2 « of RO Anes . 58 
Death-songofHakon . . eater Dare & Taylor. 53 
The Song of Harald the Hardy: . Herbert. 55 
Song ofthe Berserks . . . r W. Taylor, 55 
The Cofnbat of Hialmar and Oddur 2 Herbert. 56 


lon) 


The Dying Seamer Asbo 1272-05 oe EO ee. 
The Song of Troke the Black’ .* 4° 2° 6 e Tb. ne BZ 
The LamentationofStarkader, . , . . . Jb . . . 58 
Gryfourand titer oe ete: ot fe k 8) ew EO. op eho) 88 


4 

? 

DANISH. 

| DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY ....... . 59 
2 BALLADS . : Sr Z Sie. ee eee Oe 
| Stark Tiderick and nee Deriak’s aoe Jamieson. . . 64 


| Lady: Grimpildbacwemmom ce eicem chs cel oj, 0” £Da wet at's 1/05 
! The. Bttin VanSehemksee tei biiedie | ete sc BOs elena OU 
t Hero Hogen and the Queen of Danmarck Pree w CU Papbor eben cs SV/Aic:) 
q Siri'Guncelini [ay ssyen tel eM ae ale et eyiess (e) LO levine, Vahl a 
Pibstt and Guldbarg, sawelvekil? «9%! wie (dBi ada co Tl 
| Vogne Child Dyring Wea reeniary a,%! sof hens. 20s Te tie he 48 
7 GhildoAxelvolde cuits ve lint Moleiile: wines hOor Gm lve iellits 
i}, he Wissel Dances cqhe adel lesits) Neh itaite (EDs Vente a 80 
' Olaf ants 35 Cl) aerate ob. ha) exter ADs") ey hist 
f Hosmer HMafmand), 3. sitet eee o's d)) balg ade eve at es ae 
e Witat Need... . 3 of bat 02 WEB iit marta ace a 

The Mer-man and Marstie’s Benghinr digs Sk: DO sh ol eel ad 

Piven Sty 3 oe alin ettgeren ve palete: (/sl ROR ta ee 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS: . 4. 2. 2. 5 es 1 e082 


Page 
King Oluf the Saint .. « « 4 «6 » « For. Quart, Rev, 79 
Aaggerand Wize 0s ¥s 2. os) eld Sdemgeltla ey Ade My tie) eee 
The Elected Knight . . ... . « H.W. Longfellow. 82 


THOMAS) KINGO! oo 2s ie. tk Oa Ca lath eee ne 
Morning Song . . Cab Nera - « « For. Quart. Rev. 82 
CHRISTIAN BRAUMAN TULLIN atid scat tS oe eae oe 
Extract from May-day .. +... « Herbert. . . 83 
JOHANNES EVALD” 22 0 6b oo. 83 
Hang Christian’ « ols is imaccesnitee towed H. Ww. ‘Long pel rae 
The Wishes sy? . tila ee What tae eke okie PRL mere 
Song Sry wt ate! Wet Cre rena eR ROT A 
EDWARD STORM . me MAM IM geet RON th alee, iE 
The Ballad of Sinclair * 20°. 0°". . Walker. . 
MW higevalde ys) 6 eugene ce For. Quart. Rev. 
THOMAS THAARUP wo eal Sr MEH A 
The Love of our ed 9) mal un lant stern. te Walker. 
ToSpring . . igre eg ar cat ee ora a MR 
KNUD LYNE RAHBEK 

Peter Colbiornsen ... ae 
PETER ANDREAS HEIBERG aS Saas Tal Oe 
Norwegian Love-song . Walker. 
Tycho Brahe, or the Ruins of Cranienbore For. Quart. Rev. 
JENS BAGGESEN stelle eet atyts: Warts 
Childhood 93 1. 5544 H.W. Longfellow, 
To my Native Land Walker. . 
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER é 
From Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp on ere 

* From the Dedication Zahe Gillies, 
Noureddin and Aladdin «0.0 6. buie2 4 + Os 
Aladdin at the Gates ofIspahan, . . . s Id. 
Aladdin in Prison ,. . tte ave aon 
Aladdin in his Mother’s Chamber ai ec Wee MRED 
Aladdin at his Mother’s Grave .. . . . Jb. 

From Hakon Jarl . . 4. ed 
Hakon and Thorer, in the Suered Grove. - Jb. 
Hakon discloses his Designs to Thorer . . Jb. 
Hakon and Messenger. . . WUAEB. 
Hakon and his Son Erling, in the Saeved ‘Geive Ib. 
Defeat and DeathofHakon . . ... Jb. 
Salilogay of Thoray gues + Saini? cq smactartl de 


For. Quart. Rev. 8 


From the Tragedy of Correggio . . pet 
Antonio da Correggio, and Maria his Wife. Ib. 
Antonio and Giulio Romano. ,. . esis Whee 


Michael Angelo, Maria, and Giovanat ogre abe 
Antonio in the Gallery ot Count Octavian . Jb. 
Soliloquy of Correggio . . . 2. « « “Guu JO. 
Thor’s\Hwshingieny (os 6 cel el ei te tle Ont 
The. Dwaris’ Galgl otis .'< ..o- (ey aaiigiinre tet be: De ROmat es enamel 
The Bard Walker... 
Lines on leaving Italy é “ For. Quart, Rev, 1é 
The Morning Walk . . Pia anil Bhs PERS 
BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN . Seah ny ee . 
Progressof Axel widens 96 ste il a ae tats ate 
From Masaniello " Gh Re totter Rig peter 
Masaniello, Mad, in the Ghutehs yard Blackwood’s Mag. 1% 
The Aspen ‘ For. Quart. Rev. 
Dame Martha’s Fountain, sch icin loot ae tel, tee aay a oa 2 ate 


SWEDISH. 


SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY...) . 8 eis 
BALLADS 


The Mountain- habe Maia cite) be 6) 6 MOM Quart) ied . 
Hillebrand aed ed Mat oe els cpety de 
The Dance in the Geota of Roses SW ete Wt Aa fle eee 
The Maiden that was sold 2.0 j0a/0 208) Oe 
The Little Seaman. . SEAS RAP e eld ga ae ee 
Sir Carl, or the Cloister Robbed tei OP Ge ewae 
Hosegrove-side@ =. .s' eye heh Lk ot: ooo fae eae hg eee. 
SOOO Brigade et vs aot es gai asia oleate Mier 
Duke Magnus. . ol eacheimel bu ren ne ile uae 
The Power of the Harp eno! lath omliettda = eee 
Tiltile:- Karns Death o:8..7 2 2 yi. 0 coca ee 


ad em a 


—s 


Vill 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ; . 140 
JOHAN HENRIK KELLGREN ,. ., Sitter cela . 140 
whe Wew, Creation... . s » « s .. For. Rev. . 140 
PBC IOBR OT MGTENt pelle. 2 whe 0 oe hOdulas ihe eer alk ee 
Folly is no Proof of Genius For. Quart. Rev. 143 
ANNA MARIA LENNGREN Ria be . 144 
Family Portraits pathe Ib. . 144 
CARL GUSTAF AF LEOPOLD is ote - 145 
Ode on the Desire of Deathless Fame Ib. . 145 
ESAIAS TEGNER . 146 
From Frithiofs Saga F Niet mt . 154 
Cantol. Frithiof and fageberns A Strong. . 154 
Ill. Frithiof’s Homestead A, W. Longfellow. 156 
IV. Frithiof’sSuit .. . Strong. . 156 
VI. Frithiof at Chess Ib. . 158 
X. Frithiof at Sea Ib. - 159 
XI, Frithiof at the CourtofAngantyr Jb. . . 160 
XIX, Frithiof’s Temptation H.W. Longfellow. 163 
The Children of the Lord’s spec by ZO aie. Wits -LO4 
From Axel elie sap? Lal te 2 ethite hve . 169 
The Veteran . athe savas ih Latham. . 169 
King Charles’ s Guaul Wine ie uw > 16. . 170 
Love seis . 170 
PRR pific. AMADEUS ATTERBOM ARR cs YAU 
“ From the Island ofthe Blest . For. Rev. . 171 
The Hyacinth .. TIE For. Quart. Rev. 173 
ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS F . 173 
From t1e Tragedy of the Martyrs ........ . 1% 
Emi\ra and Perpetua .. . For. Quart. Rev. 173 
Marcion and Eubulus : For. Rev. . . 175 
Mhe Birds of Passage. .. . 6 + Ib. . 176 
AToRnds =. 4 . Ib, Bo hics 
ERIC SJOGREN (VITALIS) r nn 
To the Moon. —A Dedication . 20cm Bs - 178 
Spring Fancy = 2 ss «sf te 8 le Ib - . 179 
PE RAAICRER vie is’ (es * 19, Someone 120. . 179 
GERMAN. 
GERM N LANGUAGE AND POETRY....... 180 
FIRST PERIOD.—CENTURIES VIII.—XI. 
MAIBCMEUANEOUS 9 ss 8 ie 8) alle ofr s hee LOO 
Song of Old Hildebrand nhs Teber. > 189 
Fragment of the Song of Louis the Third W. Taylor. 189 
From the Rhyme of St. Anno Sea ore 189 
SECOND PERIOD.—CENTURIES XII., XIII. 
IMEININESINGBERS. =... <6 « 6 6 Sake 
CONRAD VON BIRCHBERG.... Be Des 190 
May, sweet May E. Taylor. 190 
HEINRICH VON, RISPACH Sac 190 
The woodlands with my songs resound Pine Gk WS 191 
WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH Arie 191 
Would I the lofty spirit melt ib. 192 
THE EMPEROR HENRY Wie 192 
I greet in song that sweetest one aie ees 192 
WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE an 192 
When from the sod the flowerets spring Ib. 194 
°'T was summer Jb. 194 
HHINRICH VON MORUNG ae 195 
My lady dearly loves a pretty bird Ib. 195 
Hast thou seen : Ib. 195 
BURKHART VON HOHENFELS- ; 3 s . 195 
Like the sun’s uprising light Ib. . 195 
GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN . ° “| 195 
Up, up! let us greet Og . 196 
DIETMAR VON AST F ‘ . 196 
By the heath stood a lady Ib. . 196 
There sat upon the linden-tree Ib. 196 
CHRISTIAN VON HAMLE ? 196 
Would that the meadow could speak does Je 196 
RUDOLPH VON ROTHENBERG ret 197 
A stranger pilgrim spoke to me Ib. 197 
HEINRICH, HERZOG VON ANHALT Py a 197 
Stay ! let the breeze still blow on me Ib. 197 
COUNT KRAFT OF TOGGENBURG lacy 197 
Does any one seek the soul of mirth . Ib. OT, 
STEINMAR bie weet in 8 ip 197 
With the graceful corn upspringing . Ib. 197 
CONRAD VON WURTZBURG neo 198 
See how from the meadows pass Ib. 198 
OTHO, MARGRAVE OF BRANDENBURG P 198 
Again appears the cheerful May Toes . 198 
Make room unto my loved lady bright Weber, 198 
WE CHANCELLOR lis Be Stelle 198 
Vho would summer pleasures try E. Taylor. 198 


HEINRICH, HERZOG VON BRESLAU . 
To thee, O May, I must complain 

ALBRECHT VON RAPRECHTSWEIL 
Once more mounts my spirit gay . 


ULRICH VON LICHTENSTEIN . 
Lady beauteous, lady pure . .... +. . dd. 
GOESLI VON EHENHEIM ....4.. -. 
Now will the foe ofevery flower . ... . Jb. 
THE THURINGIANG: “ccs. jai poueeon Sateen = 
The pleasant season mustaway . . phases ha 
WINCESLAUS, KING OF BOHEMIA ey 
Now that stern winter each blossom is blighting Jb. 
LUTOLT VON {SEV EN Sots 2 sumsiien te enema 
In the woodsand meadows green ... . Ib. 
JOHANN HADLOUB eae . 
Far as I journey from my lady fain, «Us. nue eae 
Isaw yon infant in her arms caressed .. . Ib. 
WATCH-SONGS ee’ 6 (ue. Mien) eae 
The sunisgonedown .. 2) lel Geos 
I heard before the dawn of ae Pee eran Pn aot! 
THE HELDENBUCH, OR BOOK OF THE HEROES . 


I, — Otnit nivis e} cant eae ae 
Sir Otnit and Dwarf Elberich Besa 


II, — Wolfdietrich SPE Rss coc eva irs alia 


Wolfdietrich’s Infancy... <) 6.) salicens a ene 


Wolfdietrich and the Giants... 2° 1/1. 2) 3 bs 
Wolfdietrich and Wild Blse' . 2 2's san Oe 
The Fountain of Youth .. . Tb. 
Wolfdietrich and the Stag with Golden Florna Ib. 
Wolfdietrich in the Giant’sCastle ... . Jb. 
Wolfdietrich and Sir Belligan . . . . . °. Jb. 
Wolfdietrich andthe Fiends ..... . Jb. 
The Fournament +} ix, sf. Udi) eben decals 
Wolfgietrich’s Penance... 2... s:1«ae p sileeee ee 


IIT. — The Garden of Roses. 2 5 « « © » 


Friar Ilsan in the Garden of Roses Ib. 
Friar Ilsan’s Return tothe Convent. . . . Jb. 


IV.— The Li 


(le Garden of Roses 


King Laurin the: Dwarf)" 91075) 2 eerealos 


The Court of Little King Laurin ; Ib. 
THE NIBELUNGENGIED) 4s) ae ete as 
The Nibelungen oe sel han tet Pelt rea a 
Ghrinmnildieir. os ve PIE ee fis. 
Siegfried at the Fénrtein oi) echo. alee ee em 
Hagen atthe Danube. . 2) Sean aetna Os 


Hagen ang Volker the Fiddler a! re ih let aaa ae 
Death of Gunther, Hagen, and Chrimhild, . J6. 


THIRD PERIOD. —~CENTURIES XIV., XV. 


3. eee 


E. Taylor. 


. 


° 


Weber. 


HALE SUT ERI eu) aaketaeeins aaa Myotis ~ 227, 
The BattleofSempath ....e . Scott. . 3227: 
ULRICH BONER (55 a) “0, Telli 1. 70S ee 229 
The Frog and the Steer Carlyle, 229 
SVRUTY SWAB BBR at sh Gch ara) eee ae . 230 
The Battle of Murten. . . C. C. ‘Fetter’ 230 
ANONYMOUS POEMS OF UNCERTAIN DATE :. +231 
Song of Hildebrand Weber. eat 
The Noble Moringer Scott. 202 
The Lay of the Young Count N, A. Rev, 935 
Song of the Three’ Tailore....,, +s: .tns)e.c Anes mee . 236 
The Wandering Lovers) 6.5"... dale ee . 236 
The Castle in Asstriay) oi ice". ohana 237 
The Dead Bride oroom) ) s/c ore ey pelea . 237 
TherNiehtin gases. i. reise ys 6 skeet E, Taylor, |, 237 
Absence 5 ane ai “mips, ou, it fa Gilera eae 238 
The Faithless Ong Piura MTR NS MGI ADOT rN fey 0 . 238 
The Nightingale” (A985) hie Mal de Ib. 288 
The; Hemlock-tree? nit. 3/5, «feet elite “VE W. Longfellc 9%. 238 
Silent Love .. a), pap ont is wits eee 
The German Night- Welsnmene 8 Song 4 Aaonpetiae 767 

( FOURTH PERIOD.—CENTURY XVI. 
MARTIN LUTHER . 5, ee Nae 239 
Psalm F Carlyle. 23! 
HEINRICH KNAUST . ey BH Asay oa 
Dignity of the Clerks . C. C. Felton. 239 


FIFTH PERIOD. —CENTURY XYII. 


SIMON DACH 


Annie of Tharaw 


Blessed are the Dead . . . «tiehohian die 


ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA . off sat Fah HES 
Saint Anthony’s Sermon to the Fishes 


JOHANN JACOB BODMER .... 
The Deluge. , 6 tle ader tp 


FREDERIC HAGEDORN. om aude ates 
The Merry Soap-boxlbn oak 9/5 hoa ele 


Anonymous. 


SIXTH PERIOD.—FROM 1700 TO 1770. 


W. Taylor. 


W. Taylor. 


ol peta Se aro Shar 22a 
. H.W. Longfellox, 

wee 1. 240 
. 241 
. 241 


240 


. 242 
» 242 
. 242 
. 242 


ALBRECHT VON HALLER .. 
Extract from Doris , 


CHRISTIAN YURCHTEGOTT GELLERT. 


The Widow 


EWALD CHRISTIAN YON KLEIST 


Sighs for Rest 


JOHANN WILHELM LUDWIG GLEIM . 


WRT BON ow ek ene 
The fnvitation <0 « 3 
The Wanderer 


FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK 


Ode tor God se Sse le able ew 
The Lake of Zurtch- <<. « |. . 
To Young Saye Gos 14 cud ie 
Miysitecovery = a7 es. 6 
The Choirs 
CARL WILHELM RAMLER 
OWeto Wintel Ys os. 
> Ode to Concord 
GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING 
From Nathan the Wise FE 
Sittah, Saladin, and Nathan. 
SALOMON GESSNER .... 
A Scene fromthe Deluge .. . 
JOHANN GEORG JACOBI . 
Song 


orb ihe « 243 
W. Taylor. . 243 
Bist mito Veheoate 
C. T. Brooks, 244 
Vins ath i ekeao 
W. Taylor. . 245 
EAR blot 5 eke a0 
PY fe T1/B ttteyesgP ke 
S. H,Whitman. 247 
Macray, . . 247 
oo ano cabeat eee. 
For. Rev. . . 248 
W. Taylor, . 249 
Toe) We e250 
TOI 1 C08 250 
TOY Weiliretseeeoo 
Sr Perens eee 
OSU) Leia aol 
JD Pat eos 


306 143252 

RPh earn cece 
Ibs Be styerees 
SEES TR oe id ph ah eos 
J.A. Heraud, 258 


tibia NSA otieay COO 
Beresford. . 260 


SEVENTH PERIOD, —FROM 1770 TO 1844. 


CHRISTOPH MARTIN WIELAND . 


Extract from Oberon ... 

GOTTLIEB CONRAD PFEFFEL 
The Tobacco-pipe ° 

MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS . . 
Rhine-wine 4. 4 6 3h be 
Witter sy eid iat it pay chee 
Mine ECM y est those te. ls sis 
Night-song 


JOHANN “GOTTFRIED VON HERDER 


VoiceofaSon .', . « e 
Esthonian BridalSong ... . 
CHAMCAN hal wines «Die a! “alive 
Toa Dragon-fly . os 
The Organ .. Ts ems 


A Legendary Ballad Sm I 
CARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL . 


Moonlight . is ahs 
Adrastea . . . 

GOTTFRIED AUGUST ‘BURGER 
GP GOTE Nis) og) voit eileen, 


The Brave Man . 


CHRISTIAN GRAF ZU STOLBERG 


To my Brother 


Uh ho wee eiia, DOr 
Sotheby. . ». 263 
af bape hd eyavroree ae 
C.T. Brooks. 267 


aioe aie: seme: 200 
Macray. . . 268 
C.T. Brooks, 268 
N. Y. Rev. . 268 
C. T. Brooks, 269 
PRON en a Ae) Bees 
W. Taylor. . 271 
Ri? (che wre ge aria 7h | 

FO," cai el iat 
SblOctelwts oaltoene 
C. T. Brooks. 271 
Mary Howitt. 272 


ete hel eater eheee 
For. Quart. Rev. 273 
TS im ei eae 

. 274 


W. Taylor. . 275 
N. Eng. Mag. 277 

i a IS 
For. Rev. - « 278 


LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH "HOLTY beh sch » 279 


Death of the Nightingale . . 
Harvest Song 

WinterSong . A 
Elegy at the Grave of iy Father c 
Country Life 


JOHANN WOLFGANG ‘VON GOETHE 


From Faust 

Dedication ies ves 

The Cathedral 

May-day Night 

The Loved One evernear 
Solace in Tears . .. vate 
The Salutation ofa Spirit: a 
Totbe Moon . 

Vanitas Bs pe es 
Mahomett#'Wong RM Bie a ow 
Song of the Spirits . . . 2. 6 
Prometheus 


Cer, Brooks. 280 
TDs; "= aya. B00 
EOS feat a AOU 

SURE alee neon 

Fraser’s Mag, 281 

A Uie eg Ua ee 

piigehnreditey Us!) ek OO: 

Halleck. . . 288 

Hayward, . , 288 

Shelley. . . 289 

JS. Dwight. 294 

Ae PO etd si 204 

G. Bancroft. . 294 

JS. Dwight. 294 

ate AMM SN Bor £5 be’ 
Tb, be 6 295 
FBS joa, sis 15 BIS 
Tbs. ie esas e00 


FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD GRAF ZU STOLBERG ep adJa aee 


Song of Freedom Bee 

The Stream of the Rock . 

To the Sea agS Alii e Wager 
To the Bvenine Stat Sel ei val jiethce 
The Seas shee terviecvanice 


Michael Angelo ike) re ave 


JOHANN HEINRICH voss 
The Beegar, “Angdyl: 9. f° 
Extract from Luise ; 
CHRISTOPH AUGUST TMEDGE 4 
To the Memory of Korner 
The Wave of Life 


LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN 


The Amen of the Stones 
Via Crucis, Via Lucis . . 4 


W. Taylor. . 297 
W. W. Story. 298 
C. T. Brooks. 299 
For. Rev. . . 299 
LC UEOM aD a ee Cago 
py PBR Ma SOO 
Sar aac ey ae SOU 
Fraser’s Mag. 302 

Tb." ' w')s 803 
eae Nie 4) B08 
C. T. Brooks. 304 


H.W. Long fellow. 304 


BA iene Apion aie AD LBL 
C. T. Brooks. 304 
STE dee Be abe 


CONTENTS. 


JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER . 305 
Song of the Bell . S.A, Eliot. . 309 
The Entrance of the New Cantary. N. L. F'rothingham. 312 
Knight Toggenburg so. . Edinburgh Rev. 313 


Indian Death-song , » » N. L. Frothingham, 313 
The Division of the Earth TAb C. P. Cranch, 314 


Extract from Wallenstein’s Camp apie, (Motrei ys aoe oes 
The.Glove:.aTale 9.04). ois, @ Bulwer. heh siold 
The Dancer 35) ier? val a treianeliiowhe te ae Merivale. . . 316 
Prom Mary Stuarts o. %\- is, \ dy ie), tev ce W. Peter. .. . 767 


From Don Carlos . .. . - . G. H. Calvert. 768 
From the Death of Wallensteln. « »« Coleridge. . 769 
JOHANN PETER HEBEL) 1) dunes. yoareras yee fase aco ee 
Sunday Morning , Jy ariheg 2 Grater tacky 
FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON mi dopa am hee Me: seal a Oa 
Elegy .. ° Knickerbocker, 318 
The Spring Sy enie 4 Anonymous. . 318 
For ever thine Macroy.. . . 319 
AUGUST FRIEDRICH FERDINAND VON KOTZEBUE , 319 
From the Tragedy of Hugo'Grotius . . . ww. ew, BID 
The Flight from Prison ; W. Taylor, . 319 
From the Tragedy of Gustavus Wasa) oi) 0.) ) a a, Bee 
The Arrest and Escape . Bue’ (leva hon freien rnoee 
JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS~ Pe RB OE ha ele 
Cheerfulness . Anonymous. . 326 


Song of the Silent Land aie VE H. W. Longfellow. 326 
Hunvest Song att ies “(adiae C. T. Brooks. 326 
The Grave ria - - Gower, «eae: 
VALERIUS WILHELM NEUBECK aah anes e . 327 
The Praise of fron *. . . 2 Berar » oet 
FRIEDRICH LUDWIG ZACHARIAS WERNER... . 328 
From the Templarsin Cyprus . . PALER NR ESD) 
Adalbert in the Church of the Templats : o Cartylers i) Gao 
Adatbert:in the Gemeteryy’ 7 io) eb) Tbe eee Bee) 
ERNST” MORITA: ALUN D655 ec il Tally siyieddspiuce (en veiaenee 
The German Fatherland . . Macray. .  . 332 
Field-Marshal Blucher . . . . . . » ©. C. Felton. 333 
ED W Tet SEL CH Sele Cha aay red oad WO Fak det el beh oh ae 
Spring C. T. Brooks. 334 
Song from Bluebeard . Blackwood’s Mag. 334 


LUDOLF ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO ..... . 334 
The LastSonnets . .. « © © « .« Anonymous. . 335 
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND rb sane en wes a a egw at Oe 
The Luck of Edenhall . . « ALW. Long fellow. 337 
The Mountain Boy 4 Anonymous. . 337 
On the Death of a Country Claeys i W. W. Story. 337 
The Castle hy the Sea . H.W. Longfellow. 337 
The Black: Kritghtore foil Si Senn a eeu ee eed) Matt ae 
PWG AOERM cat ot ieunteen a Meghna ne Edinburgh Rev, 338 
The Passage eh ey Catiteri whtie: sigh ae tane Osi ite tb an vai 
Tie: INIA) a¢-etie! Nethte eete Wb loan.) ane Ore Guard. tretaloge 
EHO PeTEHAC Ee: ime) eh ea Van, eapsite,” (a:2 ale: Mops POS Me aecien ee 
he: VWWECRCH: elise Fant oe aw eps ol) ey. abihaee Sean nt si Care Rue 
To FAG APRA VRE Fo) 


ERNST CONRAD FRIEDRICH SCHULZE ..... . 339 
Song ., ol whet ep eh an) 0) 9 Mosh OGEOTe cai 
The Eivntanany Death Sicaty tec diak ytattee tie: | von aecsibee thicta, teen aaa 
May Lilies . . ASS er ed Rema LeOri abe Ele 


Extract from Cecilia’ ete AST AG! ep) shea tie) faut Onin yeaa amen 
FRIBDRICH RUCKER The aes ies itp ee sk cee eee 
Strung Pearls . . - « » « « NDZ. Frothingham. 341 
The Sun and the Brook ait pe er te J.-S. Dwight. 343 
Nature more than Science . .. Dublin Univ. Mag. 343 
The Patriot’s Lament , C.C, Felton. 343 
Christkindlein German Wreath. 344 


JOSEPH CHRISTIAN YON ZEDLITZ oe ost ah a ee at nee 
The Midnight Review «6 we ws) Anonymous, |. 345 
KARL THEODOR-KORNER: oh y 305 5 tt aes nao 


My Fatherland . . . 3... « « » Richardson, '. H46 
Good Nightie st alk dice ees a ee Oey tala Oa 
Swoerd-son gale es.) mg.) fel die Ay ey CROPS iar eae 
The Oak-trees . . t wde Albee Eee ete Oe ete 
ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN PULA Toe adie sii v ant cae ote Ye: of 
Blucher’s Ball ob ol a Ra et! Co Ca Metfonsiey 348 
WILHELM MULLER 7 '25 a UN 8s a ea AN Ace eS 
The Bird and the prin H. W. Longfellow, 348 


Whither? . . . POMOC ME Sie fi cas rears ty Vis ce:| 
AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN-HALLERMUNDE. .. . 349 
Sonnets. ; $d poe. a ss sl) Anonymourees S29 
HEINRICH HEINE. Be ae Uae th De Ba Ug nae test tetany 


The Voyage 5 295 2,8 606 29 +s). Edinburgh’ Rev.'350 
The-Tear 5% Binds PUP OS he Bate 2) etc e a Maen, Oe 
The Evening Boats i bani tel ike? ter) wh te har aOepte Ret iNet eo 
Thre Dore-lei ny. ew Mew. be phe ah bc oe OMRON Ran Seon 
The Hostile Brothers . . . . . . Tbs if 5 ee 
The Sea hath its Pearla . . . . ns W. Longfellow. 351 
The Fir-treeandthePalm . . . . . . W. W.Story, dot 


Xx CONTENTS. 


pee 


HEINRICH AUG, HOFFMANN VON FALLERSLEBEN 352 JAN VAN BROEKHUIZEN ; . + 392 
On the Walhalla sas Lond. Atheneum. 352 SOMO ste hile fe 8 oe ells claws ove or 0 | PEROMNOSIE VES aR 
Lamentation for the Golden bie Mra A pstk {ill RAPER pe cee SONMEE Teh sirable bute ates plot ibe ee a ee ea 392 
German National Wealth . . ..... Jd. . 853 Morning yea is. 1a ie Nie, & bloat ts bisalis pee Ones 392 
DIETRICH CHRISTIAN GRABBE wes <ch aH! les COD DIRKSSMITS: 5; «! Us, ‘s oi te We tha bt tec alate ote: lca 
Extract from Cinderella . Blackwood’s Mag. 354 On the Death of ap Infant Van Dyk. 393 
PAU ERUAU ENTER o's 30 ete wine lee es! eho. ele) al BOO WILLEM BILDERDIJK 3.5?) to ee 
Warning against the Rhine C.C. Felton. 355 Ode to; Beatity 5 oe te.) se) (0! se Westminster Rev. 394 
JULIUS MOSEN . ‘ . 855 The Roses . i Node a oles ee Van Dyk. 395 
The Statue over the Cathedral Door. er W. Longfellow. 355 JACOB BELLAMY . bl 6 ole, Stet lav nb et tag bn ss eae an 
The Legend of the Crossbill . . . Ib. . . 306 Ode'to God his". st i say de 0) le Sel > te nneeO anes 772 
ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUERSPERG . 356 HOPOLLENS iid ma ob. le bes eee 396 
DRIOOMI SLEDS) ofie!. shia?) Lond. Atheneum. 356 Summer Morning’s Song Westminster Rev. 396 
The Censor .. Phra) Re SP) ore hee eee . oor Winter Evening’s Song . For. Quart. Rev. 396 
The Customs- barton Ste ae Wom ila! cites ates ILO theo hen rent me John a? Schaffelaar ) .. % sin shite Van Dyk. 397 
The Last Poet 4 N. L. Frothingham, 358 Birthday, Verges.) 05.) 0))0) > eo) sh sg, he eC . 398 
Henry Frauenlob . . 1...» © « « Edinburgh Rev. 358 ELIAS ANNE BORGER . ey ey eset 
GUSTAV PFIZER SA Wane eh cholo tials iia eae Ode to the Rhine A ce ee eo 6MOT;) Quart. eu. 1690 
The Two Locks of Hair . H.W. Longfellow. 359 DA\COSTAM EL Se: MP 
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH > frisbee. 8) a ODE Introduction to a Hymn on 1 Providence - Westminster Rev. 400 
The Moorish Prince . .. « « C. T. Brooks. 360 The Sabbath eae ae For. Quart, Rev, 401 
The WIMeTants 9. Valve ite «os Dees PAE aires 33k KINKER be i Poe BP ge ya) Sei 
The Lion’s Ride mid "Dublin Univ. Mag. sie Virtue and Truth - « - »« Westminster Rev. 401 
Iceland-moss Tea . . Mate. Sie A emtinRars an Tacs . 362 LOOTS ... tl er 
The Sheik of Mount Bingi sen \eritePiel Wajiiie  ectis . 363 The:Nightingal Ib 402 
SRM aI KAtIME. INCZTO. Us Ve. s Gilne Mik: ies oe \deltdOe | 'e . 363 eariias Sina, Sead emit Rae Ae ONL TTS oS j 
The Alexandrine Metre . . . ASM sve . 364 WITHUIS: apa > » ie bait b Gilteumee 
The King of Congo and his Hundred Wives Sa ey . 364 OdetoTime .... For. Quart. Rev. 402 
PARUEAOHOPS: (opsuien etkds DORN 1) Shei ven gp verlieseh Oe) «| ia). O00 
My Themes RE UR Rh aa At SND lA UR delauchag FRENCH. 
irnmnes- Meath saa Wise ce |e) sles aie es = 367 : 
FRANZ DINGELSTEDT . we se ee +e 4 868 | FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY wr 
The Watchman pisaitie wile levine puUOnd. Atkenwum:, 368 FIRST PERIOD,— CENTURIES XII., XIII. 
TheGerman Prince . . + + » + « + + db. - 368 | JONGLEURS, TROUVERES, AND TROUBADOURS 414 
GEORG HERWEGH fy net Rhy aR Agra 2) i i nage ie f 
The Fatherland. . 6 Pas live ova vie For, Quart. Rev. 369 I.—€ HANSONS DE GESTE, ETC. tte Bf oh te ho LE 
ho monet Hatred Oph as. fas ee Tbe . 369 Death of Archbishop Turpin . . . . H.W. Longfellow. 414 
Fy eh EO PASO) DL reine, ot SEM INGER TEC) eve 7 AMEN . 369 From Fercbccidip i du Rou o')e) ja RR Ge) ae moe 
| REA TONE ea NEON hi oe iyeln gl 7, PANT CGN a GIR. | flea . 370 Duke William at Rouen » « « Blackwood’s Mag. 415 
BENEDIKT DALEI { _ 370 Richard’s Escape. ohh fats cote gtr lot apts LSI Wegmann 416 
| SRSA Et aed ua aR ie LY Y 3 The Lay of the Little Bird . Way. i 416 
| Enviable Poverty . . . . +. . « « Lond. Atheneum. 370 Paviiiee ee ication ean Binekdndy tee als 
The Walk Bi giidatea lt Atel) a Nie Nahata (Maree) tothe As (B70 The Gentle Bac iadue SPM i fe 9 Way. 419 
The Priest who ate Mulberries ... .. Jb. r 419 
The Land ‘of Cokgigne + \.: .r.) av stile Fees MDs ie an eae 
DUTCH. The Lay of Bisclaveret Costello. . . 421 
DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY ....... .37l From the Romaunt ofthe Rose . . Chaucer... 423 
BiTtADS .°.. et ER DIM RADA 377 II. —LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES 425 
The Hunter from Geese Soviet Bowring. CY MS LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY + 2 4% 
The'Fettered Nightingale... . . . . Jb . B77 My wandering thoughts awake to love anew Costello. sa 420 
he knighhand-his Squire .)4°. 0. etis Tb. 2. 878 The first approach of the sweet spring , E. Taylor. . 425 
The Three Maidens For. Quart. Rev. 378 HUGUES D’ATHIES ... aera a ay Ds 
| Day iofhe eastisdewning .°. .). 6's 4) Ibe. . 378 Fool! who from choice can pe his houte 9 AOS Pea Mite 425 
THIBAUD DE BLAZON. , . eat ere ave Seta, Yin eS 
| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS . . ihe Tam to blame! — Why should I sine” Costello, 426 
fi? JACOB CATS - + + + + +879 | puTBAUD, KING OF NAVARRE ESAS | 2801 Ose gi 
j The Ivy Bowring, mete Lady, the fatescommand, andImustgo . E. Taylor. . 426 
The Statue gf Memnon Avec eo Ea HL ee RP es = y 2) GACE BRULEZ .... ve Par 496 
PIETER CORNELIS OORT 0 ish. oe hey, Sipe me egtyat ste The birds, the birds of mine own niland Pika 16.- 3s 426 
PRATER NIE 15) ieee ci “afer RAOUL, COMTE DE SOISSONS ...... 427 
MARIA TESSELSCH ADE VISSCHER Pe ORY - 380 Ahi beauteous/maid...° 5... 6. nihes! . oe eg em a eee 
PBONTPUAINE OIG pss ie) oe Sue pe) 6 ee) ee, pLOs te . 380 JAQUES DE CHISON. . . . gs denis 427 
\ | HUIG DE GROOT . 16 we eee ew ee ee . BBL When the sweet days of summer come at tab 0 2 cae 427 
| Ls: dalapeteiin ee BYP Sua ares cel ah he, 4 Ae 8h) DORTE-DE TROIS 6 ty ee 427 
JAN DE BRUNE 2A RS ATM FN Dd Od ned «881 When comes the beauteous summer time pee Wak OY f 
Song. Wh is ea + SEAL BARB Dm) NERRUB os) 0) ci we ene eee 
GERBRAND BREDERODE WeDo Aas - 382 The wise man sees his winter class Adin o FG. s ete den. 
Song . a - 382 | HE AUTHOR OF THE PARADISE OF LOVE. . . . 498 
| DIRK RAPARL KAMPHUY ZEN 2 3 . % ie FTAs w ee ee aaa, "YR 428 
Psalm {CREX XLS ee. ai aie: “AMG ike Aiesy4 rs 
JOOST VAN DEN WORDEL oy | 883 Ill.—LYRIC POEMS OF THE ; TROUBADOURS o Pent aee 
{ To Geeraert Vossius, on the Loss of his San Ai fk . 383 GUILLAUME, COMTE DE POITOU , ...... .« 48 
it Chorus from Gysbrecht van Aemstel a itedives ale . 384 AnewItune.my lutetolove . . Costello. . 428 
i| Chotas trom Palamedés . 6.0.0 ee 0) TB, ie tw BBE PIERRE ROGIERS Sr eme ©; | /6, ete < mgih BAS rank olan pees 
| Chorus of Batavian Women CUBR tee Se ht LO » 385 Who has not looked upon her bow PRR AEN! (1A ME eT 2 | 
CONSTANTIJN HUIJGENS AR AIMERY 8 . 386 GEOFFROI RUDEL 2. yw wee ww ote ee oe 428 
AKing .. eae ae, suet LOS . 387 Around, above,onevery spray. . .... Jha . «. » 429 
JACOB WESTERBAEN Be baa h cr EL VT AES . 387 GAUCELM FAIDIT ... . #4 al’ile iret se - 429 
| ‘SE ce Std, RAT eS SEA Me LO Ses (2 . 387 And must thy chords, my Jute, be ara : 429 | 
Song Nop eees ha el ee ee . 388 GUILLAUME DE CABESTAING .. . 430 
JEREMIAS DE. DECKER. SC eM ter ANN a] Wheto Ait vigt \e in BOS No, never since the fatal time od sot the PHP OE ute bavela eae 
H Toa Brother who died at Batevia . .. . Ib. . 388 LA COMPESSE DE. PROVENCE. =. fhe tate peieeee es eaadel of 
1 OG TOMI TR TORNENY io) 0) pik See ew tod toy de . 389 I fain would think thou hast a heart . Sheela He cay ML 
i! REINIER ANSLO aiate niet, we Ne Wve) “teil i . 390 THE MONK OF MONTAUDON bi ete ls ee oe ee OA 
| Fromthe Plague of Naples. . . ap hes . 390 I love the court by wit and worth adorned. . Jb. . 431 
} JOANNES ANTONIDES VAN DER. GOES Map DS A . 391 CLAIRE’ DPANDUZE 3.20.5. 0 Js di hie: captel be anes Gade GOR 
Overthrow of the Turks Ib. . 391 They who may blame my eodenniia A a ts Ree 431 


TORQUATO FASSO .... 

From Aminta Me ey vale Rag 

The GoldenAge ...-. 
From La Gerusalemme 


Erminia’s Flight . 


Canzone. — To the Princesses of Nena 


Sonnets 


If Love his beptive tind ik ties 80 eee 
Thy unripe youth seemed like the purple rose Jb. 
I see the anchored bark with streamers gay . 
Three high-born dames it was my lottosee Wilde. . . . 
While of the age in which the heart but ill 
Till Laura comes, — who now, alas 
To his Lady, the Spouse of another 


To the Duchess of Ferrara 


Ontwo Beautiful Ladies, one gay and onesad Jb. 


To the Countess of Scandia 
To an Ungrateful Friend . 


Arrival of the Crusaders at Jércnelam., 


To Lamberto, against a Calumny 


He compares himself to Ulysses 


To Alphonso, Duke of Ferrara . 


A hell of torment is this life of mine 


To the Duke Alphonso . 


To the Duke Alphonso, asking to ibelibersted Ib.' +6 


To the Princesses of Ferrara . 


To the Most Illustrious and Serene Sond Duke Tbs) ach) ei os 


ToScipio Gonzaga . 


FOURTH PERIOD.—FROM 1600 TO 1844, 


GABRIELLO CHIABRERA , . 
To his Mistress’s Lips 
Epitaphs ° 
ALESSANDRO TASSONT - 
From La Secchia Rapita, . . 
The Attack on Modena ° 
The Bucket of Bologna .. 
GIAMBATTISTA MARINI . . 
Fading Beauty . . Srietile 
Ib. —Supplementary Siansas ° 
FRANCESCO REDI .... 
From Bacchus in Tuscany 


His Opinion of Wine and other Bevetabis 


Ice necessary to Wine 


Bacchus grows musical in his Cups 


Good Wine aGentleman . 
The Praise of Chianti Wine . 
A Tune on the Water 
Montepulciano Inangurated . 
VINCENZO DA FILICAJA .. 
Canzone, — The Siegé of Vienna 
DGHMEE C KR ae. Je gs) geclyarss 


Toltaly . . . 
On the artiquake of Sicily : 
Time. <0. ak . 
BENEDETTO MENZINI 
Cupid’s Revenge .... 


ALESSANDRO GUIDI... 
(ENZONI tei. L2 a6 
Fortune . Pe eo ae RTA 
To'the Tiberi; ..... eae 
CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO { 


Bonnets yee 8 ae oe 


GIOVANNI COTTA ... . .° 


Sonnet .. C a, ths 


GIOVANNI BARTOLOMMEO CASAREGI ttle) Ped t leh tet lt 


Sonnet . . a tle be 
PIETRO METASTASIO Sei 
From the Drama of Titus 


Titus, Publius, Annius, and fests 


divine and Servilia . 
CARLO GOLDONI 
Cecilia’s Dream’. . >... 
CARLO GOZZI 
Prom Turandot). 6.) %. 
GIUSEPPE PARINI 
From 1] Giorno’. . . 
LUIGI VITTORIO SAVIOLI 
To Solitude . . FG ee A 
VITTORIO ALFIERI 
From the First Brutus . 
Brutus and Collatinus . 


Brutus, Collatinus, and People 


VINCENZO MONTI 
From the Bassevilliana 
The Soul’s Doom 
The Soul’s Arrival in Paris 
The Passion of Christ . 


. 


° 


© RE ae ltr ettas. 983 


cote teen SNE Tae 8 
. . Leigh Hunt, . 570 
She Ney Sete 
.. Fairfax, . . 570 


S Ned neha Br citys tacede 


Wilde. ... . 573 
: . 574 
en Mag. 574 


. 574 
. 574 
574 


Ib. 


Tomei. a) RLOTe 

seo Seay 10 . 55 
ripe (05 . 575 
Ib. . 575 

. 575 

Pron HBL . 615 
Ib. . 575 

Re (eer Pica (3 

oe Tbs J) RAB76 
ACS RO, ". 576 
Tbs We . 576 

Ib, ; 576 

. 576 


Ib. . 576 
577 


Ib. ey irl 


. 577 


. » London Mag. 577 


. Wordsworth. . 578 
Pees wt as OO 
eat. aka ash eee OO. 
Ozell. . 580 

1b, . 581 

Viatktes “ae elhiats fos Meer S 
Daniel. Py ey: 

. Anonymous. . 773 
cease, Veeeh sate ac Eos 
Re nae aca 

Leigh Hunt. . 583 

gS RAB tS fee OB 
o-Phds Folch e = ts: bey” tat De 
0 PROUT oh ie OST EBS 

eb TGs Disa hf. 585 
Piraee (14 Opomemegs to 5) 
Ma Tbe S49 B86 


Pe mn OE een ke Yr) 


U.S. Lit. Gaz. 587 

ol Peete OBS 

’ Pras Ca . 588 
ibe cai bOe . 588 
. Anonymous, . 588 
do) Bett ae alae byes (08S 
. . London Mag. 588 
ootat ie GN PR 0350689 
Secon (bse © tet an OOD 
«+ Milman. . 589 
Fraser’s Mag. 591 

VUNEE eat SUN ee OR 
. .: Mrs. Hemans. 592 


ra ad hea Tob Puree UA 2) 


London Mag. 592 

592 

» Ib. . 593 

aul epale yidenneeies wry). Gas 
- « 693 


. Hoole. . . 593 
ete ZB ES 895 
eit eirenpettre|. «utes 
» *« (Mor. revs.” 4, 596 
Bae SD Yee Sa -O6 


. Blackwood’s Mag. 596 
o 2 o 6 es 599 

« Lbs 7.) * 6.) 600 

ea pete «OOO 
U.S. Lit. Gaz. 601 

ond, vuibie} Siotiat s et tel gt OOM 
Sle tied lere “oC OOE 

- Lloyd. . . . 604 

oH Feb LGN 9'.! ott 605 
Betis Rtas ie ee OO 
. 608 


RGR cas Resi 608 
ieee t4 one eo Gc 
Fraser’ s Mag. 608 


CONTENTS. 


IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE ..... 
From the Tragedy of Arminio . . . . 
Lament ofthe Aged Bards ... . 
Lament onthe Deathof Baldur .. 
Night! (ois k's a Seeks 
NICCOLO UGO FOSCOLO aS etree he 
To Luigia Pallavicini. |. <=) ij «\!> 
The Sepulchres. . . eh) SC ray ibe 
ALESSANDRO MANZONI ants nets 
Il Cinque Maggio . ...-. 
Chorus from the Conte di Caan 
GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI . 


From the Tragedy of Nabucco. . . . 616 
SILVIO; PELLICO) - 0 gant ot cations a tei) toy wkd da ae wines fafa Oe 
Canzone, writtenin Prison.» . . . . Knickerbocker. 618 
TOMMASO! SGRICCE Scart ct (al oie al tel ecu lal ou opUetOLS 
From La Morte diCarloI, . . . . . For. Quart, Rev. 618 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS IN THE ITALIAN DIALECTS 619 
CALABRIAN! 6a 82 Hits clad Melia me all Wa Rented a yere: eee OLD 
Popular Songs so Seyie ite wis N. A. Rev, . 619 
NEAPOLITAN Os tat cS er vane dub or nia iret cedure vera ener 619 
Christmas Carol 25 ©.) Rachel er oie! tenes Jb. 619 
Soldiers Sour,.* 0 Us.” a hietal verte enme a AO te OLS 
Song Shoe Br <a Sia ahtst hertue renee LOs & nett Ce 
FLORENTINE | Se Ce Santen @ Mate teed pe 620 
From the Tancia of Michel Angele aE Pc Bac te . 620 
MILANESE , Bei . 620 
From the Fuggitiva of womraites Gree! 1b. » 620 
GENOESE ‘ , aha . 620 
Song. — By Cicala Cabra Ib. - 620 
SPANISH. 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY . s 621 
FIRST PERIOD, —FROM 1150 TO 1500. 
FROM THE POEMA DEL CID 632 


Argument . 
The Cid and the Infantes dé Canon. 


: Btges ‘Quart. Hn 610 
Blackwood’s Mag. 611 


. Am. Quart. Rev. 774 
«rng liers rary s WAR se 
For. Rev. . . 612 


. Am. Quart. Rev. 


For. Quart. Rev. 


xiii 


Pees are area leds) 
F.C. Gray. . 614 
Mrs. Hemans. 614 


Frere. 


ALFONSO THE SECOND, KING OF ARAGON . 


Song . 
GONZALO DE 'BERCEO . & ele ates 
From the Vidade San Millan . . . 
From thé Milagros de Nuestra Senora 

Introduction a 

San Miguel de la Tumba 3 


ALFONSO THE TENTH, KING OF CASTILE 


From the Libro del Tesoro 
JUAN LORENZO DE ASTORGA . 
From the Poemade Alexandro ... 
MOSSEN JORDI DE SAN JORDI «. . 
Sone’ of Contraries 4): 6 5) a wes 
DON JUAN MANUBE (00 45 bs ae oe 
Ballad > sites ef lenin ead Col ere 
JUAN RUIZ DE HITA 6 See aR NO Ne 
Praise of Little Women . ... 
Hymn tothe Virgin. .... 
Love : 
RABBI DON SANTOB, OR SANTO $ 
The Dance; of) Death 68 ks 
BATGADS Shes ies Cable staat eas 
Ivy— HISTORICAL BALLADS Maite asst be 
Lamentation of Don Roderick . . . 
March of Bernardo del Carpio. . . 
BO VICCH BE MET cL ve rely inl nelle eee kame 
The Pounder. .. LES ee te 
The Death of Don Padre coe ak 
II.— ROMANTIC BALLADS 
Count Arnaldos . . .. 
The Admiral Guarinos ; 
Count Alarcos and the Infanta Solisa 
Il].—MOORISH BALLADS .. ., 
The Lamentation for Celin . 
The Bull-fight of Gazul sit Wes 
The Bridal of Andalla ..... 
Woe is me, Alhama 


POETS OF THE CANCIONEROS .. . 


JUAN II., KING OF CASTILE ... 
I never knew it, Love, till now 


. E. Taylor. . 634 
68 eek ee 

- N. A. Rev. / , 635 
er ae F 22630 

Pivgel (a 635 
Ib. 3% 636 

“f° J637 

. Retrospective Red, 637 
: 2 £ fol), theo 
‘ TO a i? . 638 
oe 6 . 638 

via pros ‘ 638 
sch. ile Llane Go, 

- Bowring. . . 639 
aos RP ere a SAO) 

. N.A. Rev. , 640 
. Retrospective Rev. 641 
Be ag a. OSE 

aan fs Bak 

Ib. . G41 

oi) to) 0 jue ell paar OR 
SPY GS heey Het: anaes op eee 
- Lockhart. . . 642 
«EDs ia te ah fee ae 
Ib. . 643 

IDS ine. Vian wa ae 

DDS sis 644 

A oF SVs ees OSE 
° Ib. ‘ 644 
Jo... G44 

paar ae pk ES 646 
COE Date noAc eS, 

Ib. » . 649 

: Teg . 650 
een doie ss bas . 651 
Byron. , . 651 
Mee it ec 


Bowring. . 


LOPE DE MENDOZA, MARQUES DE SANTILLANA 


Song Viet) Me SACS he Ushe 
Serrana .. a i). EY AL ean oy hlal 
JUAN DE MENA S) Jel) Seales 
From the Laberinto . . ete aA 
Maciasel Enamorado . ... 4 
Lorenzo Davalos 4)" .¢ ..) is) (eaten ee 


Wiffen. . 
T.. Roscoc. 


Wiffer.. . 
For. Rev... 


. 610 
. 610 


774 


X1V 


CONTENTS. 


ALONSO DE CARTAGENA... eat ate . 655 
Pain in Pleasure Bowring. . 655 
No, that can never be . Ib. 655 

JORGE MANRIQUE BRN niet, hel Sahn, {GOO 
Ode on the Death of his Father . A.W. Longfellow. 655 

RODRIGUEZ DEL PADRON ... HSN ibe die 660 
Prayer aisha Bowring. 660 

JUAN DE LA ENZINA A ATS es 1S Fleas 660 
Don’t shut your door line (8 660 
‘¢Tet us eat and drink, for to-morrow we pave EM dbs 661 

ANONYMOUS POEMS FROM THE CANCIONEROS, ETC. 661 
What will they say of you and me ? Bowring. 661 
Fount of freshness Ib. 661 
The twoStreamlets . . « «»- eros 662 
She comes to gather flowers . . - Lb. 662 
Dearmiaid of hazel brow. 6/6. 6°. 6 ee EOS 662 
Emblem Sita taut roth Nell Sochete: | te Ib. ,, 662 
Who ’Hl bay a hens 9 ade! Wey bee, Wier | Beka t Ao Ib. - 662 
The Maiden waiting her Lover ... . Jb. - « 663 
EC TEN Ae th | oe ee) elie eens om Jb. - 663 
IS CUTE NCOUEISE) 4. 'e owt ie! lei) ws oilie Ib. 3 663 
Sweet were the hours. .. . Tye (on ; 663 
The Prisoner’s Romance . . . Ib. 664 
RUCIC CNIHUERSELD Yo telb) cy pte: Ve tunet-s. “ethOe - vel, eps \OO4 
Amaryllis $=.) 6 '\'. AVATAR LE ts Cie 6 OAT Rate Td 
Sharply I repent ot it DNase Be, Ye steel Oe liliike 664 
The Siesta . SIN ee el Ate h ae Let! eaaerOn ee 664 
The Song of the Galiey VEAL TUG Wrap ieee 524 Gikembne oh 9 Noah ah 665 
The Wandering Knight’s Song Tos ie 665 
Serenade RW? flat Ae 665 
Song ey eenre yr van Edinburgh Rev. 665 

SECOND PERIOD. —CENTURIES XVI., XVII. 

JUAN BOSCAN ALMOGAVER eo be) Ohemaee His 666 
On the Death of Garcilaso . . . Wiffen. 666 
From his Epistle to Mendoza Bas Anonymous. . 666 

DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA. . 5 pet Canales 668 
From his Epistle to Luisde Zuniga . T. fioseoe. 668 
Sonnet . . PRN a tae Ib. 668 
FARCILASO DE LA ‘VEGA si hasta ai Neves 668 
Fromithe First Eclogue. .... 2. +... 6) Wiffen.’. 668 
Pronto mt lhe ClO Ue ee ce ete y se Deb) te dee ioe SUL 
Ode to the Flower of Gnido . Dy fe 672 
Sonnets . 672 

As the fond deter, abe her suffering child Barbar 672 
Lady, thy face is Stitcn in my soal Wiffen. 673 

FERNANDO DE HERRERA Bids: nevis temo 
Ode on the Battle of Lepanto F'raser’s Mag. 673 
Ode on the Death of Don Sebastian Herbert. 674 
From &n Ode.to pen John of Austria seta Oggi a). 675 
OdetoS Seep 4 j T. Roscoe. . 675 

JUAN FERNANDEZ, DE HEREDIA. aidatyh seth Ys 676 
Parting . Bowring. 676 

BALTASAR DEL 'ALCA ZAR Bite 676 
Sleep .. sags ot Ib. 676 

SANTA ‘ERESA DE AVILA 4 676 
Sonihete iss. s,/.°. Ib. 677 

GASPAR GIL POLO 677 
From the Diana Enamorada P 677 

Bovemagmater a es oe Ne Ib. 677 
I cannot cease to love Mei imone Ib. . 677 

GREGORTOASPUME ST RIG. oo ee a) ele 677 
Tell me, lady! tellme!—yes? . ... Tb. 677 
Ines sentakisstome . TO gE) e - 678 

JORGE DE MONT EMAYOR . 678 
From the Diana Enamorada ry DUCE IOI) WET LS, 

PANGLB SONS Is) \e)is)) eee: 8's Frraser’s Mag. 678 
Sireno’s Song - « « Sir Philip Sidney. 679 

CRISTOVAL DE CASTILLEJO oN Mpa Re 8) Ge OCD, 
Women . j Bowring. . . 679 

LUIS PONCE DE LEON Aan ie . 680 
Noche Serena ag Ne EDs . 681 
Virgin borne by Angels ete Ib. 682 
The Life of the Blessed i patent YO GB 
Retirement’). °. we Ie . Edinburgh ies) 682 

ANTONIO DE VILLEGAS + iaiite se « §83 
Sleep and Dreams Bowring. 683 
Love’s Extremes Ib. 683 

PEDRO DE PADILLA Shei . 684 
The Chains of Love Se ey ihe Mass . 684 
The Wandering Knight . . . ... Ib. . 684 

FRANCISCO DE FIGUEROA BTR Re thee, Jets OSS 
Sonnet on the Death of Garcilaso . Herbert. . . 684 

ALONSO DE ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA . 684 
Fromthe Araucana . . putts te Mother She miter wal Aol GOR 

A Battle with the Tetagiana 4 For. Quart, Rev, 686 
A Storm at Sea Tb. 686 


VICENTE ESPINEL A 3: tes 
Faint Heart never won Pair Lady: Se 


MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA 


From the Tragedy of Numancia . .. . 
Poems from Don Quixote ...... 
Cardenio’s Song . 

Song iene a en te ste 

SONNE ge wren "ha we ee eee Cremer 


Song. . ot aa eee 

LOPEZ MALDONADO Soe ow Daw 

Song . 
JUAN DE TIMONEDA che uel eee eats 

Way; shepherd f’naye:.: acm) wire weuee ute 
ALONSO DE LEDESMA... . 

leew! 7. i. ° Baar 
LUIS DE GONGORA Y ARGOTE otek 

The Song of Catharine of Aragon . 

Come, wandering sheep! O, come . 

Not all Sweet Nightingales . 


Let me gowarm. . ° 
HIERONIMO DE CONTRERAS ' 
Sighs . . athe oe Cae 


«. FRANCISCO DE OCANA > e- P Eonite 


Openthedoor .. ors 
LOPE FELIX DE VEGA ‘CARPIO ~~ 
From the Estrella de Sevilla . ... 
The King and Sancho Ortiz . . . . 
Bustos Fabera and Sancho Ortiz . . 
Estrellaand Theodora, . . . « « « 
Sonnets Wa \,% Meee et ee ae 
The Good Shepherd hese Bis tes 
HOSmMprx0 Wins tu'sth <s nele'an cence ones 


Ib. 


. A.W. Longfellow. 


Mrs. Hemans. 


AM IR tae Co af 
Bowring. . .. 687 
7 0, pe 

Quart. Rev. . 690 
<. ag, | 9) us, 5 aoe 
Jarvis, . . . 691 
ib. « 5 3 ASF 
qh. 3 6 3 

. #d. ° ie Oe 
. H.W. Longfellow, 692 
Pea Che ok 
Bowring. . . 692 
sihis Leto ey Gus 

op abe Mitty Riek te Ooo 
weil ie Welle OIE 
ne . 694 
rb. . 694 
Bb ehiies 5. Teak le? CSE 
N. Eng. Mag.- 695 
° 695 
Bowring 695 
Tos! 35" 4 G95 
whe 696 

PIN Tnlcy aie capi v 
Lord Holland. 697 
oie DO tees, a O98 
Tb. i+ 47 / 1;688 


Country Life . < 701 
LUPERCIO LEONARDO 'ARGENSOLA - A 701 
Mary Magdalen Bryant. . . 701 
BARTOLOME LEONARDO 'ARGENSOLA «egies 701 
Sonnet . “aA tech icy ie Herbert. . .. 702 
JUAN DE RIBERA . Abb Coes » vt Ape lle] etoeaes 702 
The good old count in sadness strayed Bowring. - 702 
Romance . . Ue ie 1b. eee 702 
FRANCISCO DE VELASCO. : Abad st 2 sheets - 702 
The World andits Flowers. . ... Ib. . 702 

I told thee so epics TE Gea en Jb. oa 203 
ALONSO DE BONILLA tikes lcelcye: thevtae tae a ie avis 703 
Let ’s hold sweet converse ols VaBe . 703 
ALVARO DE HINOJOSA Y CARBAJAL r iad 703 
The Virgin and her Babe Ib. 703 
FRANCISCO DE BORJA Y ESQUILACHE | CRs cate 704 
Sylvia’s Smile Ib. 704 
Epitaph 5 Ib. 704 
FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO ¥ VILLEGAS . 704 
Sonnets ah matters Tanke 705 
Rome Mrs. Hemans. 705 
Ruthless Time Herbert. 765 
My Fortune : T. Roscoe. 706 
ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS . eh tee 706 
Ode Bryant. 706 
The Migbiieate: T. Roscoe. 706 
To the Zephyr ee) bid Sie Wiffen. . . 707 
FRANCISCO DE RIOJA... . 0) sore MERE 707 
Epistle to Fabio . For. Rev. . . 707 
PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA je ee deol OS 
From El Magico Prodigioso. . . . . . Shelley. . . 710 
PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA . AD) eb 3 718 
Dire Wivirletivysi/\ye alyirae Leis yale aes dee Bryant. . . 718 

THIRD PERIOD,.—FROM 1700 TO 1844. 

IGNACIO DEMLUZAN So oes bee ths ai nae wiftpality . 18 
From the Address,to La Academia, etc. oi Melosh cet loniet £8 
Virtue Salat he trae a8; tok aaiinat Whew For. Quart. Rev, 718 
Painting ARIAL Ib. 718 
NICOLAS FERNANDEZ DE MORATIN ; 400" 719 
From an Ode to Pedro Romero . For. Rev. . 719 
JOBEVDE\CADALSO (pil twee ceo ueh pat we oy dy SUR ee 
Wnmereontiqt. Winky gs fem fate Fraser’s Mag. 720 
Imitation of Gongora . - TDi Warers 720 
GASPAR MELCHIOR DE JOVELLANOS 3, 3.720 
To the Sun For. Quart. Rev. 720 
TOMAS DE YRIARTE yak 
From the Fabulas Literarias Sloth ates (eamhesyt eed 
The Assand the Flute . Z T'. Roscoe. 721 
The Bearandthe Monkey . , 0 ADE a Sick! 
JOSE IGLESIAS DE LA CASA , CMAs Mpa ae rte) | 
Song... aie Bryant. 722 
JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES f wee 


SacrediOder |S Weis we be! he ohare te ee 


rake 8 Maa, 722 


Noon c oy ates a eiraser. sae. 
To Don Guana Melchior Fovelionce - « « Mor. Reo. . 
LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN, . Re ae ihe 
From Bl Viejo yla Nina S26) Je 6 ee wt hbe es 


INIAR BRS ise fe) is) espe @ er a! erties o.) 6, 9 Ve Nur heOOnie dis 


PORTUGUESE. 


PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY ...... 


FIRST PERIOD. —CENTURIES XII.-XY. 
ANONYMOUS... Ainis ieee ence oer ai mtatene 


I know not, lady, by whit natneteen ohera Tr. becoe) “ 
As now the sun glows broaderinthe west . Jb. 
Mheranniis Wis os eis whle! 6!) « Addtisea! 
That spiritpure .. . ofa Fa Lila ahh abe d Ostet amet e 


Ignez de Castro . . . « 2 « « « « Mickle: °.. 

The Spiritofthe Cape. .-. 2. 8 «© « » fe 
GaNnCagsirs oc ee 6) v0, ko oie) ve) a WONORE SOTA. 6 
CARZONEt erie gas cs oy sit hl See ewig. sere das 
Stanzag rey alls SENS a thiLe ee 20ers aes 
a WERO eh BNC iaer eave ik aly (has! Pye 8) canna) MOM ae Sa yo 
Cancao. . ay Fania wpraih shite uns Wiel RO eer 9 sal? ve 


CONTENTS. 


722 


» 123 
. 724 


724 


From the EpistletoLaso ... . Ib. Sp 
JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA Y SUPERVIELA . . « 426 
The Vain Resolution . . a ene oh Anonymous. . 726 
FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA . . 726 
The Alhambra .. oe a aCOTs Quast Revs 727 
ANGEL DE SAAVEDRA, “DUQUE DE RIVAS . 27 
Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta . . .-. Anonymous. . 728 
JOSE MARIA HEREDIA...... . 728 


728 


730 


735 


Fragment of an Old Histeric F ee s «5 1a Roscoe's 39 
BERNARDIM RIBRY ROP 7. 2 8 SNe a Care . 735 
From the Third Eclogue. . . Ib. . 135 
FRANCISCO DE PORTUGAL, CONDE DO ‘VIMIOSO. . 736 
Love and Desire. . . . . « «© « « « Bowring. . .'736 
FERNANDO DE ALMEYDA ......-...« « 736 
Phe LimUrela cost .s ot belive: le ons 6. cla (aDattecent ert 
SECOND PERIOD.—CENTURIES XVI., XVII. 

ILE VACGEEN TEN ca lich ij tel ties, (0) 07,18 Wher Valier) aay eae un OS 
Song. 2's oe 6 ee ew « AW. Longfellow. 736 
How fair the aiaiden Doth eia tint ay sepiteh nes OWNETE . 736 
The Nightingale ... Speat le, sel eee - 137 

FRANCISCO DE SAA DE MIRANDA . ervey arts. ah Vand: 
Sonnets Bets nat (soe ote widae 


737 


- 737 
. 137 


738 


From his Epistle to King John . « 6 « For. Quart. Rev. 738 
Q@ base Galician . 2. 2 3 6 «© + © + Bowring. . 2738 
LUIS DE CAMGENS ... - «© « © © 6 «© © + © « 438 
irom ithe Lusiad 0.2) 0. 2. jeje voile) sar ney en arcs caihvel es 440 


740 


» 742 


744 


. 744 


744 
749 
745 


Stanzas. —’To ‘Night AE Or andy Ca . 745 
anzametd talcitesats. farts. re Metre e. | eliclee 6h (kOen ciate eh att 40) 
GENeOnet LG 4 tee ae naar ies Brad eL et athena oem eute (die ae 
ABCA OMG! Yalta, el a ahi hea vee ey a i eeORCNee a 40 
Sonnets ,. . - Sets 248 


Few years I number, Weaan of 2 anxious care Tb. Psy 


746 


Ah, vain desires, weak wishes, hopes that fade Jb. . 746 
What is there leftinthis vain worldtocrave fb. . . . 746 
Sweetly was heard the anthem’s choral strain Strangford. . 746 
Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow Jb. . 747 
Qn the Death of Catharina de Attayda . . Jb. . . . T47 
Hich inthe glowingheavens . . . . Mrs. Hemans. 747 
Fair Tejo! thou, whose calmly flowing tide 6. - 147 
Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown Jd. 2147 
Saved from the perils of the stormy wave . Jb. 2 147 
Waves of Mondego, brilliant and serene . db. . 147 
ANTONIG FERREIRA .... . 748 
Sonnets < mii eutisnat evens < tele fiat oC 
O spirit pure, eanée in eentine! Shon . . Adameon. - 748 
To thy clear streams, Mondego, Ireturn . ib. . 748 


Frem the Tragedy of Ignez de Casteo steer ieiitle.s te 
Semi-chorus . . . 2. «6s « « «© FOr. Quart. Rev. 
Becond Semi-chorus js 666 ek ew Oe 
Dom Pedro’sLament . .. . . . Blackwood’s Mag. 


. 748 


748 


. 748 


749 


PEDRO DE ANDRADE CAMINHA ....... . 750 
Sonnet . . 6 6 «8 6 oe « 6Adamson. . 750 
DIOGO BERNARDES Rees) Unica tern . 751 
Sonnets . . SP oi ha: poo pam Oe ee 
© Lima! thou hat in nis waltey* 8 iis 4 LO e | ete OO 
Ifthee, my friend, should Love, ofnature kind Jb. . . . 751 
Since, now that iosiasiars king benign . Jb. . . . 751 
From the First Eclogue . . . .. . . JT. foscoe. . 751 


From the Eclogue of Marilia . . . . # or. Quart. Rev, 
FRA AGOSTINHO DA CRUZ... ..4..4. +s: 
PGMA «wy alia) opr eh er umiaalae)| Va.) oulbemiel: ay pac ceiihe ii 


751 


- 152 


752 


To his Sorrowful State. . . + % . Adamson. 
To his Brother, Diogo Berkattes vy al alg heh tdOanninte 
FERNAO ALVARES DO ORIENTE ...... 
Sonnet .. ob ard ae OMA ie 
FRANCISCO RODRIGUEZ LOBO sh gt ely ant coe etel Ree 
Sonnets... Pa Re atta 
Waters, which, pendent from aoa airy y baient Ib. E 
How, lovely Tagus, different toour view . Jb. 
MANOEL DE FARIA E SOUZA, . 


Sonnet . . e (vifet ier ierlicor ay Aaa the (7D byte 
VIOLANTE DO CEO oe dalle il eh niesivelhy Meuihe Wt ielh vote 
Sonnet... ai Hist Satin wilt ob ht fin 9h ty Bo ag 
While to Beihtew weare going . . . . Bowring. 
Night of Marvels . ., By AG SNe ea 


ANTONIO BARBOSA BACELLAR ab roniletmrateieh imme 
SORNEE | os) He ck eitiel All apace ie Dalat One e ne 


THIRD PERIOD.— FROM 1700 TO 1844. 


FRANCISCO DE VASCONCELLOS COUTINHG , 
Sonnets aie batt ates G 
To tell ni eaten doth the: pane gsincreaee Adamson. 

O thoughtless bird, that thus, with carolsweet Jb. 


To a Nightingale cia shire MeO gn OS 
PEDRO ANTONIO CORREA GARCAG ne 
Sonnets 


The gentle youth: whe feada my sy baclens irate Ti. 
In Moorish galley chained, unhappy slave . Jb. 


Dido.— A Cantata... Eien) elas For tiuses py 756 


DOMINGOS DOS REIS QUITA RP romeiiec e | UcR ae, 


Sonnets. . . Sate dent Lali es, \fal).\ oigme ihe amen abi 
The wretches, fore Speen) or the tl lih isp Ree ISS 
"T wasonatime.. . ae eC Lio 


Amidst the storms which obitline’ winter brings Jb. 
CLAUDIO MANOEL DA COSTA. .....4 4 


MOMNEE VW ieioclsrg ue aiuanlh 5 Mw Aa tony eaelyeeyy RC Ot oar 
The Lyre .: . 3 Mlle? Sek test 01) a ACO, 
JOAO XAVIER DE MATOS : Bite 
Sennet . . 5 Bhai erate te ‘Adaibe: 

PAULING CABRAL DE VASCONCELLOS . 
Sonnet... oi Nie) Lat IEE pke oa aoe 
Z. A. DA CUNHA. ee OF ote Vg < 


Lines written during eaeaes: Tile dhe se « J. Roscoe. 


JOAQUIM FORTUNATO DE VALADARES GAMBOA 


Sonnets Siig . miNvhiany,'s 
My gentle en a to bid this valley ainite Adamapie 
How calm and how serene yon river glides . Ib. 
Adieu, ye Nine! O, how much woeI prove Jb. 

ANTONIO DINIZ DA CRUZ) OS 2a 
Sonneis .. . aang eho Medion Ne 
One time, iehen Views 2) A SAN Tat Aad ies (ae Aats Te 
Here, lonely inthis cool and verdantseat . Jb. 


Froese OSfysope Ae ee - . . For. Quart. Rev. 760 


FRANCISCO MANOEL DO NASCIMENTO Apt a 
Sonnets 


On ascending a ‘Hill eating 1 a Convent Ie: Peauas: 


Descend, O Joy! descend in brightest guise Adamson. 
As yet unpractised in the waysof Love . . db. 


Ode.— Neptune tothe Portuguese . . For. Quart. Rev. 762 


MANGEL MARIA DE BARBOSA DU BOCAGE 
Sonmets) i ie eos 
Scarce was put off my Niaitad Aa athirties band A beay dork. 
If it is sweet, in summer’s gladsome day . db. 


The Full of Goa alot coat Pat ett saz Uso akan] ea MaRS ACS Sider gare: 763 


The Wolfiand the Ewe ils) oye |) ot aes 
CONDE DA BARC A se ones aa ain else ie Gong Z 
Sonnet . . - « « Adamaon. 
ANTONIO RIBEIRO DOS SANTOS of Nalie 
Sonnet . . oe iba Oe 
DOMINGOS MAXIMIANO ORRES . dah Kee Sear 
Sonnet... Bie (ope 
BELCHIOR MANOEL “CURVO SEMEDO ails Rea he 
Sonnet . . oye elie. els Pees 


JOAM BAPTISTA GOMEZ 


From the Tragedy of Ignez de Castro . Blackwood’s Mag. 764 


JOSE AGOSTINHO DE MACEDO . 


A Meditation 5 pea she 8 Guade Bee 765 


JOAO EVANGELISTA ‘DE MORAES SARMENTO 
Odeon War... acy to Rien 
J. B. LEITAO DE ALMEIDA GARRETT of ial ae 
rom Adozin day 3) 5655/6) hoy vei) Shh ley tat whew d Ogeaaee 


APPENDIX (0) 0 fo) seas 8 ca, Bd ees pemaetng al Marna 
INDEX OF AUTHORS . 2. 2 6 2 2 2 0 ee 


. 


- 752 
- 752 
. 752 
. 152 
- 753 
» 753 
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1837. 8vo. 
| c 


Apamson. Lusitania Illustrata: Notices on the History, 
Antiquities, Literature, &c., of Portugal. Literary De- 
partment, Part I. Selection of Sennets, with Biograph- 
ical Sketches ef the Authors. By John Adamson. New- 
castle-upon-Tyne. 1842. 8vo. 

Bancrort, G. In Dwight’s Select Minor Peems of Goethe 
and Schiller. 

BzeRESFORD. Specimens ef the German Lyric Poets. Lon- 
don. 1823. 8vo. 

Bowrinc. Matins and Vespers, with Hymns and Occa- 
sional Devotional Pieces. By John Bowring. Boston. 
1844, 32mo. 

Batavian Anthology, or Specimens of the Dutch 
Poets, with a History of the Poetical Literature of Hol- 
land. By John Bowring and Harry 8S. Van Dyk. Lon- 


don, 1824. 18mo. 
Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain. Se- 
lected and translated by John Bowring. London. 1824. 


8vo.— Also in the London Magazine. 

British Drama; a Collection of the most esteemed Trag- 
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guage. 2vols. Philadelphia. 1837. 8vo. 

Brooks. Songs and Ballads, translated from Uhland, Kér- 
ner, Birger, and other German Lyric Poets. By Charles 


T. Broeks. Boston. 1842. 12mo.— Also in the Dial. 
Bryant. Poems by William Cullen Bryant. New York. 
1836. 12mo. 
Butwer. ‘The Poems and Ballads of Schiller. Translated 


by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. Witha brief Sketch 
of the Author’s Life. London. 1844. 8vo. New York. 
1844, 12mo. 

Byron. The Works of Lord Byron, with his Letters and 
Journals, and his Life, by Thomas Moore, Esq. 17 vols. 
London. 1833. 12mo. 

Catvert. G. H. Don Carlos; a Dramatic Poem, by Fred- 
erick Schiller. Translated from the German. Baltimore. 


1834. 12mo. 

CarbyLe. Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. By Thomas 
Carlyle. 4 vols. 1838-39. 12mo. 

CHaucer. The Poetical Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, with 


an Essay, Notes, and a Glossary. By Thomas Tyrwhitt. 
London. 1843. 8vo. — Also in Chalmers’s English Poets, 
Vol. 1. London. 1810. 8vo. 

Cuortey. The Lyre and Sword of Charles Theodore Kor- 
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W.B. Chorley. London and Liverpool. 1835, 24mo. 

Cipper. Ximena, or the Heroic Daughter; a Tragedy, in 
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Cid of Corneille]. In the British Drama, Vol. IT. 


CoLeribee. The Poetical Works of S. T. Coleridge. 3 
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ConyBEARE. Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry. By 
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Coste.to. Specimens of the Early Poetry of France, from 
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of Henri Quatre. By Louisa Stuart Costello. London. 
1835. 8vo. — 

Crancu, C. P. 
and Schiller. 


In Dwight’s Select Minor Poems of Goethe 


Dacre. Translations from Petrarch. By Barbarina Lady 
Dacre. Forming Appendix VII. to Essays on Petrarch, 
by Ugo Foscolo. London. 1822. S8vo. 

DaniEL, 8. In Anderson’s British Poets, Vol. IV. Edin- 
burgh. 1793, 8vo. 

Dwieut. Select Minor Poems, translated from the German 
of Goethe and Schiller, with Notes. By John S. Dwight. 
Boston. 1839. 12mo. 

Exrot. Schiller’s Song of the Bell. Translated for the 


Boston Academy of Music. By S. A. Eliot. Boston. 


TRANSLATORS AND SOURCES. 


Farrrax. Godfrey of Bulloigne; or the Recovery of Jeru- 
salem. Done into English Heroical Verse, from the Italian 
of Tasso. By Edward Fairfax. 2 vols. Windsor. 1817. 8vo. 

FansHaw, R. Extract from his Translation of the Pastor 
Fido, in the Lives of the most eminent Literary and Sci- 
entific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal. 3 vols. Lon- 
don. 1835. 16mo. 

Fetton. German Literature. Translated from the German 
of Wolfgang Menzel. By C. C. Felton. 3 vols. Boston. 
1840. 12mo. — Also MS. 

Fox. King Alfred’s Anglo-Saxon Version of the Metres of 
Boéthius, with an English Translation and Notes. By 
the Rev. Samuel Fox. London. 18285. 8vo. 

Frere. InSouthey’s Chronicle of the Cid. London. 1808. 
4to. 

FrotnincHam, N. L. In the Collections of Brooks and 
Dwight, and the Christian Examiner. 

GerRMAN WreATH. Translations in Poetry and Prose, from 
celebrated German Writers. Selected by Herman Bokum, 
Boston, 1836. 16mo. 

GitutEs. In Blackwood’s Magazine. 

Gower. ‘Translations from the German; ' and Original Po- 
ems. By Lord Francis Leveson Gower. London, 1824. 8vo, 

Grasgter, F. In the Juvenile Miscellany. 

Gray, F.C. MS. 

GREENE, G. W. In the North American Review. 

GrESWELL, W. Parr. Memoirs of Politian, quoted in 
Roscoe’s Sismondi. 


Hatueck. Alnwick Castle, with other Poems. By Fitz- 
Greene Halleck. New York. 1845. 12mo. 
Haywarpb. Faust; a Dramatic Poem, by Goethe. Trans- 


lated into English Prose, with Remarks on former Transla- 
tions, and Notes. By A. Hayward, Esq. Second Edition. 
London. 1834. 8vo. 

Hemans. The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, 
complete in one volume. Philadelphia. 1844. 8vo. 

HENDERSON. Iceland; or the Journal of a Residence in that 
Island. Edinburgh. 1819. 8vo. 

Heravup, J A. In Fraser’s Magazine. 

Hersert, W. Select Icelandic Poetry. Translated from 
the Originals, with Notes. London. 1804. 8vo. 

Ibid. Part Second. London. 1806. 8vo. 

Translations from the German, Danish, &c. 
1804. 8vo. 

Translations from the Italian, Spanish, Portu- 
guese, German, &c. London, 1806. 8vo. 

Hitu. Alzira; a Tragedy, in Five Acts. By Aaron Hill, 
Esq. [Translated from the French of Voltaire.] In the 
British Drama, Vol. IT. 

Horttanp. Some Account of the Lives and Writings of 
Lope Felix de Vega Carpio and Guillen de Castro. ‘By 
Henry Richard Lord Holland. 2 vols. London. 1817. 3¥o. 

Hoote. The Works of Metastasio. Translated frora/the 
Italian, \by Jotin Hoole. 2 vols. London. 1767. vo. 

Howitt. The Poetical Works of Mary Howitt. Fdiladel- 
phia. 1844. 8vo. / 

Hunt. Bacchus in Tuscany; a Dithyrambic Poém, from 
the Italian of Francesco Redi, with Notes, Original and 
Select. By Leigh Hunt. London. 1825. 12mo, 

The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt. Tidndon. 1832. 


London. 


8yo. / 
Incram. The Saxon Chronicle, with an Ey4glish Transla- 


tion. By the Rev. J. Ingram. London./ 1823. 4to. 
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from the Northern Languages. Jj the Illustrations of 
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Popular Heroic and ee Ballads, translated 
J 


1814. 4to. 
Translated from the 


XVili 


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Kemste. 

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the Italian, by Charles Lloyd. 3 vols. London. 1815. 12mo. 

Locxuart. Ancient Spanish Ballads, Historical and Ro- 

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London. 1841. 4tor New York. 1842. 8vo. 

LyeELu. The Canzoniere of Dante Alighieri, including the 

Poems of the Vita Nuova and Convito; Italian and Eng- 

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Macray. Stray Leaves, including Translations from the 

Lyric Poets of Germany. London. 1827. 12mo. 

Mertvate. The Minor Poems of Schiller. By John Her- 

man Merivale, Esq., F.S. A. London. 1844. 12mo. 

Mickie. The Lusiad; or the Discovery of India; an Epic 

Poem. Translated from Camoens. By William Julius 

Mickle. London. 1809, 24mo. 

Mirman. The Poetical Works of Henry Hart Milman. 

Philadelphia. 1840. 8vo. 

Morr. Wallenstein’s Camp. Translated from the German 

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The Democratic Review. 

The Dial. 

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Fraser’s Magazine. 

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W. M. Reynolds. 2 vols. London. 1839. 12mo. 

RicHarpvson. ‘he Life of Carl Theodore Kérner, with Se- 

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1827. 8vo. 

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~~ 


12mo. 
By 


A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Boon. 


TRANSLATORS AND SOURCES. [ 


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— The Nurse, a Poem. Translated from 
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pool. 1800. 12mo. 

Ross. The Orlando Furioso. Translated: into English Verse, 
frdm the Italian of Ludovico Ariosto, with Notes. By 
William Stewart Rose. 8 vols. London. 1823. 8vo. 

he Orlando Innamorato. Translated into Prose from 
the Italian of Francesco Berni, and interspersed with Ex- 
tracts im the same Stanza as the Original. By William 
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Scort. The\ Complete Works of Sir Walter Scott; witha 
Biography, and his last Additions and Illustrations. 7 vols. 
New York. \1833. 8vo. 

SHEettey. The \Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
Edited by Mrs.\Shelley. 4 vols. London. 1839. 12mo. 

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of Pastoral and Lyric Poems, first published at the Close 
of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. Third Edition. Lon- 
don. 1812. 4to. 

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By William Sotheby. \2 vols. Newport and Boston. 
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Srory, W.W. MS. 

STRANGFORD. Poems, from the Portuguese of Luis de Ca- 
moens; with Remarks on his Life and Writings, Notes, 
&c. By Lord Viscount Strangford London. 1804. 8vo. 
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of Esaias Tegnér. By the Rey. William Strong, A. M. 
London. 1833. 8vo. 

Taytor, Epear. Lays of the Minnesingers, or German 
Troubadours of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries. 
London. 1825. 12mo. 

, J. E. Michael Angelo, considered as a Philosophic 

Poet. With Translations. By John Edward Taylor. 

London. 1840. 12mo. 

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lation, &c. By Benjamin Thorpe. London. 1832. 8vo. 

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Way. Fabliaux, or Tales, abridged from French Manu- 


scripts of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, by M. Le 
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late G. L. Way, Esq. 3vols. London. 1815. 8yo. 

Weser. Ancient Teutonic Poetry and Romance. By 
Henry Weber. In the Illustrations of Northern Antiqui- 
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Wuitman, 8. H. In Brooks’s Songs and Ballads. 

Wirren. Works of Garcilasso de la Vega. Translated 
into English Verse, by J. H. Wiffen. London. 1823. 8vo. 

Wipe. Conjectures and Researches concerning the Love, 
Madness, and Imprisonment of Torquato Tasso. By 
Richard Henry Wilde. 2 vols’ New York. 1842. 12mo. 

WorpswortH. The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. 6 vols. London. 1841. 12mo. 

Wricut, E. Fables of La Fontaine. Illustrated by J. J 
Grandville. 
Wright, Jr. 2vols. Boston. 1841. S8vo. 

———., J. C.. The Paradiso of Dante. Translated by 
Ichabod Charles Wright, M. A., Translator of the Inferno 
and Purgatorio. London. 1840. 8vo. 


Translated from the French, by Elizur. 


Se ee re eee Over Cee EE ene ee 


We read in history, that the beauty of 
an ancient manuscript tempted King Alfred, 
when a boy at his mother’s knee, to learn 


the letters of the Saxon tongue. A volume, 
which that monarch minstrel wrote in after 
years, now lies before me, so_ beautifully 


printed, that it might tempt any one to learn 
not only the letters of the Saxon language, but 
the language also. The monarch himself is 
looking from the ornamented initial letter of 
the first chapter. He is crowned and care- 
worn ; having a beard, and long, flowing locks, 
and a face of majesty. He seems to have just 
uttered those remarkable words, with which 
his Preface closes: ‘¢ And now he prays, and 
for God’s name implores, every one of those 
whom it lists to read this book, that he would 
pray for him, and not blame him, if he more 
rightly understand it than he could; for every 
man must, according to the measure of his un- 
derstanding, and NE to his leisure, speak 
that which he speaks, ay do that viel he 
does.”’ 

I would fain hope, that the beauty of this 
and other Anglo-Saxon books may lead many 
to the study of that venerable language. Through 
such gateways will they pass, it is true, into 
no gay palace of song; but among the dark 
chambers and mouldering walls of an old na- 
and 


tional literature, all weather-stained in 
ruins. They will find, however, venerable 
names Dae on those walls ; and inscrip- 


tions, worth the trouble of deciphering. To 
point out the most curious and important of 
these is my present purpose ; and according to 
the measure of my understanding, and accord- 
ing to my leisure, I speak that which I speak. 
"The Anglo- Saxon language was the language 
of our Saxon forefathers in England, though 
they never gave it that name. They ‘called it 
English. Thus King Alfred speaks of trans- 
lating ‘‘from book-latin into English”’ (of bec 
Ledene on Englisc) ; Abbot Elftic was request- 
ed by thelward “to translate the book of 
Genesis from Latin into English ” (anwendan 
of Ledene on Englise tha boc Genesis); and 
Bishop Leofric, speaking of the manuscript he 
gave to the Exeter Cathedral, calls it ‘¢a great 
English book” (mycel Englisc boc). In other 
words, it is the old Saxon, a Gothic tongue, as 
spoken and developed in England. That it 
was spoken and written uniformly throughout 
the land is not to be imagined, when we know 
that Jutes and Angles were in the country as 
well as Saxons. But that it was essentially 
the same language everywhere is not to be 
doubted, when we compare pure West Saxon 


ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


texts with Northumbrian glosses and books of 
Durham. Hickes speaks of a Dano-Saxon Pe- 
riod in the history of the language. The Saxon 
kings reigned six hundred years; the Danish 
dynasty, twenty only. And neither the Danish 
boors, who were earthlings (yrthlingas) in the 
country, nor the Danish soldiers, who were 
dandies at the court of King Canute, could, in 
the brief space of twenty years, have so over- 
laid or interlarded the pure Anglo-Saxon with 
their provincialisms, as to give it a new char- 
acter, and thus form a new period in its history, 
as was afterwards done by the Normans. 

The Dano-Saxon is a dialect of the language, 
not a period which was passed through in its 
history. Down to the time of the Norman 
Conquest, it existed in the form of two princi- 
pal dialects; namely, the Anglo-Saxon in the 
South; and the Dano-Saxon, or Northumbrian, 
in the North. After the Norman Conquest, 
the language assumed a new form, which has 
been called, properly enough, Norman-Saxon 
and Semi- Saxon. 

This form of the language, ever flowing and 
filtering through the roots of national feeling, 
custom, and prejudice, prevailed about two 
hundred years ; that is, from the middle of the 
eleventh to the middle of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, when it became English. It is impossible 
to fix the landmarks of a language with any 
great precision; but only floating beacons, here 
and there. Perhaps, however, it may be well, 
while upon this subject, to say more than I 
have yet said. I therefore subjoin, in a note, 
a very lucid and brief account of the language ; 
perhaps the clearest and briefest that can be 
given. It is by Mr. Cardale.* 


%* “Note ON THE SAXxon DIALECTS. - 


“Hicxes, inc. 19 of the Anglo-Saxon Grammar in his 
Thesaurus, states, that there are three dialects of the 
Saxon language, distinguishable from the pure and regular 
language of which he has already treated, namely, that 
found in the authers who flourished in the southern and 
western parts of Britain. These dialects he arranges, ac- 
cording to certain periods of history, as follows: 1. The 
Britanno-Saxron, which, he says, was spoken by our ances- 
tors, from their original invasion of Britain till the entrance 
of the Danes, being about 337 years.— 2. The Dano-Sazon, 
which, he says, was used from the entrance of the Danes 
till the Norman invasion, being 274 years, and more espe- 
cially in the northern parts of England and the south of 
Scotland. —3. The Normanno; Dano-Saron, spoken from 
the invasion by the Normans till the time of Hen. IL, 
which towards the end of that time, he says, might be 
termed Semi-Saron. — Writers of considerable eminence 
appear to have considered this arrangement of the dialects 
as a.complete history of the language, without adverting 
to the circumstance of Hickes’s distinguishing them all 


hate et tI lh 


It is oftentimes curious to consider the far-off 
beginnings of great events, and to study the 
aspect of the cloud no bigger than one’s hand. 
The British peasant looked seaward from his 
harvest-field, and saw, with wondering eyes, 
the piratical schooner of a Saxon Viking mak- 
ing for the mouth of the Thames. <A few 
years— only a few years—afterward, while 
the same peasant, driven from his homestead 
north or west, still lives to tell the story to his 
grandchildren, another race lords it over the 
land, speaking a different language and living 
under dj“erent laws. This important event in 
his history is more important in the world’s 
history. Thus began the reign of the Saxons 
in England; and the downfall of one nation, 
and the rise of another, seem to us at this dis- 
tance only the catastrophe of a stage-play. 

The Saxons came into England about the 
middle of the fifth century. They were pagans; 
they were a wild and warlike people; brave, 


2 ANGLO-SAXON LANG 


rejoicing in sea-storms, and beautiful in person, 
with blue eyes, and long, flowing hair. Their 
warriors wore their shields suspended from 
their necks by chains. Their horsemen were 
armed with iron sledge-hammers. Their priests 
rode upon mares, and carried into the battle- 
field an image of the god Irminsula; in figure 
like an armed man; his helmet crested with a 
cock; in his right hand a banner, emblazoned 
with a red rose; a bear carved upon his breast ; 
and, hanging from his shoulders, a shield, on 
which was a lion in a field of flowers. 

Not two centuries elapsed before this whole 
people was converted to Christianity. 
in his homily on the birthday of St. Gregory, 
informs us, that this conversion was accom- 
plished by the holy wishes of that good man, 
and the holy works of St. Augustine and other 
monks. St. Gregory beholding one day certain 
slaves set for sale in the market-place of Rome, 
who were “men of fair countenance and nobly- 


from ‘the pure and regular language,’ which is the primary 
subject of his work. From this partial view, a notion has 
become current, that the Dano-Saxon dialect, previously to 
or during the reigns of the Canutes, became the general 
language of this country, and that our present language 
was formed by gradual alterations superinduced upon the 
Dano-Saxon. This being taken for granted, it has appeared 
easy to decide upon the antiquity of some of the existing 
remains. Poems written in Dano-Saxon have been of 
course ascribed to ‘the Dano-Saxon period’; and ‘ Beowulf,’ 
and the poems of Czdmon, have been deprived of that 
high antiquity which a perusal of the writings themselves 
inclines us to attribute to them, and referred to a compara- 
tively modern era, 

“With all due respect for the learning of the author of 
the Thesaurus, it may be said, that he has introduced an 
unnecessary degree of complexity on the subject of the 
dialects. His first dialect, the Britanno-Saxon, may be 
fairly laid out of the question. The only indisputable 
specimen of it, according to his account, is what he calls 
‘a fragment of the true Cedmon,’ preserved in Alfred’s 
version of Bede,—a poem | hich has nothing in language 
or style to distinguish it from the admitted productions of 
Alfred. Dismissing the supposed Britanno-Saxon as un- 
worthy of consideration, the principal remains of the Saxon 
Janguage may be arranged in two classes, viz., those which 
are written in pure Anglo-Saxon, and those which are 
written in Dano-Sazon. These, in fact, were the two 
great dialects of the language. The former was used (as 
Hickes observes) in the southern and western parts of 
England; and the latter in the northern parts of England 
and the south of Scotland. It is entirely a gratuitous 
supposition, to imagine that either of these dialects com- 
menced at a much later period than the other. Each was 
probably as old as the beginning of the heptarchy. We 
know, that, among the various nations which composed it, 
thesSaxons became predominant in the southern and west- 
erm parts, and the Angles in the northern. As these nations 
were distinct in their original seats on the continent, so 
they arrived at different times, and brought with them 
different dialects. This variety of speech continued till 
the Norman conquest, and even afterwards. It is not 
affirmed, that the dialects were absolutely invariable. Each 
would be more or less changed by time, and by intercourse 
with foreigners. The mutual connexion, also, which sub- 
sisted between the different nations of the heptarchy would 
necessarily lead to some intermixture. But we may tvith 
safety assert, that the two great dialects of the Saxon Jan- 
guage continued substantially distinct as long as the lan- 
guage itself was in use,—that the Dano-Saxon, in short, 


never superseded the Anglo-Saxon. In a formal dissertation 
on this subject, citations might be made from the ‘Saxon 
Laws’ from Ethelbert to Canute, from the ‘Saxon Chroni- 
cle,’ from charters, and from works confessedly written after 
the Norman conquest, to show, that, whatever changes 
took place in the dialect of the southern and western parts 
of Britain, it never lost its distinctive character, or became 
what can with any propriety be termed Dano-Saxon. After 
the Norman conquest, both the dialects were gradually 
corrupted, till they terminated in modern English During 
this period of the declension of the Saxon language, noth- 
ing was permanent; and whether we call the mixed and 
changeable language ‘ Normanno-Dano-Saxon,’ or ‘ Semi- 
Saxon;’ or leave it without any particular appellation, is 
not very important. —An additional proof that the two 
great dialects were not consecutive, but contemporary, 
might be drawn from early writings in Lnglish, and even 
from such as were composed long after the establishment 
of the Normans. We find traces of the pure Anglo-Saxon 
dialect in Robert of Gloucester, who wrote in the time of 
Edward the First, and whose works are now understood 
almost without the aid of a glossary ; whereas the language 
of Robert Langland, who wrote nearly a century later, is 
more closely connected with the Dano-Saxon, and so differ- 
ent from modern English as to be sometimes almost unin- 
telligible. — Though these differences have ‘been gradually 
wearing away, our provincial glossaries afford evidence, 
that, even at the present day, they are not entirely obliter- 
ated. 

‘ Alfred’s language is esteemed pure Anglo-Saxon; yet 
we find in his poetical compositions some words, which, 
according to Hickes, belong to the Dano-Saxon dialect. 
This may be readily accounted for. It is extremely prob- 
able that the works of the poets who flourished in the north 
of England and the adjoining parts of Scotland, and who 
composed their poems in Dano-Saxon, were circulated, if 
not in writing, at least by itinerant reciters, in all the 
nations of the heptarchy ; that they were imitated by the 
southern poets; and that some particular words and phrases 
were at length considered as a sort of poetical language, 
and indispensable to that species of composition. Some 
words which occur in the poems of Alfred, as well as in 
‘Beowulf,’ Cedmon, &c., are seldom or never met with in 
prose, Of Alfred’s early attention to poetical recitations we 
have a remarkable testimony in Asser: ‘ Sarenica poem- 
ata die noctuque solers auditor relatu aliorum sepissime 
audiens, docibilis memoriter retinebat.’? Wise’s Asser, 
p. 16.’ —King Alfred’s Anglo-Saxon Version of Boéthius ; 
with an English Translation and Notes. By T. S. CaRDALE, 
London: 1829. 8vo. 


falfric, 


UAGE AND POETRY. | 


| Pere tes 


ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 3 


ae 


haired,”’ and learning that they were heathens, 
and called Angles, heaved a long sigh, and said: 
‘ Well-away ! that men of so fair a hue should 
be subjected to the swarthy devil! Rightly 
are they called Angles, for they have angels’ 
beauty ; and therefore it is fit that they in hea- 
ven should be companions of angels.’’ As soon, 
therefore, as he undertook the popehood (pa- 
panhad underfeng), the monks were sent to 
their beloved work. In the Witena Gemot, or 
Assembly of the Wise, convened by King Ed- 
win of Northumbria to consider, the propriety 
of receiving the Christian faith, a Saxon EKal- 
dorman arose, and spoke these noble words: 
‘“‘ Thus seemeth to me, O king, this present life 
of man upon earth, compared with the time 
which is unknown to us; even as if you were 
sitting at a feast, amid your Ealdormen and 
Thegns in winter time. And the fire is lighted, 


and the hall warmed, and it rains, and snows, 


and storms without. Then cometh a sparrow, 
and flieth about the hall. It cometh in at one 
door, and goeth out at another. While it is 
within, it is not touched by the winter’s storm ; 
but that is only for a moment, only for the least 
space. Out of the winter it cometh, to return 
again into the winter eftsoon. So also this life 
of man endureth for a little space, What goeth 
before it and what followeth after, we know 
not. Wherefore, if this new lore bring aught 
more certain and more advantageous, then is it 
worthy that we should follow it.” 

Thus the Anglo-Saxons became Christians. 
For the good of their souls they built monaste- 
ries and went on pilgrimages to Rome. The 
whole country, to use Malmesbury’s phrase, 
was “ glorious and refulgent with relics.” The 
priests sang psalms night and day ; and so great 
was the piety of St. Cuthbert, that, according 
to Bede, he forgot to take off his shoes for 
months together, — sometimes the whole year 
round ;—from which Mr. Turner infers, that 
he had no stockings.* They also copied the 
Evangelists, and illustrated them with illumin- 
ations; in one of which St. John is represented 
in a pea-green dress with red stripes. They 
also drank ale out of buffalo horns and wooden- 
knobbed goblets. A Mercian king gave to the 
Monastery of Croyland his great drinking-horn, 
that the elder monks might drink therefrom at 
festivals, and *¢in their benedictions remember 
sometimes the soul of the donor, Witlaf.’”’ They 
drank his health, with that of Christ, the Virgin 
Mary, the Apostles, and other saints. Malmes- 
bury says, that excessive drinking was the com- 
mon vice of all ranks of people. We know 
that King Hardicanute died in a revel; and 
King Edmund, in a drunken brawl at Puckle- 
church, being, with all his court, much over- 
taken by liquor, at the festival of St. Augustine. 
Thus did mankind go reeltg through the Dark 
Ages; quarrelling, drinking, hunting, hawking, 
singing psalms, wearing breeches,} grinding in 


* History of the Anglo-Saxons, Vol. II. p. 61. 
+ In an old Anglo-Saxon dialogue, a shoemaker says, that 


mills, eating hot bread, rocked in cradles, buried 
in coffins, — weak, suffering, sublime. Well 
might King Alfred exclaim, ‘Maker of all 
creatures ! help now thy miserable mankind.” 

A national literature is a subject which should 
always be approached with reverence. It is diffi- 
cult to comprehend fully the mind of a nation ; 
even when that nation still lives, and we can 
visit it, and its present history, and the lives of 
men we know, help us toa comment on the writ- 
ten text. But here the dead alone speak. Voices, 
half understood; fragments of song, ending 
abruptly, as if the poet had sung no farther, 
but died with these last words upon his lips; 
homilies, preached to congregations that have 
been asleep for many centuries; lives of saints, 
who went to their reward long before the 
world began to scoff at sainthood ; and won- 
derful legends, once believed by'men, and now, 
in this age of wise children, hardly credible 
enough for a nurse’s tale; nothing entire, noth- 
ing wholly understood, and no farther comment 
or illustration than may be drawn from an iso- 
lated fact found in an old chronicle, or per- 
chance a rude illumination in an old manu- 


script! Such is the literature we have now to 
consider. Such fragments, and mutilated re- 


mains, has the human mind left of itself, com- 
ing down through the times of old, step by 
step, and every step a century. Old men and 
venerable accompany us through the Past; 
and, pausing at the threshold of the Present, 
they put into our hands, at parting, such written 
records ‘of themselves as they have. We should 
receive these things with reverence. We should 
respect old age. 
“This leaf, is it not blown about by the wind ? 

Woe to it for its fate! 

Alas! it is old.” 

What an Anglo-Saxon glee-man was, we 
know from such commentaries as are mentioned 
above. King Edgar forbade the monks to be 
ale-poets (eala-scopas) ; and one of his accusa- 
tions against the clergy of his day was, that 
they entertained glee-men in their monasteries, 
where they had dicing, dancing, and singing, 
till midnight. The illumination of an old man- 
uscript shows how a glee-man looked. It isa 
frontispiece to the Psalms of David. The great 
psalmist sits upon his throne, with a harp in 
his hand, and his masters of sacred song around 
him. Below stands the glee-man; throwing 
three balls and three knives alternately into 
the air, and catching them as they fall, like a 
modern juggler. But all the Anglo-Saxon poets 
were not glee-men. All the harpers were not 
hoppesteres, or dancers. The sceop, the creator, 
the poet, rose, at times, to higher things. He 
sang the deeds of heroes, victorious odes, 
death-songs, epic poems; or sitting in clois- 
ters, and afar from these things, converted holy 
writ into Saxon chimes. 

The first thing which strikes the reade~ 


he makes ‘‘slippers, shoes, and leather breeches ’’ ( 
leras, sceos, and lether-hose), 


SERS 


Anglo-Saxon poetry is the structure of the 
verse; the ‘short exclamatory lines, whose 
rhy ve depends on alliteration in the emphatic 
syllables, and to which the general omission 
of the particles gives great energy and vivacity. 
Though alliteration predominates in all Anglo- 
Saxon poetry, rhyme is not wholly wanting. 
It had line-rhymes and final rhymes; which, 
being added to the alliteration, and brought so 
near together in the short, emphatic lines, pro- 
duce a singular effect upon the ear. They ring 
like blows of hammers on an anvil. For ex- 
ample : 
* Flah mah (fliteth, 
Flan man hwiteth, 
Burg sorg biteth, 

Bald ald thwiteth, 

Wrec-feec writheth, 

Wrath ath smiteth.”’ 

Other peculiarities of Anglo-Saxon poetry, 
which eannot escape the reader’s s attention, are 
its frequent inversions, its bold transitions, and 
abundant metaphors.. These are the things 
vhich render Anglo-Saxon poetry so much more 
dificult than Anglo-Saxon prose. But upon 
these points I need not enlarge. It is enough 
to baie thus alluded to them. 

Oné,of the oldest and most important re- 
mains of, Anglo-Saxon literature is the epic po- 
em of “* Beowulf.” Its age is unknown; but it 
comes from aivery distant and hoar antiquity ; 
somewhere between the seventh and tenth cen- 
uries. Jt is like a piece of ancient armor ; 
susty and battered, and yet strong. From with- 

h comes a voice sepulchral, as if the ancient 
rmor spoke, telling a simple, straight-forward 
jarra itive; with here and there the boastful 
peech of arough old Dane, reminding one of 
hose made by the heroes of Honey. The style, 
ikewise, is simple, perhaps one should say, 
ustere. ‘T'he bold metaphors, which charac- 
prize ne arly all the Anglo- nt poems we 
ave read, are for the most part wanting in this. 

‘he author seems mainly bent upon telling us, 

ow his Sea-Goth slew the Grendel and the 

re-drake. He is too much in earnest to mul- 
ply ‘epithets and gorgeous figures. At times 

2 is\tedious ; at times obscure; and he who 
idertakes to read the original will find it no 
isy task. 

The poem begins with a description of King 
rothgar the § Scylding, i in his great hall of He- 
t, whiclyrééchoed with the sarod of harp and 
ng. Butwot far off, in the fens and marshes 

- Jutland,"@welt a grim’ and monstrous giant, 

lled Gren@@l a descendant of Cain. This 

yublesome Widividual was in the habit of occa- 
mally visititi&the Scylding’s palace by night, 
see, as the alfor rather quaintly s says, “ how 
the doughty Di s found themselves after their 
*er-carouse.’ n his first visit, he destroyed 
2 thirty inni§es, all asleep, with, beer in 
brains ; an ever afterwards kept the 

land in fe@ of death. At length the 

‘ these evilldeeds 


The strong dart flitteth, 
The spear man whetteth, 
Care the city biteth, 

Age the bold quelletk, 
Vengeance prevaileth, 
Wrath a city assaileth. 


~~ 


| sporu hilde-rinces). 


4 ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. | 


Beowulf, the Thane of Higelac, a famous Vi- 
king in those days, who had slain sea-monsters, 
anid: wore a wild-boar for his crest. Straight- 
way he sailed with fifteen followers for the 
court of Heort; unarmed, in the great mead- 
hall, and at midnight, fought the Grendel, tore 
off one of his arms, and hung it up on the pal- 
ace wall as a curiosity ; the fiend’s s fingers being 
armed with long nails, whieh the author calls the 
hand-spurs of the heathen hero (ha@thenes hond- 
Retreating to his cave, the 
gast) departed this life ; 
whereat there was great carousing at Heort. 
But at night came the Grendel’s mother; and 
carried away one of the beer-drunken heroes of 
the ale-wassail (beore drunene ofer eol-wege). 
Beowulf, with a great escort, pursued her to the 
fen-lands of the Grendel; plunged, all armed, 
into a dark-rolling and dreary river, that flowed 
from the monster’s cavern; slew worms and 
dragons manifold; was dragged to the bottom 
by the old-wife; and seizing a magic sword, 
which lay among the treasures of that realm of 
wonders, with one fell blow, let her, heathen 
soul out of its bone-house (ban-hus.) Haying 
thus freed the land from the giants, Beowulf, 
laden with gifts and treasures, departed home- 
ward, as if nothing special had happened; and, 
after the death of King Higelac, ascended the 
throne of the Scylfings. Here the poem should 
end, and, we doubt not, did originally end. But, 
as it has come down to us, eleven more cantos 


grim ghost (grima 


follow, containing a new series of adventures. 
Beowulf has grown old. He has reigned fifty 


years; and now, in his gray old age, is troubled 
by the devastations of a. monstrous Fire-drake, 
so that his metropolis is beleaguered, and he can 
no longer fly his hawks and merles in the open 
country. He resolves, at length, to fight with 
this Fire-drake ; and, with the help of his at- 
tendant, Wiglaf, overcomes him. The land is 
made rich by the treasures found in the dragon’s 
cave; but Beowulf dies of his wounds. 

Thus departs Beowulf, the Sea-Goth , of the 
world-kings the mildest to men, the strongest 
of hand, the most clement to his people, the 
most desirous of glory. And thus closes the 
oldest epic in any modern language ; written in 
forty-three cantos and some six thousand lines. 
The outline, here given, is filled up with abun- 
dant episodes and warlike details. We have 
ale-revels, and giving of bracelets, and presents 
of mares, and songs of bards. The battles with 
the Grendel and “the Fire-drake are minutely 
described; as likewise are the dwellings and 
rich treasure-houses of these monsters. The 
fire-stream flows with lurid light; the dragon 
breathes out flame and pestilential breath ; the 
gigantic sword, forged by the Jutes of old, dis- 
solves and thaws like an icicle in the hero’s 
grasp; and the swart raven tells the eagle how 
he fared with the fell wolf at the death-feast, 

Such is, in brief, the machinery of the poem. 
It nossessos in parts is 
ms. As we 


owerot - 


at Sener care soharenenernineceinsanssnsiicsieslcemremmediseielan Seoeremenaiseaicaeetecee ea ee Rn re Te ORO TT ET 


na Ah he thle 


ANGLO-SAXON. LANGUAGE AND POETRY 5 


read, we can almost smell the brine, and hear 
the sea-breeze blow, and see the main-land 
stretch out its jutting promontories, those sea- 
noses (s@-n@ssas), as the poet calls them, into 
the blue waters of the solemn main. 

In the words of Mr. Kemble, I exhort the 
reader “¢to judge this poem not by the measure 
of our times and creeds, but by those of the times 
which it describes; as a rude, but very faithful 
picture of an age, wanting indeed in scientific 
knowledge, in mechanical expertness, even in 
refinement; but brave, generous, and right-prin- 
cipled ; assuring him of what I well know, that 
these echoes from the deserted temples of the 
past, if listened to in a sober and understanding 
spirit, bring with them matter both strengthen- 
ing and purifying the heart.’’ * 

—The next work to which I would call the 
attention of my readers is very remarkable, 


both in a philological and in a poetical point oF 


view ; being written in a more ambitious style 
than “* Beowulf.” It is Caedmon’s “ Paraphrase 
of Portions of Holy Writ.’ “Cedmon* was a 
monk in the Minster of Whitby. He died in the 
year 680. The only account we have of his 
life is that given by the Ve enerable Bede in ibe 
é¢ Ecclesiastical! History.’ 

By some he is‘called the Father of ‘heen 
Saxon Poetry, because his name stands firat in 
the history of Saxon song-craft ; by others, the 
Milton of our Forefathers ; because he sang of 
Lucifer and the Loss of Paradise. 

The poem is divided into two books. The 
first is nearly complete, and contains a para- 
phrase of parts of the Old Testament and the 
Apocrypha. The second is so mutilated as to 
be only a series of unconnected fragments. | It 
contains scenes from the New Testament, and 
is chiefly occupied with Christ’s descent into 
the lower regions; a favorite theme in old 
times, and well known in the history of mira- 
cle- plays, as the ‘“¢ Harrowing of Hell.’’ The 
author is a pious, prayerful monk 5 “an awful, 
reverend, and religious man.”’ He has all the 
simplicity of a child. . He calls his Creator the 
Blithe-heart King; the patriarchs, Earls; and 
their children, Noblemen. Abraham is a wise- 
heedy man, a guardian of bracelets, a mighty 


earl; and his wife Sarah, a woman of elfin- 
beauty. The sons of Reuben are called Sea- 
Pirates. A laugher is a laughter-smith (hleah- 


tor-smith) ; the Ethiopians, a people brown with 
the hot coals of heaven (brune leode hatum heo- 
fon-colum). 

Striking poetic epithets and passages are not, 
however, wanting. They are sprinkled here 
and there throughout the narrative. The sky 
is called the roof of nations, the roof adorned 


* The Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, the Traveller’s 
Song, and the Battle of Finnesburgh, edited, together with 
a Glossary of the more Difficult Words, and an Historical 
Preface, by Joun M. Kemeue, Esq., M. A. London: 
1833: ‘W2mo. , 

A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf. By 


Joun M. Kempue, Esq., M. A. London: 1837. 12mo. 


wounds. 


with stars. After the overthrow of Pharaoh and 
his folk, he says, the blue air was with corrup- 
tion tainted, and the bursting ocean whooped a 
bloody storm. Nebuchadnezzar is described as 
a naked, unwilling wanderer, a wondrous wretch 
and weedless. Horrid ghosts, swart and sinful, 
‘¢ Wide through windy halls 
Wail woful.”’ 
And, in the ‘sack of Sodom, we are told how 
many a fearful, pale-faced damsel must trem- 
bling go into a stranger’s embrace ; and how fell 
the defenders of brides and bracelets, stck with 
Indeed, whenever the author has a 
battle to describe. and hosts of arm-bearing and 
war-faring men draw from their sheaths the ring- 
hilted sword of edges doughty (hring-meled 
sweord ecgum dihtig), he enters into the matter 
with so much spirit, that one almost imagines 
he sees, looking from under that monkish cowl, 
the visage of no parish priest, but of a grim 
war-wolf, as the brave were called, in the days 
when Cedmon wrote. 

The genuineness of these remains has been 
called in question, or, perhaps | should say: 
denied, by Hickes and others. They suppose 
the work to belong to as late a period as the 
tenth century, on account of its similarity in 
style and dialect to other poems of that age. 
Besides, the fragment of the ancient Ceedmon, 
given by Bede, describing the Creation, does 
not correspond exactly with the passage on the 
same subject in the Junian or Pseudo Cadmon ; 
and, moreover, Hickes says he has detected so 
many Dano-Saxon words and phrases in it, that 
he ‘¢ cannot but think it was written by some 
Northymbrian (in the Saxon sense of the word), 
after the Danes had corrupted their language, 
Mr. Thorpe* replies very conclusively ‘to all 
this; that the language of the poem is as pure 
Anglo-Saxon as that of Alfred himself; that Zhe 
Danisms exist only in the ‘imagination of the 
learned author of the Thesaurus”; and that, if 
they were really to be found in the work under 
consideration, it would prove no more than that 
the manuscript was a copy made by a Northum- 
brian scribe, at a period when the language had 
become corrupted. As to the passage in Bede, 
the original of Cedmon was not given; only a 
Latin Frswalation by Bede, which Alfred, in his 
version of the.venerable histontenr, has setiaticr 
lated into Anglo-Saxon. Hence the difference 
between these lines and the opening lines of 
the poem. In its themes the poem corresponds 
exactly with that which Bede informs us Ced- 
mon wrote; and its claim to genuineness can 
hardly be destroyed by such objections as have 
been brought against it. 

Such are the two great narrative poems of 
the Anglo-Saxon tongue. Of a third, a short 
fragment remains. It is a mutilated thing; 
mere torso. Judith of the Apocrypha is the he- 


27 


* Cedmon’s Metrical Paraphrase of Parts of the Holy 
Scriptures in Anglo-Saxon; with an English Translation, 
Notes, and a Verbal Index, by Bensamin Tuores, F. S. A, 


London: 1832. 8yo. 
A2 


: pal 


eS 


| 6 ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE 


AND POETRY. 


roine. The part preserved describes the death 
of Holofernes in a fine, brilliant style, de- 
lighting the hearts of all Anglo-Saxon scholars. 
The original will be found in Mr. Thorpe’s 
Analecta* ; and translations of some passages In 
Turner’s “ History.”’ But a more important frag- 
ment is that on the “ Death of Byrhtnoth”’ at the 
battle of Maldon. This, likewise, is in Thorpe ; 
and a prose translation is given by Conybeare 
in his * Illustrations.’”’t It savors of rust and of 
antiquity, like “Old Hildebrand”’ in German. 
What a fine passage is this, spoken by an aged 

vassal over the dead body of the hero, in the 
thickest of the fight ! 


“‘Byrhtwold spoke; he was an aged vassal; he raised 
his shield; he brandished his ashen spear; he full boldly 
exhorted the warriors. ‘ Our spirit shall be the hardier, our 
heart shall be the keener, our soul shall be the greater, the 
more our forces diminish. Here lieth our chief.all mangled ; 
he brave one in the dust ; ever may he lament his shame 
nketh to fly from this play of weapons! Old amI 
yet will I not stir hence; but I think to lie by the 
|my lord, by that much loved man!’ ” 


orter than either of these fragments is a 
on the ‘“ Fight of Finsborough.” Its chief 
seems to be, that it relates to the same 
1 which formed the theme of one of 
igar’s bards in ‘+ Beowulf.’ Mr. Cony- 
has given it a place in his work. In ad- 
» to these narrative poems and fragments, 
others, founded on Lives of Saints, are 
joned, though they have never been pub- 
d. They are the “Life and Passion of 
uliana’’; and the * Visions of the Hermit 
lac.” 
here is another narrative poem, which I 
t mention here on account of its subject, 
Hugh of a much later date than the forego- 
It is the ‘* Chronicle of King Lear and 
Daughters,” i in Norman-Saxon ; not rhymed 
mghout, but with rhymes too often recurring 
b® accidental. As a poem, it has no merit, 
ows that the story of Lear is very old ; 
ior, U\ speaking of the old King’s death and 
buricl,Wt refers to a previous account, ‘as the 
book telleth” (ase the bock telleth). Cordelia 
is married to Aganippus, king of France ; and, 
after his death, reigns over England, though 
Maglaudus, king of Scotland, declares, that it is 
a muckle shame, that a queen should be king 
over the land.” + 
Besides these long, elaborate poems, the An- 
glo-Saxons had their odes and ballads. Thus, 
when King Canute was sailing by the abbey of 
Ely, he heard the voices of the monks chanting 
their vesper hymn. Whereupon he sang, in 


= _ 


* Analecta Anglo-Saronica, A Selection, in Prose and 
Verse, from Anglo-Saxon Authors of Various Ages, with 
a Glossary. Designedthiefly as a First Book for Students. 
By Bensamin TuorrpE, London: 1834. 8vo. 

t Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry. By Jonn Josras 
CoNnYBEARE. Jondon: 1826. 8vo. 

t For hit wasswithe mochel same, 
and eke hitwas mochel grame, 
that a cwenk solde 
be king in thisse land. 


the best Anglo-Saxon he was master of, the fol- 
lowing rhyme: 
‘Merry sang the monks in Ely, 
As King Canute was steering by; 
Row, ye knights, near the land, 


And hear we these monks’ song.’’ * 


The best, and, properly speaking, perhaps the 
only, Anglo-Saxon odes we have, are those pre- 
served in the ‘¢ Saxon Chronicle,” in recording 
the events they celebrate. ‘They are five in 
number. ‘“ Athelstan’s Victory at Brunanburh,’ 
A. D. 938; the “ Victories of Edmund Bthe- 
ling,” A. D. 942; the“ Coronation of King Ed- 
gar,’ A. D. 973; the “ Death of King Edgar,” 
A. D. 975; and the “ Death of King Edward,” 
A. D. 1065. The “ Battle of Brunanburh”’ is 
already pretty well known by the numerous 
English versions, and attempts thereat, which 
Hees been given oF it. This ode is one of the 
most éHaractéiistie specimens of Anglo-Saxon 
poetry. What a striking picture is that of the 
lad with flaxen hair, mangled with wounds ; 
and of the seven earls of Anlaf, and the five 
young kings, lying on the battle-field, lulled 

asleep by the sword! Indeed, the whole ode is 
striking, bold, graphic. The furious onslaught ; 
the cleaving of the wall of shields ; the hewing 
down of banners ; the din of the fight; the heal 
hand-play ; the retreat of the Northen, in 
nailed ships, over the stormy sea; and the de- 
serted dead, on the battle-ground, left to the 
swart raven, the war-hawk, and the wolf; — 
all these images appeal strongly to the imagina- 
tion. The bard has nobly described this victo- 
ry of the illustrious war-smiths (wlance wig- 
smithas), the most signal victory since the com- 
ing of the Saxons into England; so say the 
books of the old wise men. 

And here I would make due and honorable 
mention of the *¢ Poetic Calendar,” and of King 
Alfred’s ‘“¢ Version of the Metres of Boéthius.”’ 
The “ Poetic Calendar ’’ is a chronicle of great 
events in the lives of saints, martyrs, and apos- 
tles, referred to the days on which they took 
place. At the end is a strange poem, consisting 
of a series of aphorisms, not unlike those that 
adorn a modern almanac. 

In addition to se narratives and odes and 
didactic poems the. . + a vast number of minor 
poems on various sub;,4£ts, some of which have 
been published, though for the most part they 
still lie asleep in manuscripts, — hymns, allego- 
ries, doxologies, proverbs, enigmas, paraphrases 
of the Lord’s Prayer, poems on Death and the 
Day of Judgment, and the like. A great quan- 
tity of them is contained in the celebrated Exe- 
ter Manuscript; a folio given by Bishop Leo- 
fric to the Cathedral of Exeter in the eleventh 
century, and called by the donor, a “ mycel 
Englise boc be gehwylcum thingum on leothwi- 
san geworht,” a A, great English book about every 


* Metric 8 sungen the muneches Hien Ely, 
Tha Cnut ching reuther by ; 
Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land, 
And here we thes muneches sang. 


| 


————————— 
. 


ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND P 


thing, composed in verse. A minute account 
of the contents of this manuscript, with numer- 
ous extracts, is given by Conybeare in his * []- 
lustrations.”” Among these is the beginning of 
a very singular and striking poem, entitled, 
“The Soul's Complaint against the Body.” 
But perhaps the most curious poem in the Exe- 
ter Manuscript is the Rhyming Poem, to which 
I have before alluded. 

I will close this introduction with a few 
remarks on Anglo-Saxon Prose. At the very 
boundary stand two great works, like land- 
marks. These are the ‘Saxon Laws,’’ pro- 
mulgated by the various kings that ruled the 
land ; and the ** Saxon Chronicle,” * in which 
all great historic events, from the middle of the 
fifth to the middle of the twelfth century, are 
recorded by qgntemporary writers, mainly, it 
would seem, the Yonks of Wine Re: ter, Peter- 
borough, and Canterbury. Setting these aside, 
doubtless the most important remains of Anglo- 
Saxon prose are the writings of King Alfred 
the Great. 

What a sublime old character was King Al- 
fred: Alfred, the Truth-teller! Thus the an- 
cient historian surnamed him, as others were 
surnamed the Unready, Ironside, Harefoot. The 
principal events of his life are known to all 
men ;— the nine battles fought in the first year 
of his reign ; his flight to the marshes and for- 
ests of Somersetshire ; his poverty and suffer- 
ing, wherein was fulfilled the prophecy of St. 
Neot, that he should “+ be bruised like the ears 
of wheat’; his life with the swineherd, whose 
wife bade him turn the cakes, that they might 
not be burnt, for she saw daily that he was a 
great eater; {1 his successful rally ; his victories, 
and his une glorious reign; thesedhings are 
known to all men. And not only these, whic h 
are events in his life, but also many more, 
which are traits in his character, and wonteolled 
events; as, for example, that he was a wise 
and virtuous man, a religious man, a learned 
man for that age. -Perhaps they know, even, 
how he measured time with his six horn lan- 
terns; also, that he was an author and wrote 
many books. But of these books how few 
persons have read even a single line! And 
yet it is well worth one’s while, if he wish to 
see all the calm dignity of that great man’s 
character, and how in him the scholar and the 
man outshone the king. For example, do we 
not know him better, and honor ‘him more, 
when we hear from his own lips, as it were, 


* The style of this: Chronicle rises at times far above 
that of most monkish historians. For instance, in record- 
ing the death of William the Conqueror, the writer says: 
‘Sharp death, that passes by neither rich men nor poor, 
seized him also. Alas! how false and how uncertain is 
this world’s weal! He that was before a rich king, and 
lord of many lands, had not then of all his land more than a 
space of seven feet! and he that was whilom enshrouded in 
gold and gems lay there covered with mould.’’ A. D. 1087. 

t ‘‘ Wend thu thao hlafes, tha he ne forbeornen, fortham 
ic geseo deighamlice tha thu mycel ete eart.’? — Asser, 
‘Life of Alfred.’? See Turner. 


OETRY. 7 


such sentiments as these? (**God has made 
all men equally noble in their” original nature. 
True nobility is in the. mind, not.in,the flesh. 
I wished to live honorably Sia I lived, and, 
after my life, to leave to the men who were 
after me my memory in good works!” 

The chief writings of this Royal Author are 
his translations of Gregory’s “ Pastoralis,’’ Boé- 
thius’s “‘ Consolations of Philosophy,’ Bede’s 
*¢ Neclesiastical History,’ ” and the “+ History of 
Orosius,’’ known in manuscripts by the mys- 
terious title of ‘‘ Hormesta.”’ Of these works 
the most remarkable is the Boéthius ; so much 
of his own mind has Alfred infused into it. 
Properly speaking, it is not so much a transla- 
tion as a gloss or paraphrase; for the Saxon 
King, upon his throne, had a soul which was 
near akin to that of the last of the Roman phi- 
losophers in his prison. He had suffered, and 
could sympathize with suffering humanity. He 
adorned and carried out still farther the reflec- 
tions of Boéthius. He begins his task, how- 
ever, with an apology, saying, “+ Alfred, king, 
was translator of this book, and turned it from 
book-latin into English, as he most plainly and 
clearly could, amid the various and manifold 
worldly occupations which often busied him 
in mind and body”; and ends with a prayer, 
beseeching God, “by the sign of the holy cross, 
and by the virginity of the blessed Mary, and 
by the obedience of the blessed Michael, and 
by the love of all the saints and their merits,” 
that his mind might be made steadfast to the 
divine will and his own soul’s need. 

Other remains of Anglo- Saxon prose exist in 
the tale of « Apollonius. of Tyre’; the “ Bible- 
translations’’ and ‘ Colloquies ’ * of Abbot Atl- 
fric ; “¢ Glosses of the Gospels,”’ at the close of 
one of which, the conscientious scribe has writ- 
ten, “* Aldred, an unworthy and miserable priest, 
with the help of God and St. Cuthbert, over- 
glossed it in English’’; and, finally, various 
miscellaneous treatises, among which the most 
curious is a “ Dialogue between Saturn and 
Solomon.” 

Hardly less curious, and infinitely more val- 
uable, is a “ Colloquy ”’ of A.lfric, composed for 
the purpose of teaching boys to speak Latin. 
The Saxon is an interlinear translation of the 
Latin. In this ‘Colloquy”’ various laborers 
and handicraftsmen are introduced, — plough- 
men, herdsmen, huntsmen, shoemakers, and 
others; and each has his say, even to the 
blacksmith, who dwells in his smithy amid 
iron fire-sparks and the sound of beating sledge- 
hammers and blowing bellows (isenne fyr- 
spearcan, and swegincga beatendra slecgea, and 
blawendra byliga). i 

To speak farther of Anglo-Saxon prose would 
lead me beyond my plan. I have only to re- 
mark, that, in the selections from Anglo-Saxon 
poetry which follow, I have, for the most part, 
selected simple prose translations, as best cal- 
culated to convey a clear idea of the rhythmic 
but unrhymed originals. 


23 


a) 


POEM OF BEOWULF. 


BEOWULF THE SHYLD. 


THen dwelt in the cities 
Beowulf the Shyld, 

A king dear to the people : 
Long did he live 

His country’s father, 

To him was born 
Healfden the high; 

He, while he lived, 
Reigned and grew old, 
The delight of the Shylds. 
To him four children 
Grew up in the world, 
Leaders of hosts, 

Weorgar and Rothgar, 
And Halga the good. 

And I have heard 

That Helen’his queen 
Was born of the Shefings. 
Then was to Rothgar 
Speedily given 

The command of the army ; 
Him his friends 

Heard most willingly. 
When to the youth 

Was grown up a family, 
It came to his mind 


He would build them a hall. 


Much was there to earn, 
And men wrought at it, 
And brought it to bear. 
And there within 

He dealt out ale 

To young and to old, 
As God sent them ; 
Without stood the people 
And sported afar. 

And, as I have inquired, 
The work was praised 
In many a place 

Amid the earth. 

To found a folkstead 

He first contrived 
Among his liegemen ; 


And when this was finished, 


The first of halls, 

Earth gave him a name, 
So that his words 

Had power afar. 

He received guests, 

And gave bracelets 

To the friends of the feast ; 
And the ceilings echoed 
To the sound of the horn ; 
And healths were given 
In strong drink. 


THE SAILING OF BEOWULF. 


Famous was Beowulf; 
Wide sprang the blood 
Which the heir of the Shylds ° 
Shed on the lands. 

So shall the bracelets 
Purchase endeavour, 
Freely presented, 

As by thy fathers ; 

And all the young men, 
As is their custom, 

Cling round their leader 
Soon as the war comes. 
Lastly thy people 

The deeds shall bepraise 
Which their men have performed. 
When the Shyld had awaited 
The time he should stay, 
Came many to fare 

On the billows so free. 

His ship they bore out 

To the brim of the ocean, 
And his comrades sat down 
At their oars as he bade : 
A word could control 

His good fellows, the Shylds. 
There, at the Hythe, 

Stood his old father 

Long to look after him. 
*The band of his comrades, 
Eager for outfit, 

Forward the Atheling. 
Then all the people 
Cheered their loved lord, 
The giver of bracelets. 

On the deck of the ship 
He stood by the mast. 
There was treasure 

Won from afar 

Laden on board. 

Ne’er did I hear 

Of a vessel appointed 
Better for battle, 

With weapons of war, 

And waistcoats of wool, 
And axes and swords. 


ee 


Tuus then, much care-worn, 
The son of Healfden 
Sorrowed evermore, 

Nor might the prudent hero 
His woes avert. 


| 


BEOWULF’S EXPEDITION TO HEORT. 


The war was too hard, 
Too loath and longsome, 
That on the people came, 
Dire wrath and grim, 

Of night-woes the worst. 
This from home heard 
Higelac’s Thane, 

Good among the Goths, 
Grendel’s deeds. 

He was of mankind 

In might the strongest, 
At that day 

Of this life, | 

Noble and stalwart. 

He bade him a sea-ship, 
A goodly one, prepare. 
Quoth he, the war-king, 
Over the swan’s road, 
Seek he would 

The mighty monarch, 
Since he wanted men. 
For him that journey 
His prudent fellows 
Straight made ready, 
Those that loved him. 
They excited their souls, 
The omen they beheld. 
Had the good-man 

Of the Gothic people 
Champions chosen, 

Of those that keenest 
He might find, 

Some fifteen men. 

The sea-wood sought he. 
The warrior showed, 
Sea-crafty man ! 

The land-marks, 

And first went forth. 

The ship was on the waves, 
Boat under the cliffs. 
The barons ready 

To the prow mounted. 
The streams they whirled 
The sea against the sands. 
The chieftains bore 

On the naked breast 
Bright ornaments, 
War-gear, Goth-like. 
The nien shoved off, 
Men on their willing way, 


‘The bounden wood. 


BEOWULF. 


Then went over the sea-waves, 


Hurried by the wind, 
The ship with foamy neck, 
Most like a sea-fowl, 
Till about one hour 

Of the second day 

The curved prow 

Had passed onward 

So that the sailors 

The land saw, 

The shore-cliffs shining, 
Mountains steep, 


And broad sea-noses. 
‘Then was the sea-sailing 
Of the Earl at an end. 

Then up speedily 
The Weather people 
On the land went, 

The sea-bark moored, 

Their mail-sarks shook, 
Their war-weeds. 

God thanked they, 

That to them the sea-journey 
Easy had been. 

Then from the wall beheld 
The warden of the Scyldings, 
He who the sea-cliffs 
Had in his keeping, 

Bear o’er the balks 

The bright shields, 

The war-weapons speedily. 
Him the doubt disturbed 
In his mind’s thought, 
What these men might be. 

Went then to the shore, 
On his steed riding, 

The Thane of Hrothgar. 
Before the host he shook 

His warden’s-staff in hand, 

In measured words demanded : 

‘¢ What men are ye 
War-gear wearing, 

Host in harness, 

Who thus the brown keel 
Over the water-street 
Leading come 

Hither over the sea? 

I these boundaries 

As shore-warden hold ; 


That in the Land of the Danes 


Nothing loathsome 

With a ship-crew 

Scathe us might. ... 

Ne’er saw I mightier 

Earl upon earth 

Than is your own, 

Hero in harness. 

Not seldom this warrior 

Is in weapons distinguished ; 
Never his beauty belies him, 
His peerless countenance ! 
Now would I fain 

Your origin know, 

Ere ye forth 

As false spies 


‘Into the Land of the Danes 


Farther fare. 

Now, ye dwellers afar-off ! 
Ye sailors of the sea! 
Listen to my 

One-fold thought. 
Quickest ‘is best 

To make known 


. 2? 
Whence your coming may be. 


Ss 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


a a 


AN OLD MAN’S SORROW. 


CAREFUL, sorrowing,, 

He seeth in his son’s bower 
The wine-hall deserted, 

The resort of the wind noiseless ; 
The Knight sleepeth, 

The Warrior, in darkness ; 
There is not there 

Noise of the harp, 

Joy in the dwellings, 

As there was before ; 

Then departeth he into songs, 
Singeth a lay of sorrow, 

One after one; 

All seemed to him too wide, 


The plains and the dwelling-place. 


—o@—— 


GOOD NIGHT. 


Tue night-helm grew dusky, 
Dark over the vassals ; 


| 


~ 


CHDMON. 


THE FIRST DAY. 


THERE had not here as yet, 
Save cavern-shade, 
Aught been ; 
But this wide abyss 
Stood deep and dim, 
Strange to its Lord, 
Idle and useless ; 
On which looked with his eyes 
The King firm of mind, 
And beheld those places 
Void of joys ; 
Saw the dark cloud 
Lower in eternal night, 
Swart under heaven, 
Dark and waste, 
Until this worldly creation 
Through the word existed , 
Of the Glory-King. 

Here first shaped 
The Lord eternal, 
Chief of all creatures, 
Heaven and earth; 
The firmament upreared, 
And this spacious land 
Established, 
By his strong powers, 
The Lord almighty. 
The earth as yet was 


The court all rose, 

The mingled-haired 

Old Scyiding 

Would visit his bed ; 

The Gedat wished the 
Renowned Warrior to rest 
Immeasurably well. 

Soon him the foreigner, 
Weary of his journey, 

The hall-thane guided forth, 
Who, after a fitting manner, 
Provided all that 

The thane needed, 
Whatsoever that day 

The sailers over the deep 
Should have. 


The magnanimous warrior rested ° 


The house rose aloft 

Curved and variegated with gold 
The stranger slept therein, 

Until the pale raven, 

Blithe of heart, 

Announced the joy of heaver, 
The bright sun, to be come 


Not green with grass ; 
Ovrean covered, 

Swart in eternai night, 
Far and wide, 

The dusky ways. 

Then was the glorr-bsight 
Spirit of heaven’s Guardian 
Borne over the deep 
With utmost speed : 

The Creator of angels bade, 
The Lord of life, 
Light to come forth 

Over the spacious deep. 
Quickly was fulfilled 

The high King’s behest; 
For him was holy light 
Over the waste, 

As the Maker bade. 

Then sundered 
The Lord of triumphs 
Over the ocean-flood 
Light from darkness, 

Shade from brightness, 
Then gave names to both 
The Lord of life. 

Light was first 

Through the Lord’s word 
Named day ; 

Beauteous, bright creation ! 
Well nleaced 


| 


SaaS — Se Ne 


CHDMON. 


The Lord at the beginning 
The procreative time. 
The first day saw 
The dark shade 
Swart prevailing 
Over the wide abyss. 


as 


THE FALL OF THE REBEL ANGELS. 


Angel-tribes, 

Through might of hand, 

The holy Lord, 

Ten established, 

In whom he trusted well 

That they his service 

Would follow, 

. Work his will ; 

i Therefore gave he them wit, 
And shaped them with his hands, 
The holy Lord. 
He had placed them so happily, 
One he had made so powerful, 
So mighty in his mind’s thought, 

He let him sway over so much, 


Tue All-powerful had 
| 


Highest after himself in heaven’s king- 
dom. 

He had made him so fair, 

So beauteous was his form in heaven, 

That came to him from the Lord of hosts, 

He was like to the light stars. 

It was his to work the praise of the Lord, 

It was his to hold dear his joys in heaven, 

And to thank his Lord 

For the reward that he had bestowed on 
him in that light ; 

Then had he let him long possess it ; 

But he turned it for himself to a worse 
thing, 

Began to raise war upon him, 

Against the highest Ruler of heaven, 

Who sitteth in the holy seat. 

Dear was he to our Lord, 

But it might not be hidden from him 

That his angel began 

To be presumptuous, 

Raised himself against his Master, 

Sought speech of hate, 

Words of pride towards him, 

Would not serve God, 

Said that his body was 

Light and beauteous, 

Fair and bright of hue: 

He might not find in his mind 

That he would God 

In subjection, ‘ 

His Lord, serve : 

- Seemed to himself 

That he a power and force 

Had greater 

Than the holy God 

Could have 

Of adherents. 


11 


The angel of presumption : 

Thought, through his own power, 

How he for himself a stronger 

Seat might make, 

Higher in heaven : 

Said that him his mind impelled, 

That he west and north 

Would begin to work, 

Would prepare structures : 

Said it to hin seemed doubtful 

That he to God would 

Be a vassal. 

“Why shall I toil?” said he ; 

“To me it is no whit needful 

To have a superior ; 

I can with my hands as many 

Wonders work ; 

I have great power 

To form 

A diviner throne, 

A higher in heaven. 

Why shall I for his favor serve, 

Bend to him in such vassalage ? 

I may be a god as he. 

Stand by me strong associates, 

Who will not fail me in the strife. 

Heroes stern of mood, 

They have chosen me for chief, 

Renowned warriors ! 

With such may one devise counsel, 

With such capture his adherents ; 

They are my zealous friends, 

Faithful in their thoughts ; 

I may be their chieftain, 

Sway in this realm: 

Thus to me it seemeth not right 

That I in aught 

Need cringe 

To God for any good ; 

I will no longer be his vassal.” 
When the All-powerful it 

All had heard, 

That his angel devised 

Great presumption 

To raise up against his Master, 

And spake proud words 

Foolishly against his Lord, 

Then must he expiate the deed, 

Share the work of war, 

And for his punishment must have 

Of all deadly ills the greatest. 

So doth every man 

Who against his Lord 

Deviseth to war, 

With crime against the great Ruler. 

Then was the Mighty angry, 

The highest Ruler of heaven, 

Hurled him from the lofty seat ; 

Hate had he gained at his Lord, 

His favor he had lost, 

Incensed with him was the Good in his 

mind, 
Therefore must he seek the gulf | 
Of hard hell-torment, | 


| 
Many words spake | 


RE I SS TS 


SE ee a 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


For that he had warred with heaven’s 
Ruler. 

He rejected him then from his favor, 

And cast him into hell, 

Into the deep parts, 

Where he became a devil : 

The fiend with all his comrades 

Fell then from heaven above, 

Through as long as three nights and days, 

The angels from heaven into hell ; 

And them all the Lord transformed to 
devils, 

Because they his deed and word 

Would not revere ; 

Therefore them in a worse light, 

Under the earth beneath, 

Almighty God 

Had placed triumphless 

In the swart hell; 

There they have at even, 

Immeasurably long, 

Each of all the fiends, 

A renewal of fire ; 

Then cometh ere dawn 

The eastern wind, 

Frost bitter-cold, 

Ever fire or dart; 

Some hard torment 

They must have, 

It was wrought for them in punishment, 

Their world (life) was changed : 

For their sinful course 

He filled hell 

With the apostates. 

The angels continued to hold 
The heights of heaven’s kingdom, 
Those who ere God’s pleasure executed ; 
The others lay fiends in the fire, 
Who ere had had so much 
Strife with their Ruler ; 

Torment they suffer, 
Burning heat intense, 

In midst of hell, 

Fire and broad flames ; 
So also the bitter reeks 
Smoke and darkness ; 

For that they the service 
Of God neglected, 

Them their folly deceived, 
The angel’s pride, 

They would not the All-powerful’s 
Word revere, 

They had great torment ; 
Then were they fallen 

To the fiery abyss, 

Into the hot hell, 
Through frenzy 

And through pride ; 

They sought another land, 
That was void of light, 
And was full of flame, 

A. great receptacle of fire. 


bin 


SATAN’S SPEECH. 


Saran harangued, 
Sorrowing spake, 
He who hell henceforth 
Should rule, 
Govern the abyss. 
He was erst God’s angel, 
Fair in heaven, 
Until him his mind urged, 
And his pride 
Most of all, 
That he would not 
The Lord of hosts’ 
Word revere ; 
Boiled within him 
His thought about his heart, 
Hot was without him 
His dire punishment. 
Then spake he the words: 
“‘' This narrow place is most unlike 
That other that we ere knew, 
High in heaven’s kingdom, 
Which my Master bestowed on me, 
Though we it, for the All-powerful, 
May not possess, 
Must cede our realm ; 
Yet hath he not done rightly, 
That he hath struck us down 
To the fiery abyss 
Of the hot hell, 
Bereft us of heaven’s kingdom, 
Hath it decreed 
With mankind 
To people. 


That of sorrows is to me the, greatest, 


That Adam shall, 

Who of earth was wrought, 
My strong 

Seat possess, 

Be to him in delight, 

And we endure this torment, 
Misery in this hell. 

Oh, had I power of my hands, 
And might one season 

Be without, 

Be one winter’s space, 

Then with this host 1 —— 
But around me lie 

Iron bonds, 

Presseth this cord of chain : 
I am powerless! 

Me have so hard 

The clasps of hell, 

So firmly grasped ! 

Here is a vast fire 

Above and underneath, 
Never did I see 

A loathlier landskip ; 

The flame abateth not, 

Hot over hell. 

Me hath the clasping of these rings, 
This hard-polished band, 
Impeded in my course, 
Debarred, me from my way ; 


J 


- 


——. 


CEDMON. 


My feet are bound, 

My hands manacled, 

Of these hell-doors are 

The ways obstructed, 

So that with aught I cannot 

From these limb-bonds escape : 

About me lie 

Of hard iron 

Forged with heat 

Huge gratings, 

With which me God 

Hath fastened by the neck. 

Thus perceive'I that he knoweth my 
mind, 

And that knew also 

The Lord of hosts, 

That should us through Adam 

Evil befall, 

About the realm of heaven, 

Where I had power of my hands. 

But we now suffer.chastisement ine hell, 

Which is darkness and heat, 

Grim, bottomless ; 

God hath us himself 

Swept' into these swart mists ; 

Thus he cannot us accuse of any sin, 

That we against him in the land framed 
evil : 

Yet hath he deprived us of the light, 

Cast us into the greatest of all torments : 

We may not for this execute vengeance, 

Reward him with aught of hostility, 

Because he hath bereft us of the light. 

He hath now devised a world 

Where he hath wrought man 

After his own likeness, 

With whom he will repeople 

The kingdom of heaven, with pure souls ; 

Therefore must we strive zealously, 

That we on Adam, if we ever may, 

And likewise on his offspring, our wrongs 
repair, 

Corrupt him there in his will, 

If we may it in any way devise. 

Now I have no confidence further in this 
bright state, 

That which he seems long destined to 
enjoy, 

That bliss with his angels’ power. 

We cannot that ever obtain, 

That we the mighty God’s mind weaken ; 

Let us avert it now from the children of 
men, 

That heavenly kingdom now we may not 
have it ; 

Let us so do that they forfeit his favor, 

That they pervert that. which he with 
his word commanded 5 

Then with them will he be wroth in mind, 

Will cast them from his favor ; 

Then shall they seek this hell, 

And these grim depths ; 

Then may we them have to ourselves as 
vassals, 

The children of men, in this fast durance. 


13 


Begin we now about the warfare to con- 


silt; ——. 

If to any follower I 

Princely treasures 

Gave of old, 

While we in that good realm 

Happy sat 

And in our seats had sway, 

Then me he never, at time more precious, 

Could with recompense 

My gift repay, 

If in return for it he would 

(Any of my followers) 

Be my supporter ; 

So that up from hence he 

Forth might 

Pass through these barriers, 

And had power with him, 

That he with wings 

Might fly, 

Revolve in cloud, 

To where stand wrought 

Adam and Eve, 

On earth’s kingdom, 

With weal encircled, 

And we are hither cast 

Into this deep den. — 

Now with the Lord are they 

Far higher in esteem, 

And may for themselves that weal possess 

That we in heaven’s kingdom 

Should have, 

Our realm by right: 

This counsel is decreed 

For mankind. 4 

That to me is in my mind so painful, 

Rueth in my thought, P 

That they heaven’s kingdom 

For ever shall possess. 

If any of you may 

With aught so turn it, 

That they God’s word 

Through guile forsake, 

Soon shall they be the more hateful to him: 

If they break his commandment, 

Then will he be incensed against them ; 

Afterwards will the weal be turned from 
them, 

And for them punishment will be pre- 
pared, 

Some hard lot of evil.” 


—_—--——- 


THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. 


Brean then himself equip 

The apostate from God, 

Prompt in arms ; 

He had a crafty soul. 

On his head the chief his helmet set, 
And it full strongly bound, 

Braced it with clasps : 

He many speeches knew 


Of guileful words: 
B 


I 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


Wheeled up from thence, 
Departed through the doors of hell : 
(He had a strong mind) 
Lion-like in air, 

In hostile mood, 

Dashed the fire aside 

With a fiend’s power : 
Would secretly 

The subjects of the Lord, 
With wicked deeds, 

Men deceive, 

Mislead and pervert, 

That they might become hateful to God. 
He journeyed then, 
Through his fiend’s might, 
Until he Adam, 

On earth’s kingdom, 

The creature of God’s hand, 
Found ready, 

Wisely wrought, 

And his wife also, 

Fairest woman ; 

Just as they knew many things 
Of good to frame, 

Which to them, his disciples, 
The Creator of mankind 
Had himself pointed out ; 
And by them two 

Trees stood, 

That were without 

Laden with fruit, 

With produce covered, 

As them the powerful God, 
High King of heaven, 

With his hands had set, 
That there the child of man 
Might choose 

Of good and evil, 

Every man, 

Of weal and woe. 

The fruit was not alike:... 
The one so pleasant was, 
Fair and beautiful, 

Soft and delicate ; 

That was life’s tree : 

He might for ever 

After live, 

Be in the world, 

Who of this fruit tasted, 

So that him after that 

Age might not impair, 

Nor grievous sickness ; 

But he might ever be 
Forthwith in joys, 

And his life hold ; 

The favor of heaven’s King 
Here in the world have, 

To him should be decreed 
Honors in the high heaven 
When he goeth hence: 
Then was the other 

Uiterly black, 

Dim and dark ; 

That was death’s tree, 
Which much of bitter bare : 


Both must know 

Every mortal, 

Evil and good: 

Waned in this world, 

He in pain must ever, 

With sweat and with sorrows, 

After live, 

Whoe’er should taste 

Of what on this tree grew ; 

Age should from him take 

Of bold deeds 

The joys and of dominion, 

And death be him allotted: 

A little while he should 

His life enjoy, 

Then seek of lands 

With fire the swartest, 

To fiends should minister, 

Where of all perils is the greatest 

To people for a long season. 

That the foe well knew, 

The devil’s dark messenger, 

Who warred with God. 

Cast him then into a worm’s body, 

And then twined about 

The tree of death ; 

Through devil’s craft : 

There took of the fruit, 

And again turned him thence 

To where he knew the handiwork 

Of heaven’s King to be. 

Began then ask him, 

With his first word, 

The enemy with lies: 

“ Cravest thou aught, 

Adam, up with God? 

I on his errand hither have 

Journeyed from far, 

Nor was it now long since 

That with himself I sat, 

When he me bade to travel on this jour- 
ney ; 

Bade that of this fruit thou eat, 

Said that thy power and strength 

And thine understanding 

Would become greater, 

And thy body 

Brighter far, 

Thy form more beauteous : 

Said that to thee of any treasure need 

Would not be in the world, 

Now thou hast willingly 

Wrought the favor 

Of heaven’s King, 

Gratefully served 

Thy Master, 

Hast made thee dear with thy Lord. 

I heard him thy deeds and words 

Praise in his brightness, 

And speak about thy life : 

So must thou execute 

What hither, into this land, 

His angels bring. 

In the world are broad 

Green places, 


=FtS= he 


CHZDMON. 


And God ruleth 
In the highest 
Realm of heaven .— 
The All-powerful above 
Will not the trouble 
Have himself, 
That on this journey he should come, 
The Lord of men; 
But he his vassal sendeth 
To thy speech : 
Now biddeth he thee, by messages, 
Science to learn : — 
Perform thou zealously 
His message. 
Take thee this fruit in hand ; 
Bite it, and taste ; 
In thy breast thou shalt be expanded, 
Thy form the fairer ; 
To thee hath sent the powerful God, 
Thy Lord, this help 
From heaven’s kingdom.” 
Adam spake, 
Where on earth he stood, 
A self-created man: 
“ When I the Lord of triumph, 
The mighty God, 
Heard speak 
With strong voice ; 
And he me here standing bade 
Hold his commandments, 
And me gave this bride, 
This wife of beauteous mien ; 
And me bade beware 
That in the tree of death 
I were not deceived, 
Too much seduced : 
He said that the swart hell 
Should inhabit 
He who in his heart aught 
Should admit of sin. 
I know not (for thou mayest come with 
hes, 
Through dark design) 
That thou art the Lord’s 
Messenger from heaven. 
Nay, I cannot of thy orders, 
Of thy words, nor courses, 
Aught understand, 
Of thy journey, nor of thy sayings. 
I know what he himself commanded me, 
Our Preserver, 
When him last I saw: 
He bade me his words revere 
And well observe, 
Execute his instructions. 
Thou art not like 
To any of his angels 
That I before have seen, 
Nor showest thou me 
Any token 
Which he to me in pledge 
Hath sent, 
My Lord, through favor ; 
Therefore I thee cannot obey : 
But thou mayest take thee hence. 


I have firm trust 

On the almighty God above, 

Who wrought me with his arms, 

Here with his hands: 

He can me, from his high realm, 

Gift with each good, 

Though he send not his vassal.’ 
He turned him, wroth of mood, 

To where he saw the woman, 

On earth’s realm, 

Eve standing, 

Beautifully formed ; 

Said that the greatest ills 

To all their offspring 

From thenceforth 

In the world would be. — 

‘‘T know the supreme God with you 

Will be incensed, 

As I to him this message 

Myself relate, 

When I from this journey come 

Over a long way: 

That ye will not well execute 

Whatsoever errand he 


Now must he come himself 

For your answer, 

His errand may ‘not 

His messenger command ; 

Therefore know I that he with you will 
be angry, 

The Mighty, in his mind. 

If thou nathless wilt, 

A willing woman, 

My words obey, 

Then for this mayest thou amply 

Counsel devise : 

Consider in thy breast, 

That from you both thou mayest 

Ward off punishment, 

As I shall show thee. 

Eat of this fruit; 

Then will thine eyes become so clear, 

That thou mayest so widely 

Over all the world 

See afterwards, 

And the throne of himself 

Thy Lord, and have 

His grace henceforward. 

Thou mightest Adam 

Afterwards rule, 

If thou his affection have, 

And he trust in thy words ; 

If thou soothly say to him 

What monitions thou thyself 

Hast in thy breast, 

Wherefore thou God’s mandate 

By persuasion hast performed, — 

He the hateful strife, 

The evil answer, 

Will abandon 

In his breast’s recess ; 

So we both to him 

One purpose speak : 


From the east hither 
At this time sendeth. 


—— , ee 
ean 


SE 


A ee 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


Urge thou him zealously, 
That he may follow thy instruction ; 
Lest ye hateful to God 

Your Lord 

Should become. 

If thou perfect this attempt, 
Best of women, 

I will conceal from your Lord 
That to me so much calumny 
Adam spake, 

Evil words, 

Accuseth me of untruths, 


Sayeth that I am anxious for mischiefs, 


A servant to the malignant, 

Not God’s angel: 

But I so readily know all 

The angels’ origins, 

The roofs of the high heavens, 

So long was the while 

That I diligently 

Served God, 

Through faithful mind, 

My Master, 

The Lord himself — 

I am not like a devil.” 

He led her thus with lies, 

And with wiles instigated 

The woman to that evil, 

Until began within her 

The serpent’s counsel boil : 

(To her a weaker mind had 

The Creator assigned) 

So that she her mood 

Began relax, after those allurements ; 

Therefore she of the enemy received, 

Against the Lord’s word, 

Of death’s tree 

The noxious fruit. ... 
Then to her spouse she spake: 

«¢ Adam, my lord, 

This fruit is so sweet, 

Mild in the breast, 

And this bright messenger 

God’s angel good ; 

I by his habit see 

That he is the envoy 

Of our Lord, 

Heaven’s King. 

His favor it is for us 

Better to gain 

Than his aversion. 

If thou to him this day 

Spake aught of harm, 

Yet will he it forgive, 

If we to him obedience 


Will show. 


What shall profit thee such hateful strife 


With thy Lord’s messenger ? 
To us is his favor needful ; 
He may bear our errands 
To the all-powerful 
Heavenly King. 

I can see from hence 
Where he himself sitteth, 
That is south-east, 


With bliss encircled, 
Him who formed this world. 

I see his angels 

Exicompass him 

With feathery wings, 

Of all folks greatest, 

Of bands most joyous. 

Who could to me 

Such perception give, 

If now it 

God did not send, 

Heaven’s Ruler? 

I can hear from far, 

And so widely see, 

Through the whole world, 
Over the broad creation ; 

I can the joy of the firmament 
Hear in heaven; 

It became light to me in mind, 
From without and within, 
After the fruit I tasted: 

I now have of it 

Here in my hand, 

My good lord, 

I will fain give it thee ; 

I believe that it 

Came from God, 

Brought by his command, 
From what this messenger told me 
With cautious words. 

It is not like to aught 

Else on earth ; 

But, so this messenger sayeth, 
That it directly 

Came from God.” 

She spake to him oft, 

And all day urged him 

To that dark deed, 

That they their Lord’s 

Will break. i 

The fell envoy stood by, 
Excited his desires, 

And with wiles urged him, 
Dangerously followed him: 
The foe was full near 

Who on that dire journey 
Had fared 

Over a long way ; 

Nations he studied, 

Into that great perdition 

Men to cast, 

To corrupt and to mislead, 
That they God’s toan, 

The Almighty’s gift, 

Might forfeit, 

The power of heaven’s kingdom ; 
For the hell-miscreant 
Well knew 

That they God’s ire 
Must have 

And hell-torment, 

The torturing punishment 
Needs receive, 

Since they God’s command 
Had broken, 


Pa i te i i naan ae tree 


ahh ene tenn 


‘Re ce ee ie aan 


What time he (the Pe whendhe Cota cedienar te eta te seduced _ Pale stood 
With lying words Over the archers 
To that evil counsel The clear beams, 
The beauteous woman, The bucklers Bees, 
Of females fairest, The shades prevailed ; : 
That she after ifs will spake, Yet the falling nightly shadows : 
Was as a help to him Might not near 
To seduce God’s handiwork. Shrodd the gloom. , 
Then she to Adam spake, The heavenly candle burnt, i 
Fairest of women, The new night-ward j 
Full oft, Must by coinpulsion ; 
Till in the man began Rest over the hosts, 
His mind to turn ; Lest them horror of the waste, 1 
So that he trusted to the promise The hoar heath 1 
Which to him the woman With its raging storms, 
Said in words: Should over whelm, 
Yet did she it through faithful mind, Their souls fail. 
Knew not that hence so many ills, Had their harbinger 
Sinful woes, Fiery locks, 
Must follow Pale eligi ; 
To mankind, A cry of dread resounded 
Because she took i in mind In the martial host, 
That she the hostile envoy’s At the hot flame, 
Suggestions would obey ; That it in the we aie 
But “weened that she the favor Would burn up the host, 
Of heaven’s King Unless they zealously 
Wrought with the words Moses obeyed. 
Which she to the man Shone the bright host, 
Revealed, as it were a token, The shields gleamed ; 
And vowed them true, The bucklered warriors saw 
Till that to Adam In a straight course 
Within his breast The sign over the bands, 
His mind was changed, Till that the sea- barrier, 
And his heart began At the land’s end, 
Turn to her will. The shies s force withstood, 
He from the woman took Suddenly, on their onward way. 
Hell and death, A camp arose ; 
Though it was not so called, They cast them weary down ; 
But it the name of fruit Appro: iched with sustenance 
Must have: The bold sewers ; 
Yet was it death’s dream, They their strength repaired, 
And the devil’s artifice, Spread themselves about, 
Hell and death, After the trumpet sang 
“And men’s perdition, The sailors in the fexiiss 
The destruction of human kind, Then was the fourth station, 
That they made for food The shielded warriors’ rest, 
Unholy fruit ! By the Red Sea.... 
Thus it came within him, Then of his men the mind 
Touched at his heart. Became despondent, R 
Laughed then and played After that they saw, 
The bitter-purposed messenger. From the south ways, 
The host of Pharaoh 
—+-— A Coming forth, 
Moving over the holt, 
THE FLIGHT OF THE ISRAELITES. The band glittering. 
They prepared their arms, 
Loup was the shout of the host, The war advanced, 
The heavenly beacon rose Bucklers glittered, 
Hach evening. Trumpets sang, 
Another stupendous wonder ! — Standards ré ittled, 
After the sun’s They trod the nution’s frontier. 
Setting course, they beheld Around them screamed 
Over the people The fowls of war, 
A flame to shine, Greedy of battle, 
| A burning pillarisoy Dewy- -feathered; 
9 


l = udecdemintecie MRE 


Over the bodies of the host 
(The dark chooser of the slain) 
The wolves sung 
Their horrid evensong, 
In hopes of food, 
The reckless beasts, : 
Threatening death to the valiant: » 
On the foes’ track flew 
The army-fowl. 
The march-wards cried 
At midnight ; 
Flew the spirit of death ; 
The people were hemmed in. 
At length of that host 
The proud thanes . 
Met mid the paths, 
In bendings of the boundaries ; 
To them there the banner-king 
Marched with the standard, 
The prince of men 
Rode the marches with his band ; 
The warlike guardian of the people 
Clasped his grim helm, 
The king, his visor. 
The banners glittered 
In hopes of battle ; 
Slaughter shook the proud. 
He bade his warlike band 
Bear them boldly, 
The firm body. 
The enemy saw 
With hostile eyes 
The coming of the natives: 
About him moved 
Fearless warriors. 
The hoar army wolves 
The battle hailed, 
Thirsty for the brunt of war. 


—_4¢-—— 


Tue folk was affrighted, 
The flood-dread seized on 
Their sad souls ; 

Ocean wailed with death, 
The mountain heights were 
With blood besteamed, 
The sea foamed gore, 
Crying was in the waves, 
The water full of weapons, 
A death-mist rose ; 

The Egyptians were 
Turned back ; 

Trembling they fled, 

They felt fear : 

Would that host gladly 
Find their homes; 

Their vaunt grew sadder : 
Against them, as a cloud, rose 
The fell rolling of the waves ; 
There came not any 

Of that host to home, 


THE DESTRUCTION OF PHARAOH. 


ANGLO-SAXON 


POETRY. 


But from behind inclosed them 
Fate with the wave. 

Where ways ere lay, 

Sea raged. 

Their might was merged, 

The stream stood, 

The storm rose 

High to heaven ; 

The loudest army-cry 

The hostile uttered ; 

The air above was thickened 
With dying voices ; 

Blood pervaded the fiood, 

The shield-walls were riven, 
Shook the firmament 

That greatest of sea-deaths : 
The proud died, 

Kings in a body ; 

The return prevailed 

Of the sea at length; 

Their bucklers shone 

High over. the soldiers ; 

The sea-wall rose, 

The proud ocean-stream, 
Their might in death was 
Fastly fettered. 

The tide’s neap, 

With the war-enginery obstructed, 
Laid bare the sand 

To the fated host, 

When the wandering stream, 
The ever cold sea, 

With its ever salt waves, 

Its eternal stations, 

A naked, involuntary messenger, 
Came to visit. 

Hostile was the spirit of death 
Who the foes overwhelmed ; 
The blue air was 

With corruption tainted ; 

The bursting ocean 

Whooped a bloody storm, 

The seamen’s way ; 

Till that the true God, 
Through Moses’ hand, 
Enlarged its force, 

Widely drove it, 

It swept death in its embrace ; 
The flood foamed, 

The fated died, 

Water deluged the land, 

The air was agitated, 

Yielded the rampart holds, 
The waves burst over them, 
The sea-towers melted. 

When the Mighty struck, 
With holy hand, 

The Guardian of heaven’s kingdom, 
The lofty warriors, 
The proud nation : 
They might not have 
A safer path, 

For the sea-stream’s force, 
But it o’er many shed 
Yelling horror. 


aa nr tty 


i 


(Oa rr on nN EU NN a nt IR 


j 


HISTORIC ODES. 19 : 
Ocean raged, Those armies slept, | 
Drew itself up on high, hose bands of sinful 
The storms rose, Sunk with their souls 
_ The corpses rolled ; Fast encompassed, 
- Fated fell The flood-pale host, 


High from heaven 

The hand«work of God: 

Of the foamy gulfs 

The Guardian of the flood struck 
The unsheltering wave 

With an ancient falchion, 

That in the swoon of death 


_ After that them in its gulfy 


Of proud waves greatest, 
All their power o’erthrew ; 
When was drownec 

The flower of Egypt, 
Pharaoh with fils folk, 


PolLSal OR TO ODS. 


THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 
A. D2 938: 


Here Athelstan king, 

Of earls the lord, 
Rewarder of heroes, 

And his brother eke, 
Edmund atheling, 

Elder of ancient race, 
Slew in the fight, 

With the edge of their swords, 
The foe at Brumby ! 

The sons of Edward 
Their board-walls clove, 
And hewed their banners, 


With the wrecks of their hammers. 


So were they taught 

By kindred zeal, 

That they at camp oft 
’Gainst any robber 

Their land should defend, 
Their hoards and homes. 
Pursuing fell 

The Scottish clans ; . 
The men of the fleet 

In numbers fell ; 

’Midst the din of the field 
The warrior swate. 

Since the sun was up 

In motning-tide, 

Gigantic light ! 

Glad over grounds, 

God’s candle bright, 
Eternal Lord ! — 

Till the noble creature 
Set in the western main: 
There lay many 

Of the Northern heroes 
Under a shower of arrows, 
Shot over shields ; 

And Scotland’s boast, 

A Scythian race, 


The brown expanse, : 
| 
t 


The mighty seed of Mars 
With chosen tro ops, 
Throughout the day, 

The West-Saxons fierce 
Pressed on the loathed bands ; 
Hewed down the fugitives, 
And scattered the rear, 
With strong mill-sharpened blades. 
The Mercians, too, 

The hard hand-play 
Spared not to any 

Of those that with Anlaf 
Over the briny deep, 

In the ship’s bosom, 
Sought this land 

For the hardy fight. 

Five kings lay 

On the field of battle, 

In bloom of youth, 
Pierced with swords; 

So seven eke 

Of the earls of Anlaf; 
And of the ship’s crew 
Unnumbered crowds. 
There was dispersed 

The little band 

Of hardy Scots, 

The dread of Northern hordés ; 
Urged to the noisy deep 
By unrelenting fate ! 

The king of the fleet, 
With his slender craft, 
Escaped with his life 

On the felon flood ; — 
And so, too, Constantine, 
The valiant chief, 
Returned to the North 
In_hasty flight. 

The hoary Hitwac 
Cared not to boast 
Among his kindred. 
Here was his remnant 
Of relations and friends 


ANGLO.S 


Slain with the sword 

In the crowded fight. 
His son, too, he left 

On the field of battle, 
Mangled with wounds, 
Young at the fight. 

The fair-haired youth 
Had no reason to boast 
Of the slaughtering strife. 
Nor old Inwood 

And Anlaf the more, 
With the wrecks of their army, 
Could laugh and say, 
That they on the field 
Of stern command 
Better workmen were, 
In the conflict of banners, 
The clash of spears, 
The meeting of heroes, 
And the rustling of weapons, 
Which they on the field 
Of slaughter played 
With the sons of Edward. 
The Northmen sailed 

In their nailed ships, 

A dreary remnant, 

On the roaring sea ; 
Over deep water 
Dublin a sought, 
And Ireland’s shores, 
In great disgrace. 

Such then the brothers, 
Both together, 

King and atheling, 
Sought their country, 
West- Saxon land, 

In fight tr jumphant, 
They left behind them, 
Raw to de vour, 

The sallow fae 

The swarthy raven 
With horny nib, 

And the hoarse ‘vulture, 
With the eagle swift 

To consume his prey ; 
The greedy goshawk, 
And that gray beast, 

The wolf of the w edld: 
No slaughter yet 

Was greater made 

E’er in this island, 

Of people slain, 

Before this same, 

With the edge of the sword ; 
As the books inform us 
Of the old historians ; 
Since hither came 

From the eastern shores 
The Angles and Saxons, 
Over the broad sea, 
And Britain sought, — 
Fierce battle-smiths, 
O’ercame the Welsh, 
Most valiant earls, 

And gained the land. 


AXON 


POETRY. 


EATH OF KING EDGAR. 
A.D. 975. 


Here ended 

His earthly dreams 
Edgar, of Angles king 
Chose him other light, 
Serene and lovely, 
Spurning this frail abode, 
A life that mortals 

Here call lean 

He quitted with disdain. 
July the month, 

By all agreed 

In this our land, 
Whoever were 

In chronic lore 
Correctly taught ; 

The day the eighth, 
When Edgar young, 
Rewarder of heroes, 
His life — his throne — resigned. 
Edward his son, 
Unwaxen child, 

Of earls the prince, 
Succeeded then 

To England’s throne. 
Of royal race, 

Ten nights hefere, 
Departed hence 
Cyneward the good, — 
Prelate of manners mild. 
Well known to me 

In Mercia then, 

How low on earth 
God’s glory fell 

On every side: 

Chased from the land, 
His servants fled, — 
Their wisdom scorned ; 
Much grief to him 
Whose bosom glowed 
With fervent love 

Of great Creation’s Lord ! 
Neglected then 

The God of wonders, 


Victor of victors, 


Monarch of heaven, — 
His laws by man transgressed ! 
Then, too, was driven 
Oslac beloved 

An exile far 

From his native land 

Over the rolling waves, — 
Over the ganet-bath, 

Over the water-throng, 
The abode of the whale, — 
Fair-haired hero, 

Wise and eloquent, 

Of home bereft ! 

Then, too, was seen, 

High in the heavens, 

The star on his station, 
That far and wide 

Wise men call — 


THE 


Lovers of truth 

And heavenly lore — 
Cometa by name. 

Widely was spread 

God’s vengeance then 
Throughout the land, 

And famine scoured the hills. 
May heaven’s Guardian, 
The glory of angels, 

Avert these ills, 

And give us bliss again ; 
That bliss to all 
Abundance yields 

From earth’s choice fruits, 
Throughout this happy isle. 


o> 


A. D. 1065. 


Here Edward king, 
Of Angles lord, 

Sent his steadfast 

Soul to Christ. 

In the kingdom of God 
A holy spirit! 

He in the world here 
Abode awhile, 

In the kingly throng 
Of counsel sage. 

Four and twenty 
Winters wielding 

The sceptre freely, 
Wealth he dispensed. 
In the tide of health, 
The youthful monarch, 
Offspring of Ethelred ! 
Ruled well his subjects ; 
The Welsh and the Scots, 
And the Britons also, 
Angles and Saxons, — 
Relations of old. 

So apprehend 


DEATH OF KING EDWARD. 


POEM FROM THE POETIC CALENDAR. 


The first in rank, 

That to Edward all, 
The noble king, 

Were firmly held 
High-seated men. 
Blithe-minded aye 
Was the harmless king ; 
Though he long ere, 
Of land bereft, 

Abode in exile 

Wide on the earth ; 
When Knute o’ercame 
The kin of Ethelred, 
And the Danes wielded 
The dear kingdom 

Of Engle-land. 

Hight and twenty 
Winters’ rounds 

They wealth dispensed. 
Then came forth 

Free in his chambers, 
In royal array, 

Good, pure, and mild, 
Edward the noble ; 

By his country defended, — 
By land and people. 
Until suddenly came 
The bitter Death, 

And this king so dear 
Snatched from the earth. 
Angels carried 

His soul sincere 

Into the light of heaven. 
But the prudent king 
Had settled the realm 
On high-born men, — 
On Harold himself, 

The noble earl ; 

Who in every season 
Faithfully heard 

And obeyed his lord, 

In word and deed ; 

Nor gave to any 

What might be wanted 
By the nation’s king. 


POEM FROM THE POETIC CALENDAR. 


Tue King shall hold the Kingdom; 


Castles shall be seen afar, 

The work of the minds of giants, 
That are on this earth ; 

The wonderful work of wallstones. 


The wind is the swiftest in the sky ; 


Thunder is the loudest of noises ; 
Great is the majesty of Christ ; 
Fortune is the strongest ; 


Winter is the coldest ; 

Spring has the most hoar-frost ; 
He is the longest cold ; ; 
Summer sun is most beautiful ; 
The air is then hottest ; 

Fierce harvest is the happiest ; 
It bringeth to men 

The tribute-fruits 

That to them God sendeth. 


gereronruaras pa oes DTU TRU pene | 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


Truth is most deceiving ; 

Treasures are most precious, 

Gold, to every man ; 

And age is the wisest, 

Sagacious from ancient days, 

From having before endured much. 

Woe is a wonderful burden ; 

Clouds roam about ; 

The young Etheling 

Good companions shall 

Animate to war, 

And to the giving of bracelets. 
Strength in the earl, 

The sword with the helm, 

Shall abide battle. 

The hawk in the sea-cliff 

Shall live wild ; 

The wolf in the grove 

The eagle in the meadow ; 

The boar in the wood, 


Powerful with the strength of his tusk. 


The good man in his country 
Will do justice. 
With the dart in the hand, * 
The spear adorned with gold, 
The gem in the ring 
Will stand pendent and curved. 
The stream in the waves 
Will make a great flood. 
The mast in the keel 
Will groan with the sail-yards. 
The sword will be in the bosom, 
The lordly iron. 
The dragon will rest on his hillock, 
Crafty, proud with his ornaments. 
The fish will in the water 
Produce a prog peny. 
The king will in the hall 
Distribute Uae elets. 
The bear will be on the heath 
Old and terrible 
The water will from the hill 
Bring down the gray earth. 
The army will be together 
Strong with the bay est. 
Fidelity i in the earl ; 
Wisdom in man! 
The woods will on the ground 
Blow with fruit ; 
The mountains in the earth 
Will stand green. 
God will be in heaven 
The judge of deeds. 
The door will be to the hall 
The mouth of the roomy mansion. 
The round will be on the shield, 
The fast fortress of the fingers. 
Fow! aloft 
Will sport in the air ; 
Salmon in the whirlpool 


Will roll with the skate ; 
The shower in the heavens, 
Mingled with wind, 
Will come on the world. 
The thief will go out 
In dark w weanen, 
The Thyrs 1 will remain in the fen, 
Alone in the land. 
A maiden with secret arts, 
A woman, her friend will seek, 
If she cannot 
In public grow up, 
So that men may buy her with bracelets. 
The salt ocean will rage ; 
The clouds of the supreme Ruler, 
And the water-floods, 
About ev ery land 
Will flow in expansive streams. 
Cattle in the earth 
Will multiply and be reared. 
Stars will in the heavens 
Shine brightly, 
As their Creator commanded them. 
God against evil, 
Youth against age, 
Life against death, 
Light against darkness, 
Army against army, 
Enemy against enemies, 
Hate against hate, 
Shall everywhere contend ; 
Sin will steal on. 
Always will the prudent strive 
About this world’s labor 
To hang the thief; 
And compensate the more honest 
For crime committed 
Against mankind. 
The Creator alone knows 
Whither the soul 
Shall afterwards roam, 
And all the spirits 
That depart in God. 
After their death-day 
They will abide their judgment 
In their Father’s bosom. 
Their future condition 
Is hidden and secret: 
God only knows it, 
The preserving Father ! 
None again return 
Hither to our houses, 
That any truth 
May reveal to man, 
About the nature of the Creator, 
Or the people’s habitations of glory 
Which he himself inhabits. 


1A Thyrs was among the Northerns a giant, or wild 


mountain savage, a sort of evil being, somewhat super- 
natural, 


ei. 


KING ALFRED’S METRES OF BOETHIUS. 33 


— 


KING ALFRED’S METRES OF BOETHIUS. 


METRE IIilf. 


Aras! in how grim 
And how bottomless 
A gulf labors 
The darkling mind, 
When it the strong 
Storms lash 
Of worldly cares ; 
When it, thus contending, 
Its proper light 
Once forsakes, 
And in woe forgets 
The everlasting joy, 
And rushes into the darkness 
Of this world, 
Afflicted with cares ! 
Thus has it now befallen 
This my mind ; 
Now it no more knows 
Of good for God, 
But lamentations 
For the external world : 
To it is need of comfort. 


SEK aed 


METRE VI, 


Tuen Wisdom again 

His treasury of words unlocked, 
Sung various maxims, 

eee thus expressed es iself. 
When the sun 

Clearest shines, 

Serenest in the heaven, 
Quickly are obscured 

Over the earth 

All other stars 

Because their brightness is not 
Brightness at all, 

Compared with 

The sun’s light. 

When mild blows 

The south and western wind 
Under the clouds, 

Then quickly grow 

The flowers of the field, 
Joyful that they may. 

But the stark storm, 

When it strong comes 

From north and east, 

It quickly takes away 

The beauty of the rose. 

And also the northern storm, 
Constrained by necessity, 
That it is strongly agitated, 


Lashes the spacious sea 
Against the shore. 
Alas! that on earth 
Aught of permanent 
Work in the world 


Does not ever remain! 


METRE XIII. 


I wir with songs 

Still declare, 

How the Almighty 

All creatures | 

Governs with his bridle, | 

Bends where he sll ie 

With his well ordered 

Power | 

Wonderfully 

Well moderates. | 

The Ruler of the heavens 

Has so controlled 

And encompassed 

All creatures, 

And bound them with his chains, 

That they cannot find out 

That they ever from them 

May slip: 

And yet every thing, | 

Of various creatures, | 

Tends with proneness, 

Strongly inclined, | 

To that nature 

Which the King of angels, | 

The Father, at the beginning 

Firmly appointed them. 

Thus every one of things, | 

Of various creatures, 

Thitherward aspires, | 

Except some angels, 
| 


And mankind ; 

Of whom much too many, 
Dwellers in the world, 
Strive against their nature. | 


Though now on land, 
A docile] lion, 

A pleasing creature, 
Well tamed, 

Her master 

Much love, 

And also cae 

Every day ; 


| 
If it ever happe 
That she any 
Blood should taste, 
No man need 


i an nt tnt aie 


Rote dite nbl habia Aiton atl ical i ad na pnts anne ac tn Sn hbk 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


Expect the chance, 

That she well afterwards 
Her tameness will keep: 
But I think 

That she this new tameness 
Will naught regard ; 

But will remember 

The wild habits 

Of her parents. 

She will begin in earnest 
Her chains to sever, 

To roar, 

And first will bite 

Her own 

Master ; 

And quickly afterwards, 
Every man 

Whom she can seize. 

She will not let go 

Any living thing, 

Of cattle or men: 

She will seize all she finds. 
So do the wood birds, 
Though they are 

Well tamed : 

If they are among trees 

In the midst of the wood, 
Immediately their teachers 
Are despised, 

Though they long before 
Taught and tamed them. 
They, wild in the trees, 
In their old nature 

Ever afterwards 

Willingly remain ; 
Though to them would 
Each of their teachers 
Skilfully offer 

The same meat 

That he before 

Tamed them with; 

The branches seem to them 
Even so merry, 

That they for meat care not: 
It seems to them so pleasant, 
That to them the forest echoes ; 
When they hear 

Other birds 

Spread their sound, 

They their own 

Voice raise: 

They stun the ears altogether 
With their joyful song, 

The wood all resounds. 

So is it with all trees 

Which are in their own soil, 
That each in the wood 
Highest shall grow. 

Though thou any bough 
Bendest towards the earth, 

It is upwards, 

As soon as thou lettest it go: 
Wide at will, 

It turns to its nature. 
So does also the sun, 


When she is declining, 
After mid-day, — 

The great candle 

Verges to her setting, 

The unknown way 

Of night subdues: 

Again north and east 
Appears to men, 

Brings to earth’s inhabitants 
Morning greatly splendid. 
She ever mankind goes 
Continually upwards, 

Until she again comes 
Where her highest 

Natural station is. 

So every creature, 

With all its might, 
Throughout this wide world, 
Strives and hastens, 

With all its might, 

Again ever inclines 
Towards its nature, 

And comes to it when it may. 
There is not now over the earth 
Any creature 

Which does not desire 
That it should come 

To that region 

Which it came from, 

That is, security 

And eternal rest ; 

Which is clearly 

Almighty God. 

There is not now over the earth 
Any creature 

Which does not*revolve, 
As a wheel does, 

On itself; 

For it so turns 

That it again comes 

Where it before was. 

When it is first 

Put in circular motion, 
Then it altogether is 
Turned round ; 

It must again do 

That which before it did, 
And also be 

What it before was. 


———_>—--- 


METRE XXI. 


We tt, O children of men, 
Throughout the middle earth! 
Let every one of the free 
Aspire to the 

Eternal good 

Which we are speaking about, 
And to the felicities 

That we are telling of. 

Let him, who is now 

Straitly bound 
With the vain love 


Of this great 
Middle earth, 


Also quickly seek for himself 


Full freedom, 

That he may arrive 

At the felicities, 

For the good of souls. 
For that is the only rest 
Of all labors, 

The desirable haven 

To the lofty ships 

’ Of our mind ; 

A great tranquil station ; 
That is the only haven 
Which ever is, 

After the waves 

Of our labors, 

And every storm, 
Always calm. 

That is the refuge 

And the only comfort 
Of all the wretched, 
After these 

Worldly labors. 

That is a pleasant place, 
After these miseries, 

To possess. 

But I well know, 


That neither golden vessels, 


Nor heaps of silver, 
Nor precious stones, 


Nor the wealth of the middle earth, 


The eyes of the mind 
Ever enlighten, 

Nor aught improve 

Their sharpness 

To the contemplation 

Of true felicities ; 

But they rather 

The mind’s eyes 

Of every man 

Make blind in their breasts, 
Than make them clearer. 
For everything 

That in this present 

Life delights 

Are poor 

Earthly things, 

Ever fleeting. 

But wonderful is that 
Splendor and brightness, 
Which every one of things 
With splendor enlightens, 
And afterwards 

Entirely rules. 

The Ruler wills not 
That our souls 

Shall perish ; 

But he himself will them 
With a ray illumine, 
The Ruler of life! 

If, then, any man, 

With the clear eyes 

Of his mind, may 

Ever behold 


KING ALFRED’S METRES OF BOETHIUS. 


a 


The clear brightness 
Of heaven’s light, 
Then will he say, 
That the brightness of the sun 
Is darkness 

To every man, 
Compared with 

That great light 

Of God Almighty, 
That is to every soul 
Eternal without end, 
To blessed souls. 


— ens 


METRE XXIII. 


Lo! now on earth is he 
In every thing 

A happy man, 

If he may see 

The clearest 
Heaven-shining stream, 
The noble fountain 

Of all good; 

And of himself 

The swarthy mist, 

The darkness of the mind, 
Can dispel ! 

We will as yet, 

With God’s help, 

With old and fabulous 
Stories instruct 

Thy mind ; 

That thou the better mayest 
Discover to the skies 
The right path, 

To the eternal region 
Of our souls. 


——— oa 


METRE XXVII. 


Way will ye ever 
With unjust hatred 
Your mind trouble, 
As the ocean’s 
Waves lift up 

The ice-cold sea, 


And agitate it through the wind? 


Why upbraid ye 
Your fortune, 
That she no power possesses ? 
Why. cannot ye now wait 
For the bitter state 

Of that death 


Which for you the Lord ordained, 


Now he each day 

Hastens towards you? 
Cannot ye see 

That he is always seeking 
After every 

Earthly offspring, 

Beasts and birds? 

Death also in like manner 


| ee ae 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


After mankind seeks, 
Throughout this middle earth, 
Terrific hunter ! 

And devours in pursuit. 
He will not any track 
Ever forsake, 

Until he has seized 
That which he before 
Sought after. 

It is a wretched thing, 
That citizens 

Cannot wait for him ; 
Unhappy men 

Are rather desirous 
To anticipate him ; 
As birds, 

Or wild beasts, 

When they contend, 
Each one would 

The other destroy. 
But it is wicked 

In every man, 


POEM OF JU Dit. 


THE REVEL OF HOLOFERNES. 


Tuey then to the feast 
Went to sit, 
Eager to drink wine ; 
All his fierce chiefs, 
Bold, mail-clad warriors ! 
There were often carried 
The deep bowls 
Behind the benches ; 
So likewise vessels 
And orcas full 
To those sitting at supper. 
They received him, soon about to die 
The illustrious shield-warriors : 
Though of this the powerful one 
Thought not; the fearful 
Lord of earls. 
Then was Holofernes 
Exhilarated with wine ; 
In the halls of his guests, 
He laughed and shouted, 
He roared and dinned ; 
Then might the children of men 
Afar off hear 
How the stern one 
Stormed and clamored, 
Animated and elated with wime. 
He admonished amply 
That they should bear it well 
To those sitting on the bench. 
So was the wicked one, 


? 


Began to lead 
The illustrious virgin 
J 


That he another 

With his thoughts 

Should hate in his breast, 
Like a bird or beast. 

But it would be most right, 
That every man 

Should render to other 
Dwellers in the world 
Reward proportionable 

To his deserts, 

In every thing: 

That is, that he should love 
Every one of the good, 
As he best may ; 

And have mercy on the wicked, 
As we before said. 

He should the man 

With his mind love, 

And his vices 

All hate, 

And destroy, 

As he soonest may. 


Over all the day, 

The lord and his men, 

Drunk with wine, 

The stern dispenser of wealth ; 
Till that they swimming lay 
Over-drunk, 

All his nobility, 

As they were death-slain ; 
Their property poured about. 
So commanded the Baldor of men 
To fill to them sitting at the feast, 
Till that to the children of men 
The dark night approached. 
Then commanded he, 

The man so overpowered, 

The blessed virgin 

With speed to fetch 

To his bed-rest, 

With bracelets laden, 

With rings adorned. 

Then quickly hurried 

The subjected servants, 

As their elder bade them : 

The mailed warriors 

Of the illustrious lord 

Stepped to the great place. 
There they found Judith, 
Prudent in mind ; 

And then, firmly, 

The bannered soldiers 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 27 


To the high tent. 

There the powerful one 
His rest on the feast-night 
Within was enjoying, 

The odious Holofernes. 
There was the fair, 

The golden fly-net 

About the chief’s bed hung, 
That the mischief-full 
Might look through, 

The Baldor of the soldiérs, 
On every one 

That there within came 

Of the children of men ; 
And.on him no one 

Of man-kind ; 

Unless the proud one 

Any man of his illustrious soldiers 
Commanded to come 

Near him to council. 


—_@— 


THE DEATH OF HOLOFERNES. 


Sue took the heathen man 
Fast by his hair ; 
She drew him by his limbs 
Towards her disgracefully ; 
And the mischief-full, 
Odious man 
At her pleasure laid, 
So as the wretch 
She might the easiest well command. 


| 


She with the twisted locks 
Struck the hatefu! enemy, 
Meditating hate, 

With the red sword, 

Till she had half cut off his neck ; 
So that he lay in a swoon, 
Drunk and mortally wounded. 7/ 

He was not then dead, 

Not entirely lifeless ; 

She struck then earnest, 

The woman illustrious in strength, 
Another time, 

The heathen hound ; 

Till that his head 

Rolled forth upon the floor. 

The foul one lay without a coffer ; 
Backward his spirit turned 

Under the abyss, 

And there was plunged below, 

With sulphur fastened ; 

For ever afterwards wounded by worms. 
Bound in torments, 

Hard imprisoned, | 
In hell he burns. 

After his course, 

Ee need not hope, . 
With darkness overwhelmed, 

That he may escape 

From that mansion of worms; 

But there he shall remain 


In that cavern-home, 


Void of the joys of hope. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE EXILE’S COMPLAINT. 


I ser forth this lay 
Concerning myself, full sad, 
And my own journeyings. 
I may declare 
What calamities I have abode 
Since I grew up, 
Recently or of old. 
No man hath experience the like ; 
But I reckon the privations 


Of my own exiled wanderings the first. 


My lord departed 

Hence from his people 

Over the expanse of the waves ; 
I had some care 

Where my chieftain 

In the lands might be ; 


Then I departed on my journey, 

To seek my following (my chieftain), 
A friendless exile’s travel. 

The necessities of my sorrows began, 
Because this man’s 

Kindred plotted 


Through malevolent counsel | 
That they should separate us, 
That we, far remote 

In the regions of the world, 

Should live most afflicted. 

This weary state 

My lord hath ordained me ae 
Here in hardship to endure ; 

I have few dear to me 

In this country, 

Few faithful friends. 

Therefore is my mind sad : 


Ever and ever, 
Without end, henceforth, 
So that, as a perfect mate to me, | 


ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 


I can find no man 

So unhappy, 

Sad in mind, 

Debilitated in spirit, 

And intent on thoughts of death. 

Blithe in our bearing, 

Full oft we two promised 

That nothing should separate us, 

Save death alone. 

But this is reversed ; 

And now as though it had never been 

Is our friendship become. 

Afar off is it the lot 

Of my well-beloved 

To endure enmity. 

I am compelled to sojourn 

In woodland bowers, 

Beneath the oak-tree, 

In this earthy cavern. 

Cold is this earthy mansion ; 

T am all wearied out ; 

Dark are the dells, 

And steep the mountains ; 

A horrid dwelling among branches, 

Overgrown with briers ; 

A joyless abode. 

Here full oft adversity 

Hath overtaken me from the journey of 
my lord: 

My friends are in the earth ; 

Those beloved in life 

The sepulchre guardeth ; 

Then I around 

In solitude wander 

Under the oak-tree 

By this earth-cave : 

There must I sit 

The summer-long day ; 

There may I weep 

My exiled wanderings 

Of many troubles ; 

Therefore I can never 

From the care 

Of my mind rest, 

From all the weariness 

That hath come upon me in this life. 

Let the young man strip off 

To be sad of mind, 

Hardhearted thoughts ; 

The same that shall now have 

A blithe bearing 

Shall hereafter also have in the care of 
his breast 

The endurance of constant sorrows ; 

Although long may abide with him 

All his worldly joy, 

And distant be the foe 

Of the far country ; 

In which my friend sitteth 

Beneath the stony mountain, 

Hoary with the storm, 

(My companion weary in his spirit) 

The waters streaming 

Around his dreary abode ; 


This my friend suffereth 


ee 


m= = : 
» 


Great sorrow of mind, 
And remembereth.too often 
His happier home. 

Woe shall be to them 

That shall] to length 

Of life abide. 


> 


THE SOUL’S COMPLAINT AGAINST 


THE BODY. 


Mucu it behoveth 
Each one of mortals, 
That he his soul’s journey 
In himself ponder, 
How deep it may be. 
When Death cometh, 
The bonds he breaketh 
By which united 
Were body and soul 


Long it is thenceforth 
Ere the soul taketh 
From God himself 
Its woe or its weal ; 

As in the world erst, 
Even in its earth-vessel, 
It wrought before. 


The soul shall come 
Wailing with loud voice, 
After a sennight, 

The soul, to find 

The body 

That it erst dwelt in ; — 
Three hundred winters, 
Unless ere that worketh 
The Eternal Lord, 

The Almighty God, 
The end of the world. 


Crieth then, so:care-worn, 
With cold utterance, 
And speaketh grimly, 
The ghost to the dust: 
“« Dry dust! thou dreary one! 
How little didst thou labor for me! 
In the foulness of earth 
Thou all wearest away 
Like to the loam! 
Little didst thou think 
How thy soul’s journey 
Would be thereafter, 
When from the body 
It should be led forth.” 


—_—_o—- 


THE GRAVE. 


For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wert born ; 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 


=e 


But‘it is not made, ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 

How long it shall be, 
Now I bring thee 

Where thou shalt be. 

Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 


Thy house is not 
Highly timbered ; 
It is unhigh and low, 
When thou art therein, 
The heel-ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh ; 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 


Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained, 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell; 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 


Thus thou art laid 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend 
Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee, 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee ; 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 


ae ec 


THE RUINED WALL-STONE. 
ReareEp and wrought full workmanly 
By earth’s old giant progeny, 

The wall-stone proudly stood. It fell 
When bower, and hall, and citadel, 

And lofty roof, and barrier gate, 

And tower, and turret bowed to fate, 

And, wrapt in flame and drenched in gore, 
The lofty burgh. might stand no more. 
Beneath the Jutes’ long vanished reign, 
Her masters ruled the subject plain ; 


“MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


But they have mouldered side by side, — 
The vassal crowd, the chieftain’s pride ; 
And hard the grasp of earth’s embrace, 
That shrouds for ever al] the race. 

So fade they, countless and unknown, 
The generations that are gone. 


Fair rose her towers in spiry height, 
From bower of pride and palace bright, 
Echoing with shout of warriors free, 

And the gay mead-hall’s revelry ; 

Till Fate’s stern hour and Slaughter’s day 
Swept in one ruin all away, 

And hushed in cemmon silence all, 
War-shout and voice of festival. 

Their towers of strength are humbled low, 
Their halis of mirth waste ruins now, 
That seem to mourn, so sad and drear, 
Their masters’ blood-stained sepulchre. 
The purple bower of regal state, 

Roofless and stained and desolate, 

Ts scarce from meaner relics known, 

The fragments of the shattered town. 
There store of heroes, rich as bold, 

Elate of soul, and bright with gold, 
Donned the proud garb of war, that shone 
With silvery band and precious stone : 
So marched they once, in gorgeous train, 
In that high seat of wide domain. 

How firmly stood in massy proof 

The marble vaults and fretted roof, 

Till, all-resistless in it8 force, 

The fiery torrent rolled its course, ’ 

And the red wave and glowing flood 
Wrapt all beneath its bosom broad ! 


—_—¢-—- 


THE SONG OF SUMMER. 


SumMER is a coming in, 
Loud sing, cuckow ; 

Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, 
And springeth the wood now. 


Sing, cuckow, cuckow. , 


Ewe bleateth after lamb, 
Loweth calf after cow, 
Bullock starteth, beck departeth ; 
Merry sing, cuckow, 
Cuckow, cuckow. 
Well singeth the cuckow, 
Nor cease to sing now; 
Sing, cuckow, now, 
Sing, cuckow. 


c2 


Tue Icelandic language is that form of the 
Gothic which was once spoken in Denmark, 
Norway, Sweden, and Iceland. It is called in 
literary history the Donsk Tunga; Norrena 
Tunga; Norrent Mal; Sueo-Gothic; Norse; 
old Scandinavian. 

The name Icelandic has been given to it in 
modern times, because in Iceland the language 
has been preserved, unchanged, to the present 
day. As Purchas says, in his “ Pilgrims”’ :* 
“ Concerning the language of the Islanders, the 
matter itself "speaketh, that it is the Norwegian ; 


1}. I say, that old and naturall speech, derived 


from the ancient Gottish, which onely the 
Islanders now use uncotrupted; and therefore 
we call it Islandish.”’ The written alphabet 
was called the Runic; the letters, Runes. The 
most ancient specimens of the language are the 
Rune Stones; rings and wooden tablets, with 
inscriptions in the old Runic character.t 

Iceland was peopled in 874. A few years 
previous to this, old Norse pirates, from time 
to time, had hovered about the island like 
birds of prey, and then one by one settled 
down, and built themselves nests for a season 
among its icebergs. But in this year multitudes 
of the Norwegians, fleeing from the tyranny of 
Harald Harfager, we refuge here. The de- 
scendants of ens people ‘became poets and 
historians. In their sea-girt home they had 
leisure to record the achievements of. their an- 
cestors. The long, sunless winter was cheered 
by the Saga and the Song, and we are indebted 
to Iceland for the most remarkable remains of 
Norse poetry 

The Northern Skalds, or Minstrels, accom- 
panied the armies in war, and were with the 
king in battle, that they might witness his 
prowess, and describe it more truly in their 
songs. ‘Thus, in the battle of Stiklastad, 1030, 
King Olaf had his Skalds beside him, within 
his “body-g guard (Skialldborg, or Citadel of 
Shields). ‘Ye shall be here,’ * said he, ‘ that 
ye may see with your own eyes what is 
achieved this day, and have no occasion, when 
ye shall afterwards celebrate these actions in 
song, to depend upon the reports of others.’’ { 
As the battle was about to begin, one of them, 
by the name of Thormod, “sang the ancient 
Biarkemaal, so loud a voice,’’ says one of 


* Vol. III. p. 658. See also Petersen, Danske, Norske 
og Svenske Sprogs Historie, Vol. I. p. 24. 

t See Run-Lira, af J. G. Lilejgren : Stockholm: 
and Run Urkunder, by the same: Stockholm: ’ 1833. 
t Henderson’s Iceland, p. 538. 


1832 ; 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


the old Sagas,* “that all the army heard it.” 
During the battle, he was shot down by an ar- 
row, and died with songs upon his lips.t 

Harald. Harfager had at his court four principal 
Skalds, who were his friends and counsellors, and 
to whom he assigned the highest seats at his ta- 
ble. Canute the Great had, also, several Skalds 
among his retainers ; and, on one occasion, when 
Thoraren, having composed a short poem in his 
praise, craved an audience of the king in order 
to recite it, assuring him it was very short, 
Canute replied, in anger, ‘¢ Are you not bahaaded 
to do what none but yourself has dared, — to 
write a short poem upon me? Unless, by the 
hour of dinner to-morrow, you produce a Drapa, 
above thirty strophes long, on the same subject, 
your life shall pay the penalty.”’ The poet 
having produced the song, the king rewarded 
him with fifty marks of silver. 

Among the Skalds were many crowned heads 
and distinguished warriors, as, for example, Reg- 
ner Lodbrok, and Starkother the Old. There 
were also female Skalds, who, like Miriam, 
sang the achievements of heroes, and the pro- 
phetic mysteries of religion. 

The memory of the Skalds was the great re- 
pository of the poetic lore of the North, when 
oral tradition held the place of written records. 
One of them having sung before King Harald 
Sigurdson sixty different songs in one evening, 
the king asked him if he Lee any others, to 
nee he replied, that he could sing as many 
more. 

The most prominent feature in the Ice- 
landic versification, as in the Anglo-Saxon, is 
alliteration. There are, also, other striking 


‘analogies in the poetry of the two nations. 


The Icelandic is as remarkable as the Anglo- 
Saxon for its abruptness, its obscurity, and the 
boldness of its metaphors. Poets are called 
Songsmiths ; — poetry, the Language of the 
Gods ; — gold, the Daylight of Dwarfs ; — the 
heavens, the Skull of Paneer ee rainbow, 
the Bridge of the Gods; attle, a Bath of 
Blood, the Hail of Cains the Meeting of 


Shields ;—the tongue, the Sword of Words; 


* Fostbrodresaga. Miiller, Sagabibliothek, I. p. 57. 
t+ Robert Wace, in the Romance of Le Brut d’ Angleterre, 
speaking of the army of William the Conqueror, says: 
“Taillefer, who sang full well, I wot, 
Mounted on steed that was swift of foot, 
Went forth before the armed train, 
Singing of Roland and Charlemain, 
Of Olivére, and the brave vassals 
Who died at the Pass of Roncesvals.’’ 
t Wheaton, History of the Northmen, chap, IV. 


— 


| 
) 


tL — 


Fa at th a Shs 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. ol 


—rivers, the Sweat of the Earth, the Blood 
of the Valleys ;—arrows, the Daughters of 
Misfortune, the Hailstones of Helmets ; — the 
earth, the Vessel that floats on the Ages ; — the 
sea, the Field of Pirates;——a ship, the Skate 
of Pirates, the Horse of the Waves. The an- 
cient Skald smote the strings of his harp with 
as bold a hand as the Berserk smote his foe. 
When heroes fell in battle, he sang of them in 
his Drapa, or death-song, that they had gone to 
drink ‘‘ divine mead in the secure and tranquil 
palaces of the gods,” in that Valhalla, upon 
whose walls stood the watchman Heimdal, 
whose ear was so acute, that he could hear the 
grass grow in the meadows of earth, and the wool 
on the backs of sheep. He lived in a credulous 
age ; in the dim twilight of the past. He was 
“ The sky-lark in the dawn of years, 

The poet of the morn.” 

In the vast solitudes around him, the heart of 
Nature beat against his own. From the mid- 
night gloom of groves, the deep-voiced pines 
answered the deeper-voiced and neighbouring 
sea. ‘T'o his ear, these were not the voices of 


dead, but of living things. Demons rode the 
ocean like a weary steed, and the gigantic pines 


flapped their sounding wings to smite the spirit 
of the storm. 

Still wilder and fiercer were these influences 
of Nature in desolate Iceland, than on the main- 
land of Scandinavia. Fields of lava, icebergs, 
geysers, and volcanoes were familiar sights. 
When the long winter came, and snowy Hecla 
roared through the sunless air, and the flames 
of the Northern Aurora flashed along the sky, 


like phantoms from Valhalla, the soul of the- 


poet was filled with images of terror and dis- 
may. He bewailed the death of Balder, the 
sun; and saw in each eclipse the horrid form 
of the wolf Managamer, who swallowed the 
moon, and stained the sky with blood. 

The most important collection of Icelandic 
poetry is the “ Edda Semundar hinns Fréda” 
(the Edda of Semund the Learned).* This is 
usually called the Elder, or Poetic Edda, and 
contains thirty-eight poems on various subjects 
connected with the Northern Mythology. It 
was partly written and partly collected by Se- 
mund Sigfusson, an Icelander by birth, who 
flourished in the latter half of the eleventh cen- 
tury. Of the name Edda, Mallet says: “ The 
most probable conjecture is that it is derived 
from an old Gothic word, signifying Grand- 
mother.’’t This conjecture, however, seems 
rather improbable. That of Rtihs is better: 
“ Edda is the feminine form of Othr, which 
signifies Reason and Poetry, and is therefigre 
called Poetics, or a Guide to the Art of Poetry.’’} 
Olafsen derives the name from the obsolete 


* Edda Semundar hins Fréda. Cum Interpretatione La- 
tina, &c. 3 vols. 4to. Copenhagen: 1787, 1818-—28.— Edda 
Semundar hinns Fréda, Ex Recensione Erasmi Christiani 
Rask. Stockholm: 1818. 8vo. 

+ No'thern Antiquities, Introduction to Vol. IL. p. xxiv. 

t Die Edda, nebst einer Einleitung, von F. Riihs, p. 121. 


verb @da, to teach, which seems the most prob- 
able etymology.* Of these poems numerous 
specimens will be given; though, it is to be 
feared, the reader will find them too often like 
the songs of the Bards in the old Romance, who 
“came and recited verses before Arthur, and no 
man understood those verses but Kadyriaith 
only, save that they were in Arthur’s praise.” 

At the commencement of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, Snorro Sturleson, another Icelandic schol- 
ar, author of the ‘ Heimskringla,”’ or History 
of Norway, who came to a bloody death by 
the hand of an assassin, wrote a new Edda, in 
a simple prose form. He represents Gylfe, an 
ancient king in Sweden, famous for skill in 
magic, as visiting Asgard to question the gods 
on certain important subjects. These questions 
and the answers to them form the Mythological 
Fables of the Prose Edda.t Appended to these, 
are the *¢ Scalda,”’ or Scandinavian Ars Poetica, 
and several other treatises, on Grammar, Rhet- 
oric, &c. As a specimen of this curious work, 
I subjoin, from Bishop Percy’s Translation of 
Mallet, a few of the fables, containing an ac- 
count of the god Thor’s adventures among the 
Jotuns. 


——— 


OF THE GOD THOR. 


GaANGLER proceeds and says: ‘ Did it never 
happen to Thor, in his expeditions, to be over- 
come, either by enchantment or downright 
force ?”’ Har replied to him: ‘ Few can take 
upon them to affirm that ever any such acci- 
dent befel this god; nay, had he in reality 
been worsted in any rencounter, it would not 
be allowable to make mention of it, since all 
the world ought to believe that nothing can 
resist his power.” ‘I have put a question, 
then,” says Gangler, “to which none of you 
can give any answer.’ Then Jafnhar took up 
the discourse and said: “*'True indeed, there are 
some such rumors current among us; but they 
are hardly credible ; yet there is one present who 
can impart them to you; and you ought the rath- 
er to believe him, in that having never yet told 
you a lie, he will not now begin to deceive you 
with false stories.”’ ‘Come, then,” says Gan- 
gler, interrupting him, “I await your explica- 
tion ; but, if you do not give satisfactory answers 
to the questions I have proposed, be assured I 
shall look upon you as vanquished.” ‘ Here, 
then,’’ says Har, ‘‘ begins the history you desire 
me to relate : 

‘One day the god Thor set out with Loke, 
in his own chariot, drawn by two he-goats; but, 
night coming on, they were obliged to put up 
at a peasant’s cottage. The god Thor imme- 
diately slew his two he-goats, and, having skin- 
ned them, ordered them to be dressed for sup- 
per. When this was done, he sat down to 
table, and invited the peasant and his children 


* Henderson’s Iceland, p. 539, 
+ Snorra-Edda, Utgefin af R. Kr. Rask. Stockholm: 
1818. 8vo. 


32 


to partake with him. ' The son of his host was 
named 'Thialfe, the daughter Raska. Thor bade 
them throw all the bones into the skins of the 
goats, which he held extended near the table ; 
but young Thialfe, to ¢ome at the marrow, 


broke, with his knife, one of the shank-bones of 


the goats. Having passed the night in this 
place, Thor arose early in the morning, and, 
dressing himself, reared the handle of his ham- 
mer; which he had no sooner done, than the 
two goats reassumed their wonted form, only that 
one of them now halted upon one of his hind 
legs. The god, seeing this, immediately judged 
that the peasant, or one of his family, had han- 
dled the bones of this goat too roughly. En- 
raged at their folly, he knit his eyebrows, roll- 
ed his eyes, and, seizing his hammer, grasped it 
with such force, that the very joints of his fin- 
gers were white again: The peasant, trembling, 
was afraid of being struck down by one of his 
looks; he therefore, with his children, made 
joint suit for pardon, offering whatever they 
possessed in recompense of any damage that 
had been done. Thor at last suffered himself 
to be appeased, and was content to carry away 
with him Thialfe and Raska. Leaving, then, 
his he-goats in that place, he set out on his 
road for the country of the Giants; and, com- 
ing to the margin. of the sea, swam across it, 
accompanied by Thialfe, Raska, and Loke. 
The first of these was an excellent runner, and 
carried Thor’s wallet or bag. When they had 
made some advance, they found themselves in 
a vast plain, through which they marched all 
day, till they were reduced to great want of 
provisions. When night approached, they 
searched on all sides Ap a place to sleep in, 
and at last, in the dark, found the house of a 
certain pants the gate of which was so large, 
that it took up one whole side of the mansion. 
Here they passed the night ; but about the mid- 
dle of it were alarmed by an earthquake, which 
violently shook the whole fabric. Thor, rising 
up, called upon his companions to seek along 
with him some place of safety. On the right 
they met with an adjoining chamber, into which 
they entered; but Thor remained at the entry ; 
and whilst the others, terrified with fear, crept 
to the farthest corner of their retreat, he armed 
himself with his hammer, to be in readiness to 
defend himself at all events. Meanwhile they 
heard a terrible noise; and when the morning 
was come, Thor went out, and observed near 
him a man of enormous bulk, who snored 
pretty loud. Thor found that this was the noise 
which had so disturbed him. He immediately 
girded on his belt of prowess, which hath the 
virtue of increasing strength; but the giant 
awaking, Thor, affrighted, durst not launch his 
hammer, but contented himself with asking his 
name. ‘My name is Skrymner,’ replied the 
other; ‘as for you, I need not inquire whether 
you are the god Thor; pray, tell me, have not 
you picked up my glove?’ ‘Then presently 
stretching forth his hand to take it up, Thor 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


perceived that the house wherein they had 
passed the night was that very glove; and the 
chamber was only one of its fingers. Here- 
upon Skrymner asked whether they might not 
join companies; and Thor consenting, the gi- 
ant opened his cloak-bag, and took out some- 
thing to eat. Thor and his companions having 
done the same, Skrymner would put both their 
wallets together, and, laying them on his shoul- 
der, began to march at a great rate. At night, 
when the others were come up, the giant went 
to repose himself under an oak, showing Thor 
where he intended to lie, and bidding him help 
himself to victuals out of the wallet. Mean- 
while he fell to snore strongly. But, what is 
very incredible, when Thor came to open the 
wallet, he could not untie one single knot. Vex- 
ed at this; he seized his hammer, and launched 
it at the giant’s head. He, awaking, asks, what 
leaf had fallen upon his head, or what other 
trifle it could be. Thor pretended to go to 
sleep under another oak; but observing about 
midnight that Skrymner snored again, he took 
his hammer and drove it into the hinder part 
of his head. The giant, awaking, demands of 
Thor, whether some small grain of dust had 
not fallen upon his head, and why he did not 
go to sleep. Thor answered, he was going; 
but, presently after, resolving to have a third 
blow at his enemy, he collects all his force, and 
launches his hammer with so much violence 
against the giant’s cheek, that it forced its way 
into it up to the handle. Skrymner, awaking, 
slightly raises his hand to his cheek, saying, 
‘Are there any birds perched upon this tree ? 
I thought one of their feathers had fallen upon 
me.’ Then he added, ‘ What keeps you awake, 
Thor? I fancy it is now time for us to get up, 
and dress ourselves. You are now not very far 
from the city of Utgard. JI have heard you 
whisper to one another, that I was of very tall 
stature; but you will see many there much 
larger than myself. Wherefore I advise you, 
when you come thither, not to take upon you 
too much; for in that place they will not bear 
with it from such little men as you. Nay, I 
even believe that your best way is to turn back 
again; but if you still persist in your resolu- 
tion, take the road that leads eastward ; for, as 
for me, mine lies to the north.’ Hereupon he 
threw his wallet over his shoulder, and entered 
a forest. I never could hear that the god Thor 
wished him a good journey ; but proc eeding on 
his way, along with his companions, he per- 
ceived, about noon, a city situated in the mid- 
dle of a vast plain. This city was so lofty, 
thgt one could not look up to ithe top of it, 
without throwing one’s head quite back upon 
the shoulders. The gate-way was closed with 
a grate, which Thor never could have opened ; 
but he and his companions crept through the 
bars. Entering in, they saw a large palace, 
and men of-a prodigious stature. ‘Then ad- 


dressing themselves to the king, who was nam- 


ed Utgarda- Loke, they saluted him with great | 


respect. The king, having at last discerned 
them, broke out into such a burst of laughter 
as discomposed every feature of his face. ‘It 
would take up too much time,’ says he, ‘ to ask 
you concerning the long journey you have per- 
formed ; yet,if I do not mistake, that little man 
whom I see there should be Thor: perhaps, 
indeed, he is larger than he appears to me to 
be; but in order to judge of this,’ added he, 
addressing his discourse to Thor, ‘let me see a 
specimen of those arts by which you are distin- 
guished, you and your companions; for no body 
is permitted to remain here, unless he under- 
stand some art, and excel in it all other men.’ 
Loke then said, that his art consisted in eating 
more than any other man in the world, and 
that he would challenge any one at that kind 
of' combat. ‘It must, indeed, be owned,’ repli- 
ed the king, ‘that you are not wanting in dex- 
terity, if you are able to perform what you 
promise. Come, then, let us put it to the proof.’ 
At the same time he ordered one of his cour- 
tiers, who was sitting on a side-bench, and 
whose name was Loge (i. e. Flame), to come 
forward, and try his skill with Loke in the art 
they were speaking of. Then he caused a great 
tub or trough full of provisions to be placed 
upon the bar, and the two champions at each 
end, of it; who immediately fell to devour the 
victuals with so much eagerness, that they pres- 
ently met in the middle of the trough, and were 
obliged to desist. But Loke had only eat the 
flesh of his portion ; whereas the other had de- 
voured both flesh and bones. All the company 
therefore adjudged that Loke was vanquished.” 

‘Then the king asked what that young man 
could do, who accompanied Thor. Thialfe an- 
swered, that, in running upon skates, he would 
dispute the prize with any of the courtiers. 
The king owned that the talent he spoke of 
was a very fine one; but that he must exert 
himself, if he would come off conqueror. He 
then arose and conducted Thialfe to a ‘ snowy ’ 
plain, giving him a young man, named Hugo, 
(Spirit or Thought) to dispute the prize of swift- 
ness with him. But this Hugo so much out- 
stripped Thialfe, that, in returning to the barrier 
whence they set out, they met face to face. 
Then says the king, ‘ Another trial, and you 
may perhaps exert yourself better.’ They there- 
fore ran a second course, and Thialfe was a full 
bow-shot from the boundary when Hugo ar- 
rived at it. They ran a third time; but Hugo 
had already reached the goal before/Thialfe had 
got half way. Hereupon all who were present 
cried out, that there had been a sufficient trial 
of skill in this kind of exercise.”’ 

«Then the king asked Thor, in what art he 
would choose to give proof of that dexterity for 
which he was so famous. Thor replied, that 
he would contest the prize of drinking with 
any person belonging to his court. The king 


consented, and immediately went into his pal- 


5 


| ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 33 


ace to look for a large horn, out of which his 
courtiers were obliged to drink when they had 
committed any trespass against the customs of 
the court. This the cup-bearer filled to the 
brim, and presented to Thor, whilst the king 
spake thus: * Whoever is a good drinker will 
empty that horn at a single draught; some per- 
sons make two of it; but the most puny drink- 
er of all can do it at three.’ Thor looked at the 
horn, and was astonished at its length; howey- 
er, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his mouth, 
and, without drawing breath, pulled as long and 
as deeply as he could, that he might not be 
obliged to make a second draught of it; but 
when he withdrew the cup from his mouth, in 
order to look in, he could scarcely perceive any 
of the liquor gone. To it he went again with 
all his might, but succeeded no better than be- 
fore. At last, full of indignation, he again set 
the horn to his lips, and exerted himself to the 
utmost to empty it entirely ; then looking in, 
he found that the liquor was a little lowered ; 
upon this, he resolved to attempt it no more, 
but gave back the horn. ‘I now see plainly,’ 
says the king, ‘that thou art not quite so stout 
as we thought thee; but art thou willing to 
make any more trials?’ ‘I am sure,’ says Thor, 
‘such draughts as I have been drinking would 
not have been reckoned small among the gods: 
but what new trial have you to propose?’ ‘ We 
have a very trifling game, here,’ replied the 
king, ‘in which we exercise none but children : 
it consists in only lifting my cat from the ground ; 
nor should I have mentioned it, if I had not 
already observed that you are by no means 
what we took you for.’ Immediately a large 
iron-colored cat leaped into the middle of the 
hall. Thor, advancing, put his hand under the 
cat’s belly and did his utmost to raise him from 
the ‘ground ;, but the cat, bending his back, had 
only one of his feet lifted up. ‘The event,’ 
says the king, ‘is just what I foresaw ; the cat 
is large, but Thor is little in comparison of the 


‘men here.’ ¢ Little as I am,’ says Thor, ‘ let me 


see who will wrestle with me.’ The king, look- 
ing round him, says, ‘I see nobody here who 
would not think it beneath him to enter the 
lists with you; let somebody, however, call 
hither my nurse Hela (i. e. Death) to wrestle 
with this god Thor; she hath thrown to the 
ground many a better man than he.’ Immedi- 
ately a toothless old woman entered the hall. 
‘This is she,’ says the king, ‘with whom you 
must wrestle.’—I cannot, says Jafnhar, give 
you all the particulars of this contest, only, in 
general, that the more vigorously Thor assail- 
ed her, the more immovable she stood. At 
length the old woman had recourse to strata- 
gems, and Thor could not keep his feet so 
steadily, but that she, by a violent struggle, 
brought him upon one knee. Then the king 
came to them and ordered them to desist ; add- 
ing, there now remained nobody in his court, 
whom he could ask with honor to condescend 
to fight with Thor.” 


———— 


oe ee saa eee Oe 


“Thor passed the night in that place with 
his companions, and was preparing to depart 
thence early the next morning, when the king 
ordered him to be sent for, and gave him a 
magnificent entertainment. After this he ac- 
companied him out of the city. When they 
were just going to bid adieu to each other, the 
king asked Thor what he thought of the success 
of his expedition. Thor told him, he could 
not but own that he went away very much 
ashamed and disappointed. ‘It behooves me, 
then,’ says the king, ‘ to discover now the truth 
to you, since you are out of my city; which 
you shall never reénter whilst I live and reign. 
And I assure you, that, had I known before- 
hand you had been so strong and mighty, I 
would not have suffered you to enter now. 
But I enchanted you by my illusions ; first of 
all in the forest, where I arrived before you. 
And there you were not able to untie your wal- 
let, because I had fastened it with a magic 
chain. You afterwards aimed three blows at 
me with your hammer: the first stroke, though 
slight, would have brought me to the ground, 
had I received it : but when you are gone hence, 
you will meet with an immense rock, in which 
are three narrow valleys of a square form, 
one of them in particular remarkably deep: 
these are the breaches made by your hammer ; 
for I at that time lay concealed behind the rock, 
which you did not perceive. I have used the 
same illusions in the contests you have had 
with the people of my court. In the first, Loke, 
like hunger itself, devoured all that was set be- 
fore him: but his opponent, Loge, was nothing 
else but a wandering Fire, which instantly con- 
sumed not only the meat, but the bones, and 
the very trough itself. Hugo, with whom Thi- 
alfe disputed the prize of swiftness, was no 
other than Thought or Spirit; and it was impos- 
sible for Thialfe to keep pace with that. When 
you attempted to empty the horn, you perform- 
ed, upon my word, a deed so marvellous, that 
I should never have believed it, if I had not 
seen it myself; for one end of the horn reached 
to the sea, a circumstance you did not observe: 
but, the first time you go to the sea-side, you 
will see how much it is diminished. You per- 
formed no less a miracle in lifting the cat; and, 
to tell you the truth, when we saw that one of 
her paws had quitted the earth, we were all 
extrémely surprised and terrified ; for what you 
took for a cat was in reality the great Serpent 
of Midgard, which encompasses the earth ; and 
he was then scarce long enough to touch the 
earth with his head and tail ; so high had your 
hand raised him up towards heaven. As to 
your wrestling with an old woman, it is very 
astonishing that she could only bring you down 
upon one of your knees; for it was Death you 
wrestled with, who, first or last, will bring every 
one low. But now, as we are going to part, 
let me tell you, that it will be equally for your 
advantage and mine, that you never come near 
me again; for, should you do so, I shall again 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


defend myself by other illusions and enchant- 
ments, so that you will never prevail against 
me.’ — As he uttered these words, Thor, in a 
rage, laid hold of his hammer, and would have 
launched it at the king, but he suddenly disap- 
peared ; and when the god would have return- 
ed to the city to destroy it, he found nothing 
all around him but vast plains covered with 
verdure. Continuing, therefore, his course, he 
returned, without ever stopping, to his palace.”’ 


Other important remains of old Norse poetry 
are the Odes and Death-Songs, interspersed 
through the Sagas or Chronicles. These Sagas 
are very numerous. Miller, in his Sagabiblio- 
thek,* gives an analysis of sixty of them ; and 
the Arne Magnusen collection in Copenha- 
gen contains 1554 manuscripts. They were 
mainly written by Icelanders; and conspicuous 
among the lovers and preservers of this lore 
are Abbot Karl and the Benedictine monks of 
the monastery of Thingeyre. Many of these 
old chronicles perished in the overthrow of the 
convents, at the time of the Lutheran Reforma- 
tion; so that what had been their asylum for 
a season became at length their grave. Many, 
however, have been published by the Society 
of Northern Antiquaries, and some of them 
translated into Danish by its Secretary, the 
learned and excellent Rafn.t 

From the days of Regner Lodbrok to those 
of. Snorro Sturleson, that is to say, from the 
close of the eighth to the beginning of the 
thirteenth century, flourished more than two 
hundred Skalds, whose names have come down 
to us, with fragments of their songs. From this 
time their numbers seem to have diminished rap- 
idly. Some relics of the fifteenth century have 
been published, under the title of ‘ Rimur,” 
consisting mostly of rhymed versions, or para- 
phrases, of romances of chivalry ; and we have a 
collection of poems of the seventeenth century 
by Stephen Olafson (published in 1823), under 
the title of * Liodmeli.’’ During the last century 
flourished Paul Vidalin, Eggert Olafson, and some 
others; and the best known poets of the present 
are, Jon Thorlakson, who has translated into his 
native tongue Milton’s “ Paradise Lost”? and 
Pope’s ‘Essay on Man’; Thorvald Bodvar- 
son, the translator of Pope’s ‘“* Messiah’’; Pro- 
fessor Magnusen, Benedict Grondal, Jon Jonson, 
and Sigurd Peterson.} 

Such is in brief the Poetry of Iceland. Since 


* Sagahbibliothek, af Peter Erasmus Miller. 3 vols. 12mo. 
Copenhagen: 1817-13-20. 

+ The Royal Society of Northern Antiquities in Copen- 
hagen have published the following Sagas: ‘‘ Formanna 
Sécur,”’? 12 vols. 8vo.; the same in Latin, under the title 
of ‘Scripta Historica Islandorum,’’ 8 vols. 8vo. (four more 
remain to be published), and in modern Danish, under the 
title of ‘‘ Oldnordiske Sager,’? 12 vols. 8vo.; ‘‘ Islendinga 
Sogur,’’ 2 vols. 8vo.; ‘‘Fareyinga Saga,’’ 3 vols. 8vo., and 
a German translation of the same; ‘‘Fornaldar Ségur Nor- 
delanda,’’ 3 vols. 8vo., and the same in modern Danish, 3 
vols. 8vo. 

} Henderson, p. 544. 


at 


Es a aH th SA phd A ne NT 


——=— 


its pa. ty days in the Middle Ages, “‘ few are 
the memorials of the dead standing by the way- 
side.’ The Skalds have disappeared, like the 
forests of their native land; the modern Ice- 
lander, as he warms his hands at the fire of 
driit-wood from the shores of Greenland, may, 
in the pride of his heart, repeat the old national 
proverb : “Island er hinn besta land sem solinn 
skinnar uppa” (Iceland is the best land which 
the sun shines upon); but he no longer sings 
the dirge of the Berserk, nor records the achieve- 
ments of a Harald Blue-tooth or a Hakon Jarl. 

The Skald and the Sagaman have departed. 

As a still further introduction to the pieces 
that follow, I will here give an extract from 
Carlyle’s ‘“‘ Lectures on Heroes and Hero-Wer- 
ship.” 

“‘In that strange island, Iceland, — burst up, 
the geologists say, by fire, from the bottom of 
the sea; a wild land of barrenness and lava; 
swallowed many months of every year in black 

; tempests, yet with a wild gleaming beauty in 
summer-time ; towering up there, stern and 
grim, in the North Ocean; with its snow- 
jokuls, roaring geysers, sulphur pools, and hor- 
rid volcanic chasms, like the waste, chaotic 
battle-field of Frost and Fire, — where, of all 
places, we least looked for literature or written 
memorials, the record of these things was writ- 
ten down. On the seaboard of this wild land 
is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can 
subsist, and men by means of them and of what 
the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic 
men these, men who had deep ‘thoughts in 
them, and uttered musically their thoughts. 
Much would be lost, had Iceland not been burst 
up from the sea, not been discovered by the 
Northmen! The old Norse poets were many 
of them natives of Iceland. 

“¢ Semund, one of the early Christian priests 
there, who perhaps had a lingering fondness for 
Paganism, collected certain of their old Pagan 
songs, just about becoming obsolete then, — 
Poems, or Chants, of a mythic, prophetic, mostly 
all of a religious character: this is what Norse 
critics call the Elder or Poetic Edda. Edda, a 
word of uncertain etymology, is thought to sig- 
nify Ancestress. Snorro Sturleson, an Iceland 
gentleman, an extremely notable personage, 
educated by this Semund’s grandson, took in 
hand next, near a century afterwards, to put 
together, among several other books he wrote, 
a kind of Prose Synopsis of the whole mythol- 
ogy, elucidated by new fragments of tradition- 
ary verse, —a work constructed really with 
great ingenuity, native talent, what one might 
call unconscious art; altogether a perspicuous, 
clear work, pleasant reading still: this is the 
Younger or Prose Edda. By these and the 
numerous other Sagas, mostly Icelandic, with 
the commentaries, Icelandic or not, which go 
on zealously in the North to this day, it is pos- 
sible to gain some direct insight even yet, and 
see that old Norse system of belief, as it were, 
face to face. Let us forget that it is erroneous 


: 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 3D 


Religion ; let us look at it as old Thought, and 
try if we cannot sympathize with it somewhat. 

“¢ The primary characteristic of this old Nerth- 
land mythology I find to be Impersonation of 
the visible workings of Nature, 


ea 
earnest, sim- -| 
ple recognition of the workings of Physical 
Nature, as a thing wholly miraculous, stupen- | 
dous, and divine. What we now lecture of, as 
Science, they wondered at, and fell down in | 
awe before, as Religion. The dark, hostile 
Powers of Nature they figured to themselves as_ || 
Jétuns, Giants, — huge, shaggy beings, of a de- | 
monic character, Frost, Fire, Sea, Tempest ; 
these are JoOtuns. The friendly Powers again, 
as Summer-heat, the Sun, are Gods. The em- 
pire of this Universe is divided between ‘these 
two; they dwell apart, in perennial internecine 
feud. The Gods dwell above in Asgard, the 
Garden of the Asen or Divinities ; Jétunheim, 
a distant, dark, chaotie land, is the Home of 
the Jotuns. 
‘¢ Curious all this; and not idle or inane, if 
we will look at the foundation of it! The 
power of Fire, or Flame, for instance, which 
we designate by some trivial chemical name, 
thereby hiding from ourselves the essential 
character of wonder that dwells in it, as in all 
things, is, with these old Northmen, Loge, a 
most swift, subtle Demon, of the brood of the 
Jotuns. . The savages of the Ladrones Islands, » 
too (say some Spanish voyagers), thought Fire, 
which they never had seen before, was a Devil 
or God, that bit you sharply when you touched 
it, and lived there upon dry wood. From us, 
{ 


too, no chemistry, if it had not stupidity to help 
it, would hide that Flame is a wonder. What 
is Flame ? — Frost the old Norse seer discerns to 
be a monstrous, hoary Jotun, the Giant Thrym, 
Hrym ; or Rime, the old word now nearly ab- 
solete here, but still used in Scotland to signify 
hoar-frost. Rime was not then, as now, a dead, 
chemical thing, but a living Jotun or Devil; 
the monstrous Jotun Rime drove home his 
horses at night, sat ‘combing their manes,’ — 
which horses were Hail-clouds, or fleet Frost- 
winds. His Cows—No, not his, but a kins- 
man’s, the Giant Hymir’s Cows —are Icebergs: 
this Hymir ‘looks at the rocks’ with his devil- 
eye, and they split in the glance of it. 
‘Thunder was not then mere Electricity, 
vitreous or resinous; it was the God Donner 
(Thunder) or Thor, — God also of beneficent 
Summer-heat. The thunder was his wrath; 
the gathering of the black clouds is the drawing 
down of Thor’s angry brows; the fire-bolt 
bursting out of heaven is the all-rending Ham- 
mer flung from the hand of Thor: he urges his 
loud chariot over the mountain-tops, — that is 
the peal: wrathful he ‘blows in his red beard,’ 
—that is the rustling storm-blast before the 
thunder begin. Balder again, the White God, 
the beautiful, the just and benignant (whom the 
early Christian missionaries found to resemble 
Christ), is the Sun, — beautifullest of visible 
things; wondrous, too, and divine still, after all 


= == an | 


our Astronomies and Almanacs! But perhaps 
the notablest god we hear tell of is one of whom 
Grimm, the German Etymologist, finds trace : 
the God Wiinsch, or Wish. The God Wish ; 
who could give us all that we wished! Is not 
this the sincerest and yet rudest voice of the 
spirit of man? The rudest ideal that man ever 
formed ; which still shows itself in the latest 
forms of our spiritual culture. Higher consid- 
erations have to teach us that the God Wish is 
not the true God. 

“¢ Of the other Gods or Jotuns, I will mention 
only for etymology’s sake, that Sea-tempest is 
the Jotun Jegir, a very dangerous Jotun ; — 
and now to this day, on our river Trent, as I 
learn, the Nottingham bargemen, when the 
river is in a certain flooded. state (a kind of 
backwater or eddying swirl it has, very dan- 
gerous to them), call it Eager; they cry out, 
‘Have a care, there is the Eager coming!’ 
Curious; that word surviving, like the peak of 
a submerged world! The oldest Nottingham 
bargemen had believed in the God Aegir. In- 
deed, our English blood, too, in good part, is 
Danish, Norse; or rather, at bottom, Danish 
and Norse and Saxon have no distinction, ex- 
cept a superficial one,—as of Heathen and 
Christian, or the like. But all oyer our island 
we are mingled largely with Danes proper, — 
from the incessant invasions there were: and 
this, of course, in a greater proportion along 
the east coast; and greatest of all, as I find, in 
the North Country. From the Humber up- 
wards, all over Scotland, the speech of the 
common people is still in a singular degree Ice- 
landic ; its Germanism has still a peculiar Norse 
tinge. They, too, are ‘ Normans,’ Northmen, — 
if that be any great beauty ! 

“Of the chief God, Odin, we shall speak by 
and by. Mark at present so much; what the 
essence of Scandinavian, and, indeed, of all Pa- 
ganism is: a recognition of the forces of Nature 
as godlike, stupendous, personal Agencies, — 
as Gods and Demons. Not inconceivable to us. 
It is the infant Thought of man opening itself, 
with awe and wonder, on this ever-stupendous 
Universe. 'To me there is in the Norse system 
something very genuine, very great and man- 
like. A broad simplicity, rusticity, so very 
different from the light gracefulness of the old 
Greek Paganism, distinguishes this Scandina- 
vian system. It is Thought; the genuine 
thought of deep, rude, earnest minds, fairly 
opened to the things about them; a face-to-face 
and heart-to-heart inspection of the things, — 
the first characteristic of all good thought in 
all times. Not graceful lightness, half-sport, as 
in the Greek Paganism; a certain homely 
truthfulness and rustic strength, a great rude 
sincerity, discloses itself here. It is strange, 
after our beautiful Apollo statues and clear 
smiling mythuses, to come down upon the Norse 
Gods ‘brewing ale’ to hold their feast with 
Aegir, the Sea-J6tun ; sending out Thor to get 
the caldron for them in the J6tun. country ; 


ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Thor, after many adventures, clapping the pot 
on his head, like a huge hat, and walking off 
with it, — quite lost in it, the ears of the pot 
reaching down to his heels! A kind of vacant 
hugeness, large, awkward gianthood, character- 


izes that Norse system; enormous force, as yet , 


altogether untutored, stalking, helpless, with 
large, uncertain strides. Consider only their 
primary mythus of the Creation. The Gods, 
having got the Giant Ymer slain, —a giant made 
by ‘warm winds’ and much confused work out 
of the conflict of Frost and Fire, — determined 
on constructing a world with him. His blood 
made the Sea; his flesh was the Land, the 
Rocks his bones ; of his eyebrows they formed 
Asgard, their Gods’-dwelling ; his skull was the 
great blue vault of Immensity, and the brains 
of it became the Clouds. What a Hyper-Brob- 
dignagian business! Untamed Thought, great, 
giantlike, enormous ; — to be tamed in due time 
into the compact greatness, not giantlike, but 
godlike and stronger than gianthood, of the 
Shakspeares, the Goethes! — Spiritually, as 
well as bodily, these men are our progenitors. 

“T like, too, that representation they have 
of the Tree Igdrasil. All Life is figured by 
them asa Tree.  Igdrasil, the Ash-tree of Ex- 
istence, has its roots deep down in the king- 
dom of Hela or Death; its trunk reaches up 
heaven-high, spreads its boughs over the whole 
Universe: it is the Tree of Existence. At the 
foot of it, in the Death-kingdom, sit Three 
Nornas, Fates,—the Past, Present, Future ; 
watering its roots from the Sacred Well. Its 
‘boughs,’ with their buddings and disleafings, 
—events, things suffered, things done, catas- 
trophes, — stretch through all lands and times. 
Is not every leaf of it a biography, every fibre 
there an act or word? Its boughs are Histories 
of Nations. The rustle of it is the Noise of 
Human Existence, onwards from of old. It 
grows there, the breath of Human Passion 
rustling through it;— or storm-tost, the storm- 
wind howling through it like the voice of all 
the Gods. It is Igdrasil, the Tree of Existence. 
It is the past, the present, and the future; what 
was done, what is doing, what will be done ; 
‘the infinite conjugation of the verb To do.’ 
Considering how human things circulate, each 
inextricably in communion with all, — how the 
word I speak to you to-day is borrowed, not 
from Ulfila the Mesogoth only, but from all 
men since the first man began to speak, —I 
find no similitude so true as this of a Tree. 
Beautiful ; altogether beautiful and great. The 
‘ Machine of the Universe,’— alas, do but think 
of that in contrast!” 


For a more elaborate account of the Skalds 
and the Eddaic poems the reader is referred to 
“The Literature and Romance of Northern Eu- 
ropes” by William and Mary Howitt, London, 
1852, 2 vols.; and to “The Religion of the 
Northmen,” by Rudolf Keyser; translated by 
Barclay Pennock, New York, 1854. 


SA MUND’S EDDA. 


SH A 
THE VOLUSPA : 
OR THE ORACLE OF THE PROPHETESS VOLA. 


Tur Prophetess, having imposed silence on 
all intellectual beings, declares that she is go- 
ing to reveal the decrees of the Father of Na- 
ture, the actions and operations of the gods, 
which no person ever knew before herself. She 
then begins with a description of the chaos; 
and proceeds to the formation of the world, and 
of that of its various species of inhabitants, gi- 
ants, men, and dwarfs. She then explains the 
employments of the fairies, or destinies; the 
functions of the gods; their most remarkable 
adventures ; their quarrels with Loke, and the 
vengeance that ensued. At last she concludes 
with a long description of the final state of the 
universe, its dissolution and conflagration; the 
battle of the inferior deities and the evil beings ; 
the renovation of the world; the happy lot of 
the good, and the punishment of the wicked. 


Give silence, all 

Ye sacred race, 

Both great and small, 
Of Heimdal sprung: 
Vol-father’s deeds 

I will relate, 

The ancient tales 
Which first I learned. 


I know giants 

Early born, 

My ancestors 

Of former times ; 
Nine worlds I know, 


With their nine poles o 


Of tender wood, 
Beneath the earth. 


In early times, 
When Ymer lived, 
Was sand, nor sea, 
Nor cooling wave ; 
No earth was found, 
Nor heaven above ; 
One chaos all, 

And nowhere grass : 


Until Bor’s sons 

Th’ expanse did raise, 
By whom Midgard 
The great was made. 
From th’ south the sun 
Shone on the walls ; 
Then did the earth 
Green herbs produce. 


The sun turned south ; 
The moon did shine ; 
Her right hand held 
The horse of heaven. 
The sun knew not 
His proper sphere ; 
The stars knew not 
Their proper place ; 
The moon knew not 
Her proper power. 


Then all the powers 
Went to the throne, 
The holy gods, 

And held consult: 
Night and cock-crowing 
Their names they gave, 
Morning also, 

And noon-day tide, 
Awd afternoon, 

The years to tell. 


The Asas met 

On Ida’s plains, 

Who altars raised 

And temples built ; 
Anvils they laid, 

And money coined ; 
Their strength they tried 
In various ways, 

When making songs, 
And forming tools. 


On th’ green they played 


In joyful mood, 

Nor knew at all 

The want of gold, 
Until there came 
Three Thursa maids, 
Exceeding strong, 
From Jotunheim : 


Until there came 
Out of the ranks, 
Powerful and fair, 
Three Asas home, 
And found on shore, 
In helpless plight, 
Ask and Embla 
Without their fate. 


They had not yet 
Spirit or mind, 
Blood, or beauty, 
Or lovely hue. 
Odin gave spirit, 
Heinir gave mind, 
D 


| 


———=_== 


38 ICELANDIC POETRY. 


Lothur gave blood Bad luck to seethe, 
And lovely hue. And mischief was 
| syst hoes Ds ie ial Her only sport. 
| T know an ash, 
Named Ygg-drasill, She murder saw, 
A stately tree, The first that e’er 
With white dust strewed. Was in the world, 
Thence come the dews When Gullveig was 
| That wet the dales ; Placed on the spear, 
It stands aye green When in Harr’s hall 
O’er Urda’s well. They did her burn: 
Thrice she was burnt, 
Thence come the maids Thrice she was born, 
Who much do know ; Oft, not seldom, 
Three from the hall And yet she lives. 
Beneath the tree ; 
One they named Was, When all the powers 
And Being next, Went to the throne, 
The third, Shall be, The holy gods, 
On the shield they cut. And held consult : 
hid Vote lr What punishment 
She sat without They should inflict 
When th’ Ancient came, On th’ Asas now 
The awful god, For bad advice ; 
And viewed his eye. Or whether all 
| The gods should hold 
What ask ye me? Convivial feasts : 
Why tempt ye me? » 
Full well I know, | Were broken now 
Great Odin, where The castle-walls 
Thine eye thou lost ; Of Asaborg, 
In Mimi’s well, By murderous Vanes 
The fountain pure, Who took the field: 
| Mead Mimir drinks Forth Odin flew 
Each morning new, And shot around : 
With Odin’s pledge. This murder was 
Conceive ye this? The first that e’er 
Was in the world. 
To her the god 
Of battles gave When all the powers 
Both costly rings Went to the throne, 
And shining gold, The holy gods, 
The art of wealth, And held consult : 
| And witchcraft wise, Who had the air 
| By which she saw Involved in flames, 
Through every world. Or Odder’s maid 
To giants given: 
F She saw Valkyries 
Come from afar, There Thor alone 
Ready to ride Was in ill mood ; 
To th’ tribes of god ; He seldom sits 
Skuld held the shield, When told the like ; 
Skaugul came next, Broken were oaths 
Gunnr, Hildr, Gaundul, And promises 
And Geir-skaugul.  ~ And all contracts 
Thus now are told That had been made. 
‘ The Warrior’s Norns, 
Ready to ride She knows where hid 
The Valkyries. Lies Heimdal’s horn, 
Full deep beneath 
Heith she was named The sacred tree : 
Where’er she came ; She sees a flood 
The prophetess Rush down the fall 
Of cunning arts. From Odin’s pledge : | 
She knew right well Conceive ye yet? | 
————EE en —— Ses Passe 


SHMUND’S EDDA. i 


og Weel pie ek Wisdom he needs who goes abroad: 
; The sun turns pale ; A churl has his own sway at home ; t 
The spacious earth But they must bend to others’ ways 
. The sea ingulfs ; Who aim to sit with polished men. 
From heaven fall 
The lucid stars: Who comes unbidden to a feast 
At the end of gime, Should rarely and should lowly speak: 
The vapors rage, The humble listener learns of all, 
And playful flames And wins their welcome and their praise. 
Involve the skies. 
Happy is he whom others love, 
She sees arise, His efforts shall at last succeed ; 
The second time, For ali that mortals undertake 
From th’ sea, the earth Requires the helping hand of man. 
Completely green: i f 
Cascades do fall ; He best is armed to journey far 
The eagle soars, Who carries counsel in his head : 
irate apthad hills More than the metal in the purse 
Pursues his prey. The mighty heed the marks of mind. | 
The gods convene Beware of swallowing too much ale; | 
On, Ida’s plains, The more you drink, the worse you think: 
And talk of man, The bird forgetfulness shall spread | 
he wore oh dust: Her wings across the drunkard’s brow. | 
aati Pum meg Voracity but swallo ws death : 1 
ee ere a The wise despise the greedy man: 
Of Fimbultyr. Flocks know the time to quit the field ; 
But human gluttons feast and choke. I} 
Ta eeeaeneen The coward thinks to live for ever, 
Tic asiall cone, If he avoids the weapon's reach ; 
But age, which overtakes at last 
Balder shall come, Woe a he cra Wee ee ; ae 
And dwell with Hauthr peal een iis res | 
7 ? a 
In Hropt’s abodes. The merry man, who jeers at all, | 
Say, WATHCE Rods Becomes himself a laughing-stock : | 
Conceive ye yet: Let him beware of taunts and gibes 
More Wek cans Who has not learned to curb himself. 
Outshine the sun, The senseless, indecisive man 
Of gold is roof, Ponders and re-resolves all night ; 
It stands in heaven : But when the morning breaks on high, 
The virtuous there Has still to choose his doubtful course : 
Shall always dwell, Yet he believes the caution wise 
And Dipl eae Which bafiles action by delay, 
Delights enjoy. And has a string of reasons ready 
On every question men devise. 
THE HAVA-MAL: Many seem knit by ties of love, 
Pe ree niraunse OF OLIN Who fil each other at. the proof. \ 
To slander idle men are prone ; | 
rene HX ae nen” The host backbites the parting guest. | 
€ E 2 : 
Ill sped he, at whose return Home still is home, however homely, | 
Ambushed foes beset his home. And sweet the crust our kin partake ; | 
ni Ae = wee? . 
On guests who come with frozen knees hat wi nielea RnR ae ie | 
Bestow the genial warmth of fire : s | 
Who far has walked, and waded streams, None give so freely but they count | 
Needs cheering food and drier clothes. Their givings as a secret loan; 
Nor with o’erflowing soul reject 
To him, about to join your board, The present brought them in return. , 
| Clear water bring, to cleanse his hands ; : 
And treat him freely, would you win The interchange of gifts is good ; | 
| The kindly word, the thankful heart. For clothing, arms; for bacon, ale: 
} 


| a a SS SSSA EISEN 


Who give and take each other’s. feast, 
Each other’s booty, long are friends. 


Love your own friends, and also theirs ; 
But favor not your foeman’s friend : 
Peace with perfidious men may last 
Four days or five, but not a week. 


When young, I often strolled alone, 

And gladly joined the chance-way stranger : 
To human hearts, the heart is dear; 

To human eyes, the human face. 


Affect not to be over-wise ; 

Nor seek to know the doom of fate: 
The prying man has little sleep, 
And alters not the will of gods. 


Rise early, would you fill your store ; 
Rise early, would you smite your foe : 
The sleepy wolf foregoes his prey ; 
The drowsy man, his victory. 


They ask me to a pompous meal, 
A breakfast were enough for me; 
He is the faithful friend who spares 
Out of his pair of loaves the one. 


Let us live well, while life endures: 
The hoarder lights a sparing fire ; 

But death steals in, perhaps, before 
The gathered sticks are burnt to ashes. 


Have children; better late than never: 
Who but our offspring will inscribe 
Our deeds on the sepulchral stone ? 


Riches have wings; the cattle stray ; 
Friends may forsake ; and we must die: 
This only mocks the arm of fate, 

The judgment which our deeds deserve. 


Who dictates is not truly wise : 

Kach in his turn must bend to power ; 
And oft the modest man is found 

To sway the scorners of the proud. 


Praise the day at set of sun ; 
Praise the woman you have won ; 
Praise the sword you ’ve tried in fight ; 
Praise a girl her wedding-night ; 

5 > fo) ? 
Praise the ice you ’ve stept upon; 
Praise the ale you ’ve slept upon. 

peur 


Trust not to a maiden’s word ; 

Trust not what a woman utters: 
Lightness in their bosom dwells ; 

Like spinning-wheels, their hearts turn 
round. 


Trust not the ice of yesternight ; 
Trust not the serpent that ’s asleep ; 
Trust not the fondness of a bride ; 
Trust not the sword that has a flaw; 
Trust not the sons of mighty men ; 
Trust not the field that ’s newly sown 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


Trust not the friendliness of scolds, 

The horse on ice, who ’s not rough-shod, 
The vessel which has lost her helm, 
The lame man who pursues a goat. 


Let him who wooes be full of chat, 
And full of flattery and all that, 

And carry presents in his hat: 

Skill may supplant the worthier man. 


No sore so sad as discontent. 


The heart alone can buy the heart ; 
The soul alone discern the soul. 


If to your will you wish to bend 
Your mistress, see her but by stealth, 
By night, and always by yourself’: 
What a third knows of ever fails. 


Forbear to woo another’s wife. 


Whoso you meet on land or sea, 
Be kind and gentle while you may. 


Whose wallet holds a hearty supper 
Sees evening come without dismay. 


Tell not your sorrows to the unkind; 
They comfort not, they give no help. 


If you ’ve a friend, take care to keep him, 
And often to his threshold pace ; 

Bushes and grass soon choke the path 

On which a man neglects to walk. 


Be not first to drop a friend ; 
Sorrow seeks the lonely man; 
Courtesy prepares for kindness ; 
Arrogance shall dwell alone. 


With wicked men avoid dispute ; 

The good will yield what ’s fit and fair : 
Yet ’t is not seemly to be silent, 

When charged with woman-heartedness. 


Do not be wary overmuch ; 

Yet be so, when you swallow ale, 
When sitting by another’s wife, 
When sorting with a robber-band. 


Accustom not yourself to mock, 
And least at any stranger-guest : 
Who stays at home oft undervalues 
The wanderer coming to his gate. 


What worthy man without a blemish ? 
What wicked man without a merit ? 


Jeer not at age: from mumbling lips 
The words of wisdom oft descend. 


Fire chases plague ; the mistletoe 

Cures rank disease ; straws scatter spells ; 
The poet’s runes revoke a curse ; 

Earth drinks up floods ; death, enmities. 


nc NN te el 1S ANAM ONL SA atl NAAN RS NNO Una Lh tr 
IEDC 


Se ee ee Se Sel evo eT TE Oe 
lke iar RES TRIE YEAS SIME WOT ok: SS 


SAMUND’S EDDA. 


VAFTHRUDNIT’S-MAL: 
THE DISCOURSE OF VAFTHRUDNI. 


DIN, ° 
Friga, counsel thou thy lord, 
Whose unqniet bosom broods 
A journey to Vafthrudni’s hall, 
With the wise and crafty Jute 
To contend in runic lore. 


FRIGA. 


Father of a hero race, 

In the dwelling-place of Goths 
Let me counsel thee to stay ; 
For to none among the Jutes 
Is Vafthrudni’s wisdom given. 


GDIN. 


Far I’ve wandered, much sojourned, 
In the kingdoms of the earth; 

But Vafthrudni’s royal hall 

T have still the wish to know. 


FRIGA. 


Safe departure, safe return, 

May the fatal sisters grant ! 

The father of the years that roll 
Shield my daring traveller’s head ! 


Odin rose with speed, and went 
To contend in runic lore 

With the wise and crafty Jute. 
To Vafthrudni’s royal hall 
Came the mighty king of spells. 


ODIN. 


Hail, Vafthrudni, king of men! 
To thy lofty hall I come, 
Beckoned by thy wisdom’s fame. 
Art thou, I aspire to learn, 

First of Jutes in runic lore ? 


VAFTHRUDNI, 
Who art thou, whose daring lip 
Doubts Vafthrudni’s just renown ? 
Know that to thy parting step 
Never shall these doors unfold, 
If thy tongue excel not mine 
In the strife of mystic lore. 


ODIN. 


Gangrath, monarch, is my name. 
Needing hospitality, 

To thy palace-gate I come ; 

Long and rugged is the way 

Which my weary feet have trodden. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Gangrath, on the stool beneath 
Let thy loitering limbs repose ; 
Then begin our strife of speech. 


ODIN. 


When a son of meanness comes 


To the presence of the great, 
6 


Let him speak the needful word, 
But forbear éach idle phrase, 
If he seek a listening ear. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Since upon thy lowly seat 
Still thou court the learned strife, — 
Tell me how is named the steed 

On whose back the morning comes. 


ODIN. 
Skin-faxi is the skyey steed 
Who bears aloft the smiling day 
To all the regions of mankind : 
His the ever-shining mane. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Since upen thy lowly seat 

Still thou court the learned strife, — 
Tell me how is named the steed, 
From the east who bears the night, 
Fraught with showering joys of love. 


ODIN. 


Hrim-faxi is the sable steed, 

from the east who brings the night, 
Fraught with showering joys of love: 
As he champs the foamy bit, 

Drops of dew are scattered round 

To adorn the vales of earth. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Since upon thy lowly seat 

Still thou court the learned strife, — 
Tell me how is named the flood, 
From the dwellings of the Jutes, 
That divides the haunt of Goths. 


ODIN. 


Ifing’s deep and murky wave 
Parts the ancient sons of earth 
From the dwellings of the Goths: 
Open flows the mighty flood, 
Nor shall ice arrest its course 
While the wheel of ages rolls: 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Since upon thy lowly seat 
Still thou court the learned strife, — 
Tell me how is named the field 
Where the Goths shall strive in vain 
With the flame«clad Surtur’s might. 


ODIN. 


Vigrith is the fatal field 
Where the Goths to Surtur bend: 
He who rides a hundred leagues 
Has not crossed the ample plain. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Gangrath, truly thou art wise ; 
Mount the footstep of my throne, 
And, on eqnal cushion placed, 
Thence renew the strife of tongues, 
Big with danger, big with death. 

D2 


aie 


ICELANDIC POETRY. | 
| 
PART II. Whence, the first of all the Jutes, 
Father Aurgelmer is sprung. 
ODIN. 


First, if thou can tell, declare 
Whence the earth, and whence the sky. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 
Ymer’s flesh produced the earth ; 
Ymer’s bones, its rocky ribs ; 
Ymer’s skull, the skyey vault ; 
Ymer’s teeth, the mountain ice ; 
Ymer’s sweat, the ocean salt. 


ODIN. 


Next, if thou can tell, declare 
Who was parent to the moon, 
That shines upon the sleep # man ; 
And who is parent to the sun. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Know that Mundilfer is hight 

Father to the moon and sun: 

Age on age shall roll away 

While they mark the months and years. 


ODIN. 


If so far thy wisdom reach, 

Tell me whence arose the day, 
That smiles upon the toil of man ; 
And who is parent to the night. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 
Delling is the sire of day ; 
But from Naurvi sprang the night, 
Fraught with showering joys of lage! 
W Kine bids the moon to wax and wane, 
Marking months and years to man. 
ODIN. 


If so far thy wisdom reach, 

Tell me whence the Senter comes ; 
Whence the soothing summer’s birth, 
Showers of fruitage who bestows. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 
Vindsual is the name of him 
Who begat the winter’s god; 
Summer from Suasuthur sprang : 
Both shall walk the way of years 
Till the twilight of the gods. 


ODIN. 


Once again, if thou can tell, 
Name the first of Ymer’s 
Eldest of the Asa-race. 


S sons, 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


While the yet unshapen earth 
Lay conce: iled in wintry womb, 
Bergelmer had long been born: 
He from Thrugelmer descends, 
Aurgelmer’s Btpcerod son. 


ODIN. 


Once again, if thou can tell, 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


From the arm of Vagom fell 

The curdled drops of teeming blood 
That grew and formed the first of Jutes; 
Sparks that spurted from the south 


Informed with life the crimson dew 


ODIN. 


Yet a seventh time declare, 

If so far thy wisdom ronein 
How the Jute begat his broads 
Though denied a female’s love. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Within the hollow of his hands 

To the water-giant grew 

Both a male and female seed ; 

Also foot with foot begat 

A son in whom the Jute might joy. 


ODIN. 


I conjure thee, tell me, now, 
What, within the bounds of space, 
First befell of all that’s known 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


While the yet unshapen earth 
Lay concealed in wintry womb, 
Bergelmer had long been born: 
First of all recorded things 

Is, that his gigantie length 
Floated on the ocean-wave. 


ODIN. 


Once again, if thou can say, 

And so far thy wisdom reach, 

Tell me whence proceeds the wind, 
O’er the earth and o’er the sea 
That journeys, viewless to mankind. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Hresvelger is the name of him 

Who sits beyond the ends of heaven, 
And winnows wide his eagle-wings, 
Whence the sweeping blasts have birth. 


ODIN. 


If thy all-embracing mind 

Know the whole hneage of the gods, 
Tell me whence is Niord sprung : 
Holy hills and halls hath he, 

Though not born of Asa-race. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


For him the deftly delving showers 

In Vaunheim scooped a watery home, 
And pledged it to the upper gods : 

But when the smoke of ages climbs, 

He with his Vauns shall stride abroad, 
Nor spare the Jong-respected shore | 


a : i 


penance Da SNA LEAL Ne a RA NN AND in tn 


Eneereres ttre 


env 


SLA a NA al Le i Na pt SE 


SZMUND’S EDDA. 


ODIN. 


If thy all-embracing mind 
Know the whole of mystic lore, 
Tell me how the chosen heroes 


Live in Odin’s shield-decked hall 
Till the rush of ruined gods. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


All the chosen guests of Odin 
Daily ply the ftta of war ; 
From the fields of festal fight 
Swift they ride in gleaming arms, 
And gayly, at the heard of gods, 
Quatf the cup of sparkling ale, 
And eat Sehrimni’s es Seahe 


ODIN. 


Twelfthly, tell me, king of Jutes, 
What of all thy runic fore 


Ts most certain, sure, and true. 


VAFTHRUDN 


IT am versed in runic lore 

And the counsels of the gods ; 

For I’ve wandered far arid wide: 
Nine the nations I have known ; 
And, in all that overarch 

The ‘murky mists and chills of hell, 
Men are daily seen to die. 


ODIN. 


Far I’ve wandered, much sojourned, 
In the kingdoms af the earth ; 

But I’ve still a wish to know 

How the sons of men shall live, 
When the iron winter comes. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Life and warmth shall hidden lie 
In the well-head that Mimis feeds 
With dews of morn and thaws of eve 
These again shall wake mankind. 


ODIN. 


Far I’ve wandered, much sojourned, 
In the kingdoms oe the earth ; 

But I ’ve still a wish to know 
Whence, to deck the empty skies, 
Shall sinathion sun be drawn, 

When the jaws of Fenrir ope 

To ingorge the lamp of day. 


VATTHRUDNI. 


Ere the throat of Fenrir yawn 
Shall the sun a daughter bear, 
Who, in spite of shower and ‘sleet, 
Rides the road her mother rode. 


ODIN. 


T have still a wish to know 

Who the guardian-maidens are, 

That hover round the haunts of men. 
VAFTHRUDNI. 


Races three of elfin maids 


Wander through the peopled earth 
One to guard the hours of love ; 
One to haunt the homely hearth ; 
One to cheer the festal board. 


ODIN. 


I have still a wish to know 
Who shall sway the Asa-realms, 
When the flame of Surtur fades. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 
Vithar’s then and Vali’s force 
Heirs the empty realm of gods; 
Mothi’s then and Magni’s might 
Sways the massy tnatlet’ s weight, 


Won from Thor, when Thor must fi 


ODIN. 


I have yet the wish to know 
Who shall end the life of Odin, 
When the gods to ruin rush. 


VAFTHRUDNI. 


Fenrir shall with impious tooth 
Slay the sire of rolling years: 
Vithar shall avenge his fall, 


all. 


And, struggling with the shaggy wolf, 


Shall cleave bis cold and gory jaw. 


ODIN. 


Lastly, monarch, I inquire, 

What did Odin’s lip pronounce 
To his Balder’s he: urkening ear, 
As he climbed the pyre of de ath ? 


VAFTHRUDNI, 


Not the man of mortal race 
Knows the words which thou hast spol 
To thy son in days of‘yore. 

I hear the coming tread of death ; ; 
He soon shall raze the runic lore 
And knowledge of the rise of pods, 
From his ill-fated soul who strove 
With Odin’s self the strife of wit. 
Wisest of the wise that breathe, 


ie 
AC 


n 


Our stake was life, and thou hast won. 


——+-—- 


THRYM’S QUIDA: 


THE SONG OF THRYM, OR THE RECOVERY OF 


THE HAMMER. 


Wrotn waxed Thor, when his sleep was flown, 


And he found his trusty hammer gone ; 
He smote his brow, his beard he BAWOK. 
The son of earth ’gan round him look ; 
And this the first word that he spoke : 

*¢ Now listen what I tell thee, Loke ; 
Which neither on earth helo w is known, 
Nor in heaven above: 
Their way to Freyia’s bower they took, 
And this the first word that he spoke : 
‘Thou, Freyia, must lend a winged robe, 
To gadt my hammer round the globe.” 


my hammer ’s gone.’ 


= at 


ee 


| 
} 


| 


et li Ty 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


| FREYVIA sang. 
“That shouldst thou have, though 


And that, though ’t were of silver, hold.” 


Away flew Loke ; the winged robe sounds, 
Ere he has left the Asgard grounds, 

And ere 
‘High on a mound, in haughty state, 

Thrym, the king of the Thursi, sats 

For his dogs he was twisting collars of gold, 
And trimming the manes of his coursers bold. 


THRYM sang. 
‘¢ How fare the Asi? the Alfi how? 

Why com’st tl i JO hei rat 
1y com st thou alone to Jotunneim now?! 
LOKE 

the Alfi mourn ; 
hammer from him thou hiset torn,’ 


sang. 
‘¢Tli fare the Asi; t 
Thor’s 


THRYM sang, 
‘© T have the Thunderer’s hammer bound 
Fathoms eight beneath the ground ; 
With it shall no one homeward tread, 


Till he bring me Freyia to share my bed.” 


Away flew Loke; the winged robe sounds, 
Ere he has left the Jotunheim bounds, 

| And ere he has reached the Asgard grounds. 
At Mitgard Thor met crafty Loke, 

And this the first word that he spoke : 

«¢ Have you your errand and labor done? 


| 'Tell from aloft the course you run: 


For, setting oft, the story fails ; 
And, lying oft, the lie prevails.”’ 


LOKE sang. 


«¢ My labor is past, mine errand [I bring ; 
Thrym has thine hammer, the giant king : 
With it shall no one homeward tread, 
Till he bear him Freyia to share his bed.”’ 


Their way to lovely Freyia they took, 

And this the first word that he spoke : 

“« Now, Freyia, busk, as a blooming bride ; 

Together we must to JOtunheim ride.”’ 

Wroth waxed Freyia with ireful look 

All Asgard’s hall with wonder shook ; 

Her great bright necklace started wide: 

*¢ Well may ye call me a wanton bride, 

If 1 with ye to Jotunheim ride.” 

The Asi did all to council crowd, 

The Asiniz all talked fast and load: 

This they debated, and this they sought, 

How the fini of Thor should home be 
brought. 

Up then and spoke Heimdallar free, 

Like the Vani, wise was he: 

«¢ Now busk we Thor, as a bride so fair; 

Let him that great bright necklace wear ; 

Round him let ring the spousal keys, 

And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees, 

And on his bosom jewels rare ; 

And high and quaintly braid his hair.” 

Wroth waxed Thor with godlike pride : 

‘¢ Well may the Asi me deride, 

If I let me be dight as a blooming Pea oh 

Then up spoke Loke, Laufeyia’s so 


° \we 


t were of gold, 


he has reached the Jotunheim bounds. 


‘¢ Now hush thee, Thor; this must be done: 

The giants will strait in Asgard reign, 

If thou thy hammer dost not regain.” 

Then busked they Thor, as a bride so fair, 

And the great bright necklace gave him to wear; 

Round him let ring the spousal keys, 

And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees, 

And on his bosom Jorels rare ; 

And high and quaintly braided his hair. 

Up then arose the crafty Loke, 

Laufeyia’s son, and thus he spoke : 

*¢ A servant I thy steps will tend, 

Together we must to Jétunheim wend.”’ 

Now home the goats together hie ; 

Yoked to the axle they swiftly fly. 

The mountains shook, the earth burned red, 

As Odin’s son to JOtunheim sped. 

Then Thrym, the king of the Thursi, said : 

‘“¢ Giants, stand up ; let the seats be spread : 

Bring Freyia, Niorder’s daughter, dow n, 

To share my bed, from Noatun. | 

With horns all gilt each coal-black beast 

Is led to deck the e giants’ feast ; 

Large wealth and jewels have I stored ; 

I lack but Freyia to grace my board.” 

Betimes at evening they approached, 

And the mantling ale the giants broached. 

The spouse of Sifia ate alone 

Eight salmons, and an ox full-grown, 

And all the cates, on which women feed ; 

And drank three firkins of sparkling mead. 

Then Thrym, the king of the Thursi, said : 

«¢ Where have ye b eheld such a hungry maid? 

Ne’er saw I bride so keenly feed, 

Nor drink so deep of the sparkling mead.” 

Then forward leaned the crafty Loke, 

And thus the giant he bespoke 

“ Naught has she eaten for eight long nights, 

So did she long for the nupti al rites. 3 

He stooped ben 2eath her veil to kiss, 

But he started the length of the hz ap IT wiss : 

“© Why are the looks of Freyia so dite ? 

It seems as her eyeballs glistened with fire.” 

Then forward leaned the crafty Loke, 

And thus the giant he bespoke : 

‘¢ Naught has she slept for eight long nights, 

So did she long for the nuptial rites.’ 

Then in the giant’s sister came, 

Who dared a bridal gift to claitn 4 

“« Those rings of gold from thee I crave, 

If thou wilt “all my fondness have, 

All my love and fondness have.’ 

Then Thrym, the king of the THe said : 

‘¢ Bear in the hammer to plight the maid ; 

Upon her lap the bruiser lay, 

And firmly plight our hands and fay.” 

The Thunderer’s soul smiled in his breast, 

When the hammer hard on his lap was placed, 
Thrym first, the king of the Thursi, he slew, 

And slanghtered all ‘the giant crew. 

He slew that giant’s sister old, 

Who prayed for bridal gifts so bold ; 

Instead of money and rings, I wot, 

The hammer’s bruises were her lot. 

Thus Odin’s son his hammer got. 


I. 


SHMUND’S EDDA. * 45 


SKIRNIS-FOR: 
SKIRNER’S EXPEDITION. 


Freyr, son of Niorder, dwelt in Hlidskialf, 
and discerned the whole world. He looked 
towards Jotunheim, and there he ‘saw a beauti- 
ful virgin going to her bower from the hall of 
her father. Hence was his mind grievously 
affected. His attendant was named Skirner. 
Niorder bade him ask for a conference with 
Freyr. Then Scada sang : 


‘¢ Skirner, arise ! and swiftly run, 
Where lonely sits our pensive son : 
Bid him to parley, and inquire 


’Gainst whom he teems with sullen ire.”’ 


SKIRNER sang. 


‘¢ [1] words, I fear, my lot will prove, 
If I thy son attempt to move ; 

If I bid parley, and inquire 

Why teems his soul with savage ire.”’ 


SKIRNER sang. 


«¢ Prince of the gods and first in fight, 

Speak, honored Freyr, and tell me right : 
‘ Why spends my lord the tedious day 

In his lone hall, to grief a prey ?”’ 


FREYR sang. 


‘© Q, how shall I, fond youth, disclose 
To thee my bosom’s heavy woes? 
The ruddy god shines every day, 


> 


But dull to me his cheerful ray,”’ 


SKIRNER Sang. 


““'Thy sorrows deem not I so great, 
That thou the tale shouldst not relate: 
Together sported we in youth, 

And well may trust each other’s truth.” 


FREYR sang. 


‘© In Gymer’s court I saw her move, 

The maid who fires my breast with love ; 
Her snow-white arms and bosom fair 
Shone lovely, kindling sea and air. 

Dear is she to my wishes more 

Than e’er was maid to youth before : 

But gods and elfs, | wot it well, 

Forbid that we together dwell.” 


SKIRNER sang. 
*¢ Give me that horse of wondrous breed 
To cross the nightly flame with speed ; 
And that self-brandished sword to smite 
The giant race with strange affright.”’ 


FREYR sang. 


‘¢ To thee I give this wondrous steed 

To pass the watchful fire with speed ; 
And this, which, borne by valiant wight, 
Self-brandished, will his foemen smite.” 


SKIRNER addressed his horse. 


“¢ Dark night is spread ; ’t is time, I trow, 


To climb the mountains hoar with snow: 
Both shall return, or both remain _ 
In durance, by the giant ta’en.”’ 


Skirner rode into Jotunheim, to the court of 
Gymer: furious dogs were tied there before 
‘the door of the wooden enclosure which sur- 
rounded Gerda’s bower. He rode towards a 
shepherd who was sitting on a mound, and ad- 
dressed him: 


‘¢ Shepherd, who sittest on the mound, 

And turn’st thy watchful eyes around, 

How may [I lull these bloodhounds? say ; 
How speak unharmed with Gymer’s may ?’’! 


THE SHEPHERD sang. 


‘¢ Whence and what art thou? doomed to die? 
Or dead revisitest the sky ? 

For, ride by night, or ride by day, 

Thou ne’er shall come to Gymer’s may.” 


SKIRNER sang. 


‘‘T grieve not, 1; a better part 

Fits him who boasts a ready heart : 

At hour of birth our lives were shaped ; 
The doom of Fate can ne’er be ’scaped.” 


GERDA sang. 


«“ What scunds unknown mine ears invade, 
Frighting this mansion’s peaceful shade ? 
The earth’s foundation rocks withal, 

And trembling shakes all Gymer’s hall.” 


THE ATTENDANT sang. 


‘¢ Dismounted stands a warrior sheen ; 
His courser crops the herbage green.” 


GERDA sang. 


“« Haste, bid him to my bower with speed, 
To quaff unmixed the pleasant mead: 
And good betide us! for I fear 
My brother’s murderer is near. — 
‘¢ What art thou? Elf, or Asian son? 
Or from the wiser Vanians sprung ? 
Alone, to visit our abode, 
O’er bickering flames why hast thou rode? ” 


SKIRNER sang. 


*‘ Nor elf am I, nor Asian son ; 

Nor from the wiser Vanians sprung : 

Yet o’er the bickering flames I rode 
Alone to visit your abode. 

Eleven apples here I hold, 

Gerda, for thee, of purest gold ; 

Let this fair gift thy bosom move 

To grant young Freyr thy precious love.” 


GERDA sang. 


“¢ Kleven apples take not I 

From man, as price of chastity : 

While life remains, no tongue shall tell, 
That Freyr and I together dwell.” 


1 May, maid. 


a 


= ————— { 


=p) 


ie 


& ICELANDIC ULFORTRY. 


SKIRNER sang. 
*¢ Gerda, for thee this wondrous ring, 
Burnt on young Balder’s pile, I bring ; 
On each ninth night shall oh ier sie 
Drop from it, all of equal weight.” 


GERDA sang. 
‘¢T take not, I, that wondrous ring, 
Though it from Balder’s pile you bring: 
Gold lack not I, in Gymer’s bower ; 
Enough for me my father’s dower.” 


SKIRNER sang. 

“« Behold this bright and slender brand, 
Unsheathed and glittering in my hand ; 
Deny not, maiden! lest thine head 

Be severed by the trenchant blade.”’ 


GERDA sang. 
*¢ Gerda will ne’er by force be led 
To grace a conqueror’s hateful bed: 
But this I trow, with main and might 
Gymer shall meet thy boast in fight.” 


SKIRNER sang. 


* Behold this bright and slender brand, 
Unsheathed and glittering i in my hand! 
Slain by its edge “thy sire shall lie ; 
That giant old is doomed to die. 
“6 Hen as I list, the magic wand 
Shall tame thee! Lo, with charmed hand 
I touch thee, maid! There shalt thou go, 
Where never man shall learn thy woe. 
On some high pointed rock, forlorn, 
Like eagle, shalt thou sit at morn; 
Turn from the world’s all-cheering light, 
And seek the deep abyss of night. 
Food shall to thee more loathly show 
Than slimy serpent creeping slow. 
When forth thou com’st, a hideous sight, 
Each wondering eye shall stare with fright ; 
By all observed, yet sad and lone; 
’Mongst shivering Thursians wider known 
Than him, who sits unmoved on high, 
The Guar d of heaven with sleepless eye. 
"Mid charms, and chains, and restless woe, 
Thy tears with double grief shall flow. 
Now seat thee, maid, while I declare 
Thy tide of sorrow and despair. 
Thy bower shall be some giant’s cell, 
panere phantoms pale shall 
tach day, to the cold syns an’s hall, 
Goatees: s, wretched, shalt thou crawl: 
Instead of joy and plea: sure gay, 
Sorrow, and tears, and sad dismay ; 
With some three-headed Thursian wed, 
Or pine upon a lonely bed ; 
From morn till morn love’s secret fire 
Shall gnaw thine heart with vain desire ; 
Like barren root of thistle pent 
In some high, ruined battlement. 
¢ O’er shady hill, through greenwood round, 
I sought this Sand the Teand I found. 


vith thee dwell; 


But ere o’er thine ill-fated head 
The last dread curse of Heaven be spread, 
Giants and Thursians far and near, 
Suttungur’s sons, and Asians, hear, 
How I forbid with fatal ban 
This maid the joys, the fruit of man 
Cold Grimmer is that giant hight, 
Who thee shall hold in realms of night; 
Where slaves in cups of twisted roots 
Shall bring foul beverage from the goats ; 
Nor sweeter draught, nor blither fare, 
Shalt thou, sad virgin, ever share. 

‘*T is done! I wind the mystic charm ; 
Thus, thus, I trace the giant form ; 
And three fell characters below, 
Fury, and Lust, and restless Woe. 
’en as I wound, I strait unwind 
This fatal spell, if thou art kind.” 


GERDA sang. 


“¢ Now hail, now hail, thou warrior bold! 
Take, take "this cup of crystal cold, 

And quaff the pure metheglin old. 

Yet deemed I ne’er that love could bind 
To Vanian youth my hostile mind.” 


SKIRNER sang. 


“‘T turn not home to bower or hall, 
Till I have learnt mine errand all; 
Where thou wilt yield the night of joy 
To brave Niorder’s gallant boy.” 


GERDA sang, 
‘¢ Barri is hight the seat of love ; 
Nine nights elapsed, in that known grove 
Shall brave Niorder’s gallant boy 
From Gerda take the kiss of joy.” 


Then rode Skirner home. Freyr stood forth 


and hailed him, and asked, what tidings. 


“¢ Speak, Skirner, speak, and tell with speed! 
Take not the harness from thy steed, 

Nor stir thy foot, till thou hast said, 

How fares my love with Gymer’s maid!” 


SKIRNER sang. 


‘¢ Barri is hight the seat of love; 

Nine nights elapsed, in that known grove 
To brave Niorder’s gallant boy 

Will Gerda yield the kiss of joy.” 


FREYR sang, 


‘¢ Long is one night, and longer twain ; 
But how for three endure my pain? 

A month of rapture sooner flies 

Than half one night of wishful sighs.” 


Reece eens 


BRYNHILDA’S RIDE TO HELL. 


Arter the death of Brynhilda, two funeral 


Odin is wroth, and ‘mighty Thor ; 


K’en Freyr shall now thy name abhor. 


piles were constructed; one for Sigurd, and 
that was burnt first; but Brynhilda was burnt 


fy SII EAE 2h {5 aes SE, seballes aia bac 


So EE ee RT ee Oe Re Te ee ert ONT OR ER Tee TON SEE TE TUE TES Deters 


on the other, and she was borne on a vehicle 
tented with precious cloth. It is said, that 
Brynhilda went in this vehicle along the road 
to Hell, and passed by a habitation where 
dwelt a certain giantess. The giantess sang : 


‘¢ Hence, avaunt! nor dare invade 

This pillared mansion’s rocky shade ; 
Better at home thy needle ply, 

Than thus our secret dwelling spy : 

O faithless head of Valland’s race, 
Dar’st thou approach this charmed place ? 
Many a wolf, that howled for food, 

Thou didst sate with human blood! 


BRYNHILDA sang. 


“6 Maid of the rock, upbraid not me, 
Though pirate-like I ploughed the sea : 
Those who kenned my early merit 
Shall ever praise my lofty spirit.” 


GIAN'TESS sang. 


*¢ ] know thee well, ill-fated dame ! 

Thy sire was Budla, Brynhilda thy name : 
Thou didst Giuka’s race destroy, 
And turn to plaint his kingdom’s joy.” 
BRYNHILDA sang. 


‘¢ Hateful head, if thou wouldst know, 

I will tell my tale of woe ; 

How the heirs of Giuka’s realm 

Did my perjured love o’erwhelm. 

Beneath an oak, by mournful spell, 

The angry monarch garred me dwell. 
Twelve years I counted, and no more, 
When faith to Sigurd young I swore 
*Mongst Hlyndale’s warriors was I hight 
Hilda clad in helmet bright. 

Helmgunnar old this arm did fell ; 

This falchion sent his soul to hell: 

Glory I gave Audbrodur young ; 

But Odin’s wrath waxed fierce and strong : 
His powerful wand my senses bound, 

And burnished shields were piled around ; 
And he should break my sleep alone, 
Who ne’er the breath of fear had known. 
Wide around my strange abode ‘ 

With blazing fire the forest glowed ; 

And none might pass, though wise and bold, 
Save who should bring stern Fofner’s gold. 
The generous lord stout Grana bore, 
Whose might had won that precious store. 
My foster-father bade me wed 

The stranger to my lonely bed ; 

And seemed that youth alone more bold 
Than all the chiefs that Denmark told. 
Darkling we slept from eve till morn, 

As he had been my brother born ; 

Eight nights the peaceful couch we shared, 
Nor hand was stirred, nor touch was dared. 
Yet hence did proud Gudruna say, 

In Sigurd’s arms Brynhilda lay : 

This srall I wot, Brynhilda ne’er 

Would brook thai foul, disloyal snare. 


SHMUND’S EDDA. : 


47 


Women and men were born in strife 

To spend the anxious hours of life ; 
Now, joined by death’s all-healing power, 
Sigurd and I shall part no more. — 
Giantess, avaunt! .....”’ 


After this (says Norna Gests Saga) the gi- 
antess howled frightfully, and rushed into the 
caverns of the mountain. 


——_—>-—- 


GROTTA-SAVNGR: 
THE QUERN-SONG. 


7 


Gotp is called by the poets the meal of Fro- 
thi; the origin of which is found in this st 
Odin had a son called Skiodldr (from whom the 
Skisldvngar are descended), who settled and 
reigned in the land w hich"is now called Dan- 
maurk, but was then called Gotland. Skioldr 
had a son named Frithleif, who reigned after 
him. Frithleif’s son was called Frethi, and suc- 
ceeded him on the throne. At the time that the 
Emperor Augustus made peace over the whole 
world, Christ was born. But, as Frothi was the 
most powerful of all the monarchs of the North, 
that peace, wherever the Danish language was 
spoken, was imputed to him; and the Northmen 
called it Frothi’s peace. 

At this time no man hurt another, even if he 
found the murderer of his father or brother, 
loose or bound. Theft and robbery were then 
unknown, insomuch that a gold ring lay for a 
long time untouched in Jalangursheath 

Frothi chanced to go on a friendly visit to a 
certain king in Sweden, named Fidlnir; and 
there purchased two female slaves, called Fenia 
and Menia, equally distinguished for their stature 
and strength. In those days there were found in 
Danmaurk two Quernstones of such a size that 
no one was able to move them; and these mill- 
stones were endued with such virtue, that the 
Quern in grinding produced whatever the grind- 
er wished for. The quern was called Grotti; he 
who presented this quern to Frothi was called 
Hengikidptr (Hanging-chops). The king caused 
these slaves to be brought to the quern, and or- 
dered them to grind gold, peace, and prosperity 
for Frothi; allowing them no longer rest or sleep 
than while the cuckow was silent, or a verse 
could be recited. Then they are said to have 
sung the lay which is called Grotta-Savngr ; 
and, before they ended their song, to have ground 
a hostile army against Frothi, insoritch, that a 
certain sea-king, called Mysingr, arriving the 

same night, slew Frothi, taking great’spoil, and 
so ended Frothi’s Peace. Mysingr took with 
him the quern Grotti, with Fenia and Menia, 
and ordered them to grind salt. About midnight, 
they asked Mysingr whether he had salt enough. 
On his ordering them to go on grinding, they 
went on a little longer, till, the ship sunk under 
the weight of the salt, A whirlpool was pro- 


ory. 


Soneedeenieeeaseneeteeneanemeart en 


re} 


RRR SER SE RE IR ST AR RRS ETS 


duced where the waves are sucked up by the 
mill-eye, and the waters of the sea have been 
salt ever since! 


FENIA AND MENIA. 


Now are we come os 
To the king’s house, 

Two foreseers, 

Fenia and Menia. 


These were at Frothi’s house, 
Frithleif’s son, 

(Mighty maidens) 

Held as thralls. 


They to the Quern-eye 
Were led, 

And the gray millstone 
Were bid get a going. 
He promised to neither 
Rest nor relief, 

Ere he heard 

The maidens’ lay. 


They made to rumble, 
Ceasing silence, 

With their arms, the Quern’s 
Light stones. 

He bade again the maidens, 
That they should grind. 
They sang, and whirled 

The grumbling stone, 

So that Frothi’s folk 

Mostly slept. 

Then thus sang Menia, = 
Who had come to the grinding : 


MENIA. 
Let us grind riches to Frothi! 
Let us grind him, happy 
In plenty of substance, 


‘On our gladdening Quern! 


Let him brood over treasures! 
Let him sleep on down ! 

Let him wake to his will ! 
There is well ground ! 

Here shall no one 

Hurt another, 

To plot mischief, 

Or to work bane, 

Nor strike therefore 

With sharp sword, 

Though his brother’s murderer 
Bound he found. 


BOTH. 


But he spake no 

Word before this : 
“Sleep not ye, 

Nor the cuckows without, 
Longer than while 

I sing one strain.’ 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


FENIA. 


Thou wast not, Frothi, 
Sufficiently provident, 
Though persuasively eloquent, 
When thou boughtest slaves. 
Thou boughtest for strength, 
And for outward looks ; 

But of their ancestry 

Didst nothing ask. 


MENIA. 
Hardy was Hrungnir 

And his father ; 

Yet was Thiassi 

Stouter than they. 

Ithi and Arnir, 

Our relations, 
Mountain-ettin’s brethren, — 
Of them are we born. 


FENIA. 


The Quern had not come 
From the gray fell, 

Nor thus the hard 

Stone from the earth, 

Nor thus had ground 

The mountain-ettin maiden, 
If her race known 

Had not been to her. 


MENIA. 


We, nine winters, 

Playful weird-women, 

Were reared to strength, 

Under the earth. 

We maidens stood 

To our great work ; 

We ourselves moved 

The set mountain from its place. 


We whirled the Quern 

At the giant’s house, 

So that the earth 

Therewith quaked : 

So swung we 

The whirling stone, 

The heavy rock, 

That the subterraneans heard it. 


FENIA, 


But we since then, 
In Sweden, 

Two foreseers, 
Have fought. 

We have fed bears, 
And cleft shields ; 
Encountered 
Gray-shirted men. 


We ’ve cast down one prince ; 
Stayed up another: 

We gave the good 

Guttormi help: 

Unstably we sat, 

Till the heroes fell. 


Forward held we 
These six months so 
That we in conflicts 
Were known. 

There scored we 
With sharp spears 
Blood from wounds, 
And reddened brands. 


Now are we come 
To the king’s house, 
Unpitied, 

And held as thralls. 


The earth bites our feet beneath, 
And the cold above ; 

We drive an enemy’s Quern ; 
Sad is it at Frothi’s house ! 


Hands shall rest ; 

The stone must stand ; 
I’ve ground for my part 
With diligence. 


MENIA. 


Now must not to hands 
Rest well be given, 
Till enough ground 
Frothi thinks. 


Hands of men shall 
Harden swords, 
Blood-dropping weapons. 


FENIA. 


Awake thou, Frothi ! 
Awake thou, Frothi! 
If thou wilt listen to 
Our song 

And prophetic sayings. 


I see fire burn 

East of the town; 

The war-heralds wake ; 

It must be called the beacon. 
An army must come 

Hither forthwith, 

And burn the town 

For the prince. 


Thou must no more hold 
The throne of state, 
Nor red rings, 
Nor stone edifice. 
Let us drive the Quern, 
Maiden, more sharply ! 
We shall not be armed 
In the bloody fray. 

~ 


MENIA. 


My father’s daughter 
Ground more furiously, 
Because the near deaths she 
Of many men saw. 


Wide sprung the large 
7 


SZMUND’S EDDA. 49 


Prop (from the quern-eye) 
Of iron to a distance. — 
Yet let us grind on! 


FENIA. 


Yet let us grind on! 

Yrsu’s son must 

With the Kalfdani 
Revenge Frothi. 

So must he of his mother 
Be called 

Son and brother : — 

We both know that. 

The maidens ground, 

And bestowed their strength. 
The young women were in 
Ettin mood, 

The spindle flew wide ; 
The hopper fell off ; 

Burst the heavy 

Nether millstone in two! 


But the mountain-giantess 
Women these words said: 

* We have ground, Frothi ! 
Now must we finish: 

Full long stood 

We maidens at the grinding.” 


—— ne 


VEGTAM’S QVIDA: 


THE SONG OF VEGTAM, OR THE DESCENT 
OF ODIN. 


Opin resolved to visit the tomb of a cele- 
brated Vala, or prophetess, and to learn from 
her the secrets of the dead. Gray’s beautiful 
version of his journey is well known; but, as it 
was taken from Bartholin’s Latin translation, 
and as no literal one has ever been published in 
English, the following may not be deemed su- 
perfluous. 


Up rose Odin, 

The watcher of time, 
And upon Sleipner 

Laid the saddle: 
Downwards he rode 

To death’s spectre-realm ; 
He met a hound 

Coming from Hela. 


Clotted blood 

Was on its breast, 

Round its savage fangs, 
And its jowl beneath. 
Against the father of song 
It bayed fearfully, 
Opened wide its jaws, 
And howled aloud. 


On rode Odin ; 


The earth shook ; 
E 


os 
oo 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


He came to Hela’s 

Drear abode : 

Then lie rode 

Eastwards before the gate, 
Where a Vala 


Lay interred. 


He sang for the wise one 
Dead men’s songs ; 

Then towards north 

Laid the magic letters, 
Muttered incantations, 
Summoned wizard words, 
Till he forced the dead 
To rise and speak. 


VALA. 


Who is the man, 
Unknown to me, 
Who disturbs 

My spirit’s rest ? 
Enwrapped in snow, 
Drenched with rain, 
Moistened by dew, 


Long have f lain in death. 


WANDERER, 


Wanderer is my name, 
Valtam’s son am I; 

Tell me of Hela’s realm, 
I will tell thee of earth : 
For whom are prepared 
The decorated seats, 
The lordly couch 
Radiant with gold? 


VALA. 


Here standeth mead, 
For Balder brewed ; 
A shield covers 

The clear liquor; 
The race of Aser 
Yield to despair. 


Force hath made me speak ; 


Now will I be silent. 


WANDERER. 


Be not silent, Vala! 

I will question thee 
Until I have learned all; 
More I must know. 
Who shall compass 
Balder’s death ? 

Who Odin’s son 
Deprive of life ? 


VALA. 


Hodur beareth 
The fated plant ; 
He shall be cause 
Of Balder’s death, 
And Odin’s son 
Deprive of life. 


Force hath made me speak ; 


Now will I be silent. 


WANDERER. 


Be not silent, Vala! 
I will question thee 
Until I learn all ; 
More I must know. 
Who shall on Hodur 
Pour out vengeance, 
And Balder’s bane 
Lay on the bier? 


VALA. 


Rinda bears a son 

In the western halls: 

On the day of his birth, 

He shall lay low the son of Odin: 
His hand he shall not lave, 

Nor comb his hair, 

Ere that he placeth on the bier 
The adversary of Balder. 

Force hath made me speak ; 

Now will I be silent. 


WANDERER. 


Be not silent, Vala! 

I will question thee. 
Who are the maids 

Who will not weep, 

But suffer their veils 

To float towards heaven? 
Tell me this only ; 

Thou sleepest not before. 


VALA. 


Thou art no wanderer, 
As I believed ; 

Surely art thou Odin, 
The watcher of time. 


ODIN. 


Thou art not a Vala, 
Nor a wise woman} 
But rather the mother 
Of three giants. 


VALA. 


Ride home, Odin, 

And boast of thy journey : 

For never again 

Shall another disturb me, 

Until Loke shall break / 
Loose from his chains, 

And the last twilight 

Fall on the gods. 


—— Ss 


GUNLAUG AND RAFEN. 


FROM THE ‘‘SOLAR-LIOD’’: THE LAY OF THE SUN. 


Tue rich delights of love 
To many fatal prove ; 
From women oft does sorrow spring : 
Much evil do they bear, 
Though fashioned purely fair 
And chaste by heaven’s almighty King. 


era eames 


Sn a a a 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


To Gunlaug fondly joined 
In peace was Rafen’s mind ; 
Each was the other’s dearest joy: 
Ere they, to fury moved, 
One beauteous woman loved, 
Whose peerless charms did both destroy. 


Nor after heeded they 
Or sports or light of day, 
All for that blooming maiden bright ; 
Nor any other form 
Their wildered thoughts could warm, 
Save that fair body’s lovely light. 


51 


Mournful and sad to them 

Each night’s dark shadow came, 
Nor ever found they slumbers sweet ; 

But from their hapless fate 

Waxed quickly savage hate 
Between true friends with deadly heat. 


Passions of strange excess 
Beget severe distress, 

And punishment of keenest woe: 
The single fight they tried, 
For that delightful bride, 

And each received the fatal blow. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE BIARKEMAAL, 
OR BATTLE-SONG OF BIARKE.— A FRAGMENT. 


THis song was composed in the sixth centu- 
ry, by Bodvar Biarke, one of Hrolf Krake’s 
warriors. The following lines are but the com- 
mencement of it; the remainder is lost. The 
original may be found in Sturleson’s “* Heims- 
kringla,”’ and a Latin version in Saxo-Gram- 
maticus. 


Tue bird of morn has risen, 
The rosy dawn ’gins break; 
"Tis time from sleepy prison 
Vil’s sons to toil should wake. 
Wake from inglorious slumber ! 
The warrior’s rest is short, — 
Wake! whom our chiefs we number, — 
The lords of Adil’s court. 


Har, strong of arm, come forth ! 
Rolf, matchless for the bow ! 
Both Northmen, of good birth, 
Who ne’er turned face from foe! 
Wake not for foaming cup, 
Wake not for maiden’s smile, 
Men of the North! wake up, 
For iron Hilda’s toil! 


a 


THE DEATH-SONG OF REGNER 
LODBROCK. 


Reener Lodbrock, king of Denmark, being 
taken in battle by Ella, king of Northumber- 
land, was thrown into a dungeon to be stung to 
death by serpents. While dying, he composed 
this song; though it is conjectured that a great 
part of it was the work of some other Skald. 
Regner Lodbrock died about the close of the 


eighth century. The original may be found in 
“¢ Literatur. Runic. Olaj Wormij’’; and in Per- 
cy’s “Five Pieces of Runic Poetry,” London: 


1763. 


We smote with swords; nor long, before 
In arms I reached the Gothic shore, 

To work the loatbly serpent’s death. 

I slew the reptile of the heath ; 

My prize was Thora; from that fight, 
*Mongst warriors am I Lodbrock hight. 

I pierced the monster’s scaly side 

With steel, the soldier’s wealth and pride. 


We smote with swords; in early youth 
I fought by Eyra’s billowy mouth. 
Where high the echoing basnites rung 
To the hard javelin’s iron tongue, 

The wolf and golden-footed bird 
Gleaned plenteous harvest of the sword. 
Dark grew the ocean’s swollen water ; 
The raven waded deep in slaughter. 


We smote with swords; ere twenty years 
Were numbered, in the din of spears 

I reared my armed hand, and spread 

The tide of battle fierce and red. 

Eight earls my weighty arm subdued, 
Eastward by Dwina’s icy flood ; 

There the gaunt faleon lacked not food. 
The sweat of death distained the wave ; 
The army tined! its warriors brave. 


We smote with swords ; fierce Hedin’s queen 
"Mid the hot storm of war was seen, 

When Helsing’s youths to Odin’s hall 

We bade, and garred her prowess fall. 

Our vessels ploughed through Ifa’s flood ; 


The arrows stung; the stream was blood. 


FLOste 


| 


CET ATI TN ET 


——————eoaoeeeeeee ee eee SSS SS 5595050 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


ir 


52 


Brands grated on the mail, and through 
Cleft shields the death-fraught lances flew. 


We smote with swords; none fled, I trow, 
Ere on the masted galley’s prow 

Bold Herraud fell: no fairer earl 

Did e’er his bellying sail unfurl 

On winged steeds, that spurn the main, 
Cleaving the seafowl’s lonely reign ; 

No lord in stour? more widely feared 

To distant port his vessel steered. 

That glorious chieftain’s glowing heart 

In fight aye sought the foremost part. 


We smote with swords ; in fierce affray 
The warriors cast their shields away : 
By rifling steel with fury driven 

Many a fearless breast was riven ; 

And, ’midst the din, from Skarpa’s rock 
Echoed the falchion’s sounding shock. 
The iron orbs with blood were dyed, 
Ere sunk King Rafen’s youthful pride. 
Hot streaming from each valiant head 
Sweat on coats of mail was shed. 


We smote with swords; near Inder’s shore 
A sumptuous meal the ravens tore ; 

Nor carnage lacked to glut those steeds 

On which the sorceress Vala speeds. 

"T was hard to ’scape unharmed that day : 
When peered the sun’s first dawning ray, 
Shafts saw I starting from the string ; 

The bent bow made the metal ring. 


We smote with swords; loud, clanged the 
plain, 

Ere Ulla’s field saw Eysteinn slain. 

With gold adorned, our conquering band 

Strode o’er the desolated land ; 

And swift to meet each helmed head 

The pointed flames of arrows sped : 

Down many a neck the purple gore 

Trickled from the burning sore. 

We smote with swords; near Hadning’s bay 

(Hilda’s sport and Hilda’s fray) 

Every noble warrior held 

High in air his charmed shield. 

Bucklers brast,? and men were slain ; 

Stoutest skulls were cleft in twain. 

’"T was not, I trow, like wooing rest 

On gentle maiden’s snowy breast. 


We smote with swords ; the iron sleet 
Against the shields with fury beat. 

On Northumbria’s hostile shore 
Heroes weltered in their gore : 

Our foes at early dawn of light 

Fled not from the sport of fight, 
Hilda’s sport, where falchions keen 
Bit the helmet’s surface sheen. 

’T was not like kissing widow sweet 
Reclining in the highest seat. 


. . ° . . 


2 War. 3 Broke with noise. 


We smote with swords; at dawn of day 

Hundred spearmen gasping lay, 

Bent beneath the arrowy strife. 

Egill reft my son of life ; 

Too soon my Agnar’s youth was spent, 

The scabbard-thorn his bosom rent : 

The whiles each warrior’s clashing steel 

Contentious rung a dreadful peal 

On the gray hauberks, Hamder’s pride ; 

And our bright standards glittered wide. 

We smote with swords; at morn I viewed 

The fair-haired prince by fate subdued ; 

Gay Aurn (whose voice the widows loved, 

Whose charms the blooming virgins moved) 

Fainting, waning to his end: | 

In Ila’s sound that day he kenned 

Other sport; *t was not, I ween, 

Like quafling from the goblet sheen 

Fuming wine by maidens poured : 

Yet, ere he fell, the battle roared, 

The fulgent orbs in twain were cleft, 

And lifeless many a kemp* was left. 

We smote with swords ; the sounding blades, 

Ruddy with gold, assailed our heads. 

In after-times on Anglesey 

Shall mortals trace the bloody fray, 

Where Hilda’s iron vesture rung, 

Where kings marched forth, and spears were 
flung. 

Like winged dragons, red with gore 

Our lances hissed along the shore. 


We smote with swords; what fairer fate 
Can e’er the sons of men await, 

Than long amid.the battle’s blast 

To front the storm, and fall at last ? 
Who basely shuns the gallant strife 
Nathless must lose his dastard life. 
When waves of war conflicting roll, 
"Tis hard to whet the coward soul 

To deeds of worth; the timid heart 
Will never act a warrior’s part. 


We smote with swords; this deem I right, 
Youth to youth in sturdy fight 

Each his meeting falchion wield ; 

Thane to thane should never yield. 

Such was aye the soldier’s boast, 

Firm to face the adverse host. 

Boldest, who prize fair maidens’ love, 
Must in the din of battle move. 


We smote with swords; I hold, that all 
By destiny or live or fall : 

Each his certain hour awaits ; 

Few can ’scape the ruling Fates. 

When I scattered slaughter wide, 

And launched my vessels to the tide, 

I deemed not, I, that Ella’s blade 

Was doomed at last to bow my head ; 
But hewed in every Scottish bay 

Fresh banquets for the beasts of prey. 


4 Warrior. 


pa abt SL MN AEA Eh BO TN I NAIA tn BOER ARO RAE AAO Dat AO lI REEL ENN EE he a RE IN AP Ot te i Ae let 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


53 


We smote with swords; my parting breath 
Rejoices in the pang of death. 

Where dwells fair Balder’s father dread, 
The board is decked, the seats are spread ! 
In Fiolner’s court, with costly cheer, 

Soon shall I quaff the foamiug beer, 

From hollow skulls of warriors slain ! 
Heroes ne’er in death complain ; 

To Vider’s hall I will not bear 

The dastard words of weak despair. 


We smote with swerds; their falchions bright 
(If well they kenned their father’s plight, 
How, venom-filled, a viperous brood 

Have gnawed his flesh and lapped his blood) 
Thy sons would grasp, Aslauga dear, 

And vengeful wake the battle here. 

A mother to my bairns I gave 

Of sterling worth, to make them brave. 


We smote with swords; cold death is near, 
My rights are passing to my heir. 

Grim stings the adder’s forked dart ; 

The vipers nestle in my heart. 

But soon, [ wot, shall Vider’s wand 

Fixed in EJla’s bosom stand. 

My youthful sons with rage will swell, 
Listening how their father fell : 

Those gallant boys in peace unbroken 

Will never rest, till I be wroken. 


We smote with swords; where javelins fly, 
Where lances meet, and warriors die, 

Fifty times and one I stood 

Foremost on the field of blood. 

Full young I ’gan distain my sword, 

Nor feared I force of adverse lord ; 

Nor deemed I then that any arm 

By might or guile could work me harm. 
Me to their feast the gods must call ; 

The brave man wails not o’er his fall. 


Cease, my strain! I hear a voice 

From realms where martial souls rejoice : 
I hear the maids of slaughter call, 

Who bid me hence to Odin’s hall: 
High-seated in their blest abodes 

I soon shall quaff the drink of gods. 
The hours of life have glided by ; 

I fall; but smiling shall [ die. 


—¢——- 


THE BATTLE OF HAFUR’S BAY. 


Tus poem was written by Thorbidrn Horn- 
klove, one of the Skalds of Harald Harfager. 
Gyda, daughter of Eric, prince of Hordaland, 
would not consent to become the bride of Har- 
ald, until, for her sake, he had conquered all 
Norway. Whereupon he made a solemn vow 
neither to cut nor comb his hair until he had 
subdued the land. The battle of Hafur’s Bay, 
in 885, in which he gained the victory over 
Kiotva and his son Haklang, established his 


empire, and made him the first king of Norway. 
This victory is the subject of the song. The 
original may be found in Sturleson’s “ Heims- 
kringla,”’ 


Lovup in Hafur’s echoing bay 
Heard ye the battle fiercely bray, 
"Twixt’ Kiotva rich and Harald bold? 
Eastward sail the ships of war ; 
The graven bucklers gleam afar, 
And monstrous heads adorn the prows of gold. 


Glittering shields of purest white, 

And swords, and Celtic falchions bright, 

And western chiefs the vessels bring: 

Loudly scream the savage rout, 

The maddening champions wildly shout, 
And long and loud the twisted hauberks ring. 


Firm in fight they proudly vie 
With him, whose might will gar them fly, 
Imperial Utstein’s warlike head: 
Forth his gallant fleet he drew, 
Soon as the hope of battle grew ; 
But many a buckler brast, ere Haklang bled. 


Fled the lusty Kiotva then 
Before the fair-haired king of men, 
And bade the islands shield his flight. 
Warriors, wounded in the fray, 
Beneath the thwarts all gasping lay, 
Where, headlong cast, they mourned the loss 
of light. ; 


Galled by many a missive stone 
(Their golden shields behind them thrown), 
Homeward the grieving soldiers speed : 
Fast from Hafur’s bay they hie, 
East-mountaineers o’er Jadar fly, 

And thirst for goblets of the sparkling mead. 


—_—o—-—— 


DEATH-SONG OF HAKON, 


Tus song was written by Eyvind Skaldaspil- 
lar, the most celebrated of all the Skalds. He 
flourished in the latter half of the tenth century, 
at the court of Hakon the Good. The original 


may be found in Sturleson’s “ Heimskringla,”’ 


and in Percy. 


Sxoeut and Gondula 
The god Tyr sent 

To choose a king 

Of the race of Ingva, 
To dwell with Odin 
In roomy Valhalla. 


The brother of Biorn 
They found unmailed ; 
Arrows were sailing, 
Foes were falling, 
Hoisted was the banner, 


The hider of heaven. 
E2 


The wicked sea-king 
Had summoned Haleyg ; 
‘The slayer of earls 

With a gang of Norsemen 
Against the islanders 
Was come in his helmet. 


The father of the people, 
Bare of his armure, 

Sported in the field ; 

And was hurling coits 

With the sons of the nobles. 


Glad was he to hear 
A shouting for battle : 
And soon he stood 

In his helmet of gold ; 
Soon was the sword 
A sickle in his hand. 


The blades glittered, 

The hauberks were cleft ; 
Blows of weapons 

Dinned on the skulls: 
Trodden were the shields 

Of the death-doomed of Tyr, 
Their rings and their crests, 
By the hard-footed Norsemen. 


The kings broke through 
The hedges of shields, 
And stained them with blood : 
Red and reeking, 

As if on fire, 

The hot swords leaped 
From wound to wound : 
Curdling gore 

Trickled along the spears 
On to the shore of Storda ; 
Into the waves fell 

Corses of the slain. 


The care of plunder 

Was busy in the fight : 

For rings they strove, 

Amid the storm of Odin, 
And strove the fiercer. 

Men of marrow bent 
Before the stream of blades, 
And lay bleeding 

Behind their shields. 


Their swords blunted, 
Their actons pierced, 
The chieftains sat down ; 
And the host no more 
Struggled to reach 


The halls of the dead. 


When, lo! Gondula, 
Pointing with her spear, 
Said to her sister : 

‘¢ Soon shall increase 
The band of the gods: 
To Odin’s feast 
Hakon is. bidden.”’ 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


The king beheld 

The beautiful maids « 
Sitting on their horses 
In shining armure, 
Their shields before them, 
Solemnly thoughtful. 


The king heard 

The words of their lips, 
Saw them beckon 

With pale hands, 

And thus bespake them : 
‘Mighty goddesses, 
Were we not worthy 
You should choose us 

A better doom?” 


Skogul answered : 
“Thy foes have fallen, 
Thy land is free, 

Thy fame is pure ; 
Now we must ride 

To greener worlds, 

To tell Odin 

That Hakon comes.”’ 


The father of battles 
Heard the tidings, 

And said to his sons : 

«© Hermode and Braga, 
Greet the chieftain 
Who comes to our hall.” 


They rose from their seats; 
They led Hakon, 

Bright in his arms, 

Red in his blood, 

To Odin’s board. 

«© Stern are the gods,” 
Hakon said, 

‘¢ Not on my soul 

Doth Odin smile.”’ 


Braga replied : 

«¢ Here thou shalt find 
Peace with the heroes. 
Eight of thy brothers 
Quaff already 

The ale of gods.” 


«¢ Like them I will wear 
The arms I loved,” 
Answered the king ; 
“°'T is well to keep 
One’s armure on ; 

"T is well to keep 

One’s sword at hand.”’ 


Now it was seen 

How duly Hakon 

Had paid his offerings ; 
For the lesser gods 

All came to welcome 
The guest of Valhalla. 


nN 


me ah A EN an IN 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. | 55 


‘6 Hallowed be the day, 
Praised-the year, 

When a king is born 

Whom the gods love! 

By him, his time 

And his land shall be known 


‘The wolf Fenrir, 
Freed from the chain, 
Shall range the earth, 
Ere on this shore 

His like shall rule. 


‘“ Wealth is wasted, 

Kinsmen are mortal, 
Kingdoms are parted ; 

But Hakon remains 

High among the gods, 

Till the trumpet shall sound.” 


-— 


THE SONG OF HARALD THE HARDY. 


Harap, the Hardy reigned in Norway the 
latter half of the eleventh century. The Rus- 
sian maiden, alluded to in the following poem, 
was the daughter of Jarisleif, king of Garda- 
rike (a part of Russia). In this song he vaunts 
his own prowess, as was the custom of the 
Northern sea-rovers ; though, in his feats of 
dexterity, he hardly equalled his predecessor, 
Olaf Tryggvason, of whom it is said, that he 
could walk on the oars outside of his boat while 
the men were rowing. The original may be 
found in Bartholinus’s “* De Causis Contempte 
a Danis Mortis,” and in Percy. 


My bark around Sicilia sailed ; 
Then were we gallant, proud, and strong : 
The winged ship, by youths impelled, 
Skimmed (as we hoped) the waves along. 
My prowess, tried in martial field, 
Like fruit to maiden fair shall yield. ‘ 
With golden ring in Russia’s land 
To me the virgin plights her hand. 


Fierce was the fight on Trondhiem’s heath ; 
I saw her sons to battle move ; 
Though few, upon that field of death, 
Long, long, our desperate warriors strove. 
Young from my king in battle slain 
I parted on that bloody plain. 

With golden ring in Russia’s land 

To me the virgin plights her hand. 


With vigorous arms the pump we plied, 

Sixteen (no more) my dauntless crew, 

And high and furious waxed the tide ; 

“O’er the deep bark its billows flew. 

My prowess, tried in hour of need, 

Alike with maiden fair shall’speed. 
With golden ring in Russia’s land 
To me the virgin plights her hand. 


Hight feats I ken: the sportive game, 
The war array, the fabrile art ; 
With fearless breast the waves I stem ; 
I press the steed; I cast the dart ; 
O’er ice on slippery skates I glide ; 
My dexterous oar defies the tide. 
With golden ring in Russia’s land 
To me the virgin plights her hand. 


Let blooming maid and widow say, 
"Mid proud Byzantium’s southern walls 
What deeds we wrought at dawn of day! 
What falchions sounded through their halls! 
What blood distained each weighty spear ! 
Those feats are famous far.and near ! 

With golden ring in Russia’s land 

To me the virgin plights her hand. 


Where snow-clad Uplands rear their head, 
My breath I drew ’mid bowmen strong ; 
But now my bark, the peasant’s dread, 
Kisses the sea its rocks among. 
"Midst barren isles, where ocean foamed, 
Far from the tread of man I roamed. 
With golden ring in Russia’s land 
To me the virgin plights her hand. 


—-j-— 


SONG OF THE BERSERKS. 


FROM THE HERVARAR SAGA. 


«Tae wind was brisk, and lifted the stream- 
ers; the sun was bright; and the ship, with its 
twelve heroes, scudded hissing along the waves 
toward Samsey, while the crew thus sang : 


Brown are our ships, 

But the Vauns admire 

The haunts of the brave ; 
Horses of the sea, 

They carry the warrior 

To the winning of plunder. 


The wandering home Se, 
eae: .. im 
Enriches the fixed one ; 
Welcome to woman 

Is the crosser of ocean ; 

Merry are children 

In strange attire. 


Narrow are our beds, 

As graves of the nameless ; 
But mighty our rising, 

As the storms of Thor ; 

He fears not man, 

Who laughs at the tempest. 


Who feeds with corses i 
The whales of ger 

Shall deck his hall 

With far-fetched booty, 

And quaff at will 

The, wine of the South. 


ens 


soe 


aap ase: 


Op AEC GA LACAN AOE MBOUP in NO Ah i ln ll 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


THE COMBAT OF HIALMAR AND 


ODDUR. 


FROM THE HERVARAR SAGA, 


ODDUR, 
HiaLmar, what does thee betide? 
Has thy color waxed pale ? 


Mighty wounds have wrought thee woe ; 


Sad I sing the mournful tale. 


Furious blows have cleft thine helm, 


On thy side have rent thy mail ; 
Now thy life is nearly spent ; 
Sad I sing the mournful tale. 


HIALMAR. 
Sixteen wounds my body bears, 
And my mail is rent in twain ; 
Darkness hangs before my sight ; 
Ill my limbs their weight sustain. 
Angantyr’s enchanted blade 
Stings my heart with fatal pain ; 
Keenly piercing is the point, 
Hard, and steeped in deadly bane. 


Proud domains and palaces 

Five J ruled with puissant hand ; 
Yet I never could abide 

Peaceful in my native land. 
Hopeless now of light and life, 
Rest I on a foreign strand, 

Here on Samsey’s joyless shore, 
Wounded by the piercing brand. 


Seated at the royal board, 
Many lords of high degree 
In the court of Upsala 


Quaff the ale with mirth and glee; 


Many with the liquor filled 
On the ground lie heavily : 


Me the sword’s keen wounds afflict, 


Circled by the lonely sea. 


Youthful beauty’s fairest flower 
Me, the monarch’s daughter, led 
To the shore of Agnafit, 

Soon a foreign coast to tread, 
True I find the fatal words 
Which the parting damsel said: 
That I never should return’ 

Blithe to claim her promised bed.. 


Thence unwilling did I wend, 
Severed from the festive lay 
Which the lovely women sing 
East of Sota’s spacious bay. 

In the swiftly sailing bark 

O’er the waves I took my way ; 


Faithful friends the vessel trimmed ; 


Here we sped with short delay. 


From my finger draw the ring, 
E’en in death my dearest pride ; 
To the blooming Ingebiorg 

Bear it o’er the billows wide. 

In her bosom fair and young 


When she hears I ne’er return 
Blithe to claim my promised bride. 


O’er the rugged desert wild 
East the hungry raven flies ; 
And behind on stronger wing 
Swift the lordly eagle hies: 
Soon to glut his hasty rage 

Here my feeble body lies ; 

He will gorge the welling blood, 
As I close my dying eyes. 


—— 


THE DYING SONG OF ASBIORN. 


FROM ORMS STOROLFSENS SAGA. 


Know, gentle mother, know, 
Thou wilt not comb my flowing hair, 
When summer sweets return 
In Denmark’s valleys, Svanvhide fair! 
O, whilom had I fondly vowed 
To hie me to my native land ! 
Now must my panting side be torn 
By my keen foe’s relentless brand ! 


Not such those days of yore, 
When blithe we quaffed the foaming ale ; 
Or urged across the waves 
From Hordaland the flying sail ; 
Or gladly drank the sparkling mead, 
While social mirth beguiled the hour. 
Now, lonely in the narrow den, 
{ mourn the giant’s savage power. 


Not such those days of yore, 

When forth we went in warlike show: 
Storolf’s all-glorious son 

Stood foremost on the armed prow, 
As, sailing fast to Oresound, 

The long-keeled vessels cleft the wave. 
Now, tolled into the fatal snare, 

I mourn beneath the sorcerer’s cave. 


Not such those days of yore, 

When conquest marked proud Ormur’s way, 
Stirring the storm of war, 

To glut the greedy beasts of prey : 
Beneath his thundering falchion’s stroke 

Flowed the deep waters red with gore, 
And many a gallant warrior fell 

To feed the wolves on Ifa’s shore. 


Not such those days of yore, 
When, south on Elfa’s rocky coast, 
Warring with weapons keen, 
I fiercely smote the adverse host : 
Oft from the loudly sounding bow 
Ormur’s unerring arrows flew, 
Deadly, whene’er his wrath pursued 
The bold sea-rover’s trusty crew. 
Not such those days of yore, 
When, swift to meet the haughty foe, 
We roused the strife of swords, 


Constant sorrow shall abide, Nor e’er declined the hostile blow: 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 57 


! 


Seldom did I the steel withhold, 
Or let to sting the warrior’s side ; 

But aye did Ormur’s ruthless arm 
Humble our foemen’s sturdy pride. 


O, did thy generous soul 
Thy dying fere’s* last anguish know, 
Ormur, thine heart would rise, 
Thy warlike eyes with fury glow! 
Friendship, to venge my fatal wrongs 
(If power remain), will point the way ; 
And soon beneath thy biting glaive 
My torturer rue this cruel day! 


t= 


| THE SONG OF HROKE THE BLACK. 


FROM HALFS SAGA, 


By Hamund’s son now be it told, 

That two we were in battle bold ; 

Greater was our father’s fame, 

Mightier than thy Haco’s name. 

Let Vifill be to none preferred, 

Of those who wait on Hamund’s herd! 

Never swine-herd saw I there 

Mean of soul as Hiedin’s heir. 
Happier was my active fate, 

When I followed Alfur great. 

In war united did we stand, 

And harried each surrounding land. 

Dauntless warriors then we led, 

Where glory crowns the valiant head ; 

In polished helmets did we shine, 

Roaming through mighty regions nine. 

In either hand, without his shield, 

The sword I’ve seen the monarch wield ; 

Nor warrior lived, or near, or wide, 

With stouter heart and nobler pride. 

Yet some have said, who little wissed, 
Haleyga’s lord all reason missed. 
I never saw the valiant king 
Lack what prudent counsels bring. 
He bade his warriors never quail, 
Nor in pain of death bewail ; 
None beneath his banners wait, 
Save who embraced their leader’s fate ; 
None groan upon the battle’s ground, 
Though pierced and galled by many 

wound ; 
Nor pause to bind the sores that burn, 
Before the morning sun’s return ; 
None afflict the captive foe, 
Nor work the matron’s shame and woe; 
Maidens chaste their honor hold, 
Ransomed by their parents’ gold. 
Never bark, though stoutly manned, 
Garred us fly the hostile band ; 
Small our force, but firm and good, 
One against eleven stood. 
Where’er we moved in armed array, 
To conquest still he led the way ; 
No chief so swift to wield the sword, 


Save Sigurd famed at Giuka’s board. 


1 Companion. 
8 


Warriors many, good and proud, 
Did to the monarch’s vessel crowd: 
Bork, and Bryniulf’s hardy might ; 
Bolverk, Haco fierce in fight ; 
Eigill was there, and Erling young, 
Wishty! sons of Aslac strong. 

= SF ‘ Ss 
Foremost of the martial crew 


Alf and my brother Hroke T knew ; 


_Styr and Steinar did 1 ken, 


Sons of Gunlad, warl.'se men. 

Hring and Halfdan bravely stood, 

Right-judging Danes, and Dag the proud ; 

Stare, and Steingrim, Stafe, and Gaut ; 

Doughtier would be vainly sought; 

Vale, and Hauk, sea-rovers bold, 

Did to our monarch firmly hold ; 

Champions more sturdy than the twain, 

Few lived in Haco’s wide domain. 

Nor I amid that warlike race 

Did e’er my father’s arm disgrace ; 

They said, none earned a higher name, 

For each upheld his comrade’s fame. 

Woe worth Vemund, who did slay 

Berse and Biorn upon a day, 

Before the king, who boldly trained 

His dauntless troops, while life remained ! 

That precious life was not preserved 

Long, as fearless deeds deserved ; 

Scarce twelve years old he first ’gan fight, 

Just thirty on the fatal night. 

"T is this which gars me little sleep, 

And watchful bids me nightly weep ; 

Still mindful of my brother's fate, 

Burnt alive with Alfur great. 

Of all the hours that mortals know, 

This caused me heaviest, deepest woe ; 

Taught since then by angry Heaven 

To follow friendly counsel given. 

Vengeance for my fallen king 

Alone can joy and comfort bring ; 

If I through Asmund’s recreant heart 

Might drive the sword or piercing dart. 

Vengeance for Alfur brave be ta’en, 

Deceived in peace, and foully slain ! 

Murder was wrought in evil hour 

By treacherous Asmund’s baneful power. 
Mine the task in arms to prove, 

When Swein and I to battle move, 

Which is most in combat brave, 

Hamund’s son, or Haco’s slave. 

Thus have I sung to maiden fair ; 

Thus to Brynhilda love declare : 

If Hroke, great Hamund’s son, might know 

That she to him would favor show. 

Hope should I have, if we were joined, 

Warriors wise and bold to find ; 

For maid more peerless, well I ween, 

Than Haco’s daughter, ne’er was seen ; 

With every charm and virtue fraught, 

That e’er my youthful wishes sought. 

Now seem I heré unknown to stand 

A nameless wight in Haco’s land ; 

Higher rank his vassals hold 

Than the kemps of Alfur bold. 


1 Stout, active. 


—- —~ 


—— Sn a rr EEO en nt a ae aie aere = on ———_—$——— 


ICELANDIC POETRY. 


THE LAMENTATION OF STARKADER. 


ORIGINAL IN BARTHOLINUS. 


Tuart chief I followed whom I kenned 
Mightiest in battle’s strife ; 

Those were the happiest, fairest days 
Of all my varied life : 


Before (as angry fate decreed), 
Where evil spirits led, 
For the last time in joyful trim 


To Hordaland I sped; 


There, by each hateful curse pursued, 
To work a deed of shame ; 

And (such, alas! my bitter lot) 
To gain a traitor’s name. 


Vikar my king (stout Geirthiof’s bane, 
And famed in deadly stour) 

Aloft, sad victim to the, gods, 
I hung in evil hour. 


My weapon to the chieftain’s heart 
Thrust deep the deadly blow ; 

Of all the works my hand hath wrought, 
This caused me keenest woe, 

Thence hapless have I wandered on 
A wild, ill-fated road ; 

Abhorred of every Hordian boor, 
And bent by sorrow’s load : 


Without or wealth to soothe my cares, 
Or joy of honest fame ; 

No king to guide my pathless way, 
No thought, but woe and shame. 


op 


GRYMUR AND HIALMAR. 


FROM THE RHYME OF KARL AND GRYMUR IN BIORNER’S 


RIMUR. 


Grymour stands on Gothic land ; 

Wolves shall lick the bloody strand, 

If the sturdy, warriors fight 

Proudly for the virgin bright. 

On the shore each eye was bent ; 

The land was decked with many a tent; 
Bright the host with princely show ; 
Hialmar ruled that host, I trow. 

Loud he cried, *“‘ Ye strangers free, 

Whose yon fleet that stems the sea?” 

Forth stepped, and named him,Grymur strong: 
“Thee have I sought this summer long.” 

“ Now welcome, Grymur! good thy fare, 
Health and honor be thy share! 
Gold, and wine of fairest hue, 
Will I give thee, not untrue.’’— 
“T take not, I, thy bidding fair ; 
This heart is bent on savage war. 
Gird thee, gird thee, for the fight ! 
We must feed the wolves to-night 
‘¢ Rather be our thoughts of peace”’ 
(Hialmar spoke with courteous phrase) ; 

* Let us dwell, like brothers sworn, 

Joined in sweet friendship night and morn ! 
Wake we not the strife of shields ! 

Well this arm the falchion wields ; 


tebe) 


But the lovely virgin’s hand 
Now I woo from Swedish land. 
Fierce and furious waxed the knight ; 

Loud he cried, with wounded spite, 

‘Bowne ! thee quick to smite my shield ; 

Shrink not from the martial field !” 

“¢ Costly rings I give to thee 

With my sister fair to see, 

Biarmaland and princely sway, 

So we feed not birds of prey.”’ — 

“JT thy sister will not see ; 

Bid not thou such gifts to me ! 

Cowards linger, slow from fear ; 

This the noble meid will hear.” 

Hialmar cries, with passion sore, 

“Youth, I scorn to soothe thee more ! 

Stand the fight ! on bucklers sheen 

Prove we straight our weapons keen 
He has ta’en his hauberk white, 

Trusty blade, and helmet bright ; 

And his buckler gleams afar ; 

Stouter ne’er was held in war. 

First by lot must Grymur smite ; 

Armed he was to stir the fight. 

He clove the buckler with his brand, 

And struck to ground Hialmar’s hand. 

But never flinched that warrior true, 

Nor deigned, though maimed, for peace to sue. 

His glaive, upraised with dauntless main, 

Split Grymur’s helm and mail in twain. 

Streaming flowed apace the gore ; 

The sharp-edged sword had smote him sore : 

His breast and entrails felt the wound, 

And the blade shivered on the ground. 

Hialmar cried, ‘¢ The stroke is light; 

My trusty falchion failed to bite : 

Had both mine arms discharged the blow, 

Warrior, thou hadst now been low.” 

Grymur fierce, with either hand, 

Reckless upheaved his deadly brand ; 

He smote the helm; his weapon’s point 

Cleft head and brain with dreadful dint. 

Clanged in the steel the ringing sword ; 

The host beheld their prostrate lord. 

Nor long the fainting Grymur stood, 

For gushing welled the stream of blood. 

Hialmar good lies buried there ; 

Grymur home his soldiers bare. 

As he neared the Swedish ground, 

Swelled apace his burning wound ; 

Strength and life began to fail : 

The king, the maiden, heard the tale. 

Whence, but from her, the leech’s aid ? 

And who, but Grymur, claimed the maid? 
Wassail was kept in the monarch’s hall, 

And proudly dight were the courtiers all. 

Each heart was brisk, as the wine did flow ; 

No goblet of water was poured, I trow. 

The nuptial feast was blithe and gay ; 

The gifts of the king were large that day: 

Bracelet, or necklace, or ring of gold, 

Must every trusty liegeman hold. 

The virgin blessed the youth of her choice, 

And bridegroom and bride did both rejoice. 


? 


} 9 


1 Make ready. 


DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Tue Danish language is a daughter of the 
old Norse, or Icelandic. It began to assume 
new forms, and to take the character of a sepa- 
rate language, about the beginning of the twelfth 
century. Petersen, in his history of the lan- 
guage, divides the various changes it has under- 
gone into four periods:* 1. Oldest Danish, 
from 1100 till 1250; 2. Older Danish, from 
1250 till 1400; 3. Old Danish, from 1400 till 
1530; 4. Modern Danish, from 1530 till 1700. 
Through these changes the old Icelandic pass- 
ed into the Danish of the present day. 

The Danish language is not confined to Den- 
mark only, but is the language of literature and 
of cultivated society in Norway also. The Norse, 
or Norwegian, exists only in the form of dia- 
lects, of which the principal are: 1. The Guld- 
brandsdalske ; 2. The Hardangerske; 3. The 
Nordalske ; 4. The Sogns dialect; 5. Dialect 
of the Orkney Islands; 6. Dialect of the Faroe 
Islands.t 

In these dialects, spoken by the peasantry 
in the mountains of Norway, are found many 
words of the ancient mother tongue, no longer 
in use in towns; as snow and ice remain un- 
melted in the mountain ravines, long after they 
have disappeared from the thoroughfares and 
cultivated fields.. ‘*The remains of the old 
Norwegian language,”’ says Hallager, “ are not 
to be sought for in the commercial towns of 
Norway, nor in their environs, where the lan- 
guage, like the manners, is Danish; but in the 
interior of the country, in the highlands, and 
particularly among the peasantry, who have 
little or no communication with the sea-port 
towns. This language, then, is nothing more 
than what it is generally called, —a peasant 
language (et Bondemaal); but it contains a 
great number of very significant expressions, 
and so many ancient Danish words, no longer 
in use elsewhere, that, on this account even, it 
merits the attention of linguists. The Norwe- 
gian is distinguished from the other two North- 
ern (Scandinavian) languages, not only by a 
rich vocabulary of words peculiar to itself, its 
own pronunciation and inflections, but also by 
a, peculiar combination of words, or syntax ; so 
that we may say, that only literary cultivation 
is wanting to render it an independent lan- 
guage, like the others.” t 


* Det Danske, Norske og Svenske Sprogs Historie, af H. 
M. Petersen, 2 vols. Copenhagen: 1829. 12mo. 

+ Norske Ordsamling ; udgivet ved LAURENTS HALLAGER. 
Copenhagen: 1802, 8vo. 

t Norske Ordsamling; Preface, p. i. 


The first name on the records of Danish po- 
etry is that of Peder Laale. " Who he was, and 
when he lived, have not been very clearly made 
out; though, as near as can be ascertained, he 
flourished during the first half of the fifteenth 
century. His only work is a’volume of popu- 
lar proverbs in rather uncouth rhymes. In the 
days of old, the Danish Muse stammered in 
these proverbs, says Ole Borch (Balbutiebant 
olim vernacult numeri in Petri Laali proverh- 
is). Resting on so slight a foundation, Peder’s 
chance for immortality would seem to be but 
small; but they have placed him at the head of 
the poetic catalogue, and, on the title-page of 
the first edition of his book, he is called the 
light of the Danes, and the bright exemplar 
and specimen of men (Danorum lux et docto- 
rum virorum evidens exemplum atque specimen) .* 
In the latter half of the same century lived 
Broder Niels (Friar Nicholas), a monk in the 
Cistercian convent of Soroe, and author of the 
old Danish “* Rhyme-Chronicle,” in which he 
has versified some of the wonderful fables of 
Saxo-Grammaticus. At the same period flour- 
ished, likewise, a better poet than either of the 
foregoing, Herr Mikkel of Odense, a priest who 
wrote poems upon the “ Rosary of the Virgin 
Mary,” the ‘ Creation of the World,” ‘¢ Human 
Life,” and a few psalms.  ~ 

The sixteenth century commences with Gott- 
fried of Gemen’s publication of the romance 
of “ Flores og Blantzeflor,” which, in some form 
or other, had been current in Denmark for two 
centuries previous. Euphemia, Queen of Nor- 
way, at the commencement of the fourteenth 
century, being much addicted to novel-reading, 
caused this romance to be translated into the 
Northern tongue ; but.the text of Gottfried’s edi 
tion is of later date, so that the romance be 
longs, properly speaking, to the beginning of the 
sixteenth century. ‘To the same period belong 
the “‘ History of Broder Rus” (Friar Rush) ; 
the “Femthen Teghn”’ (the Fifteen Signs of 
Christ’s Coming) ; and the “ Sjels Kjzeremaal 
over Kroppen’”’ (the Soul’s Complaint of the 
Body), being a translation from the Latin, and 
not unlike the Anglo-Saxon poem on the same 
subject. 

In the first half of this century, appears the 
earliest of the Danish dramatic writers, Chris- 
ten Hansen, schoolmaster in Odense. He is 
the author of three dramatic pieces, belonging 
to that class known in the Middle Ages as 


* See Den Danske Digtekunsts Historie, ved R. NyERuP 
og K. L. Rawsex. 


2 vols. Copenhagen: 1828. 8vo. 


LE IED A TY SS IIRL I A DEI DE RID ADV SEED CEE 


Cen ne i lt i 


DANISH LANGUAGE 


eerste 


SS a SEN eT 


60 


Mysteries and Moralities. These pieces are 
entitled, “The Tale of the Old Woman, who, 
with the Help of her Dog, seduced a Damsel to 
her Undoing,” in which the characters are Ma- 
ritus, Uxor, Vir Rusticus, Bagnio-Keeper, Mu- 
lier, Monachus, Aulicus, Vetula, Diabolus, and 
Preco or Prologue; “The Judgment of Par- 
is’; and “The Comedy of Saint Dorothea, a 
Mystery,” in which the author, to use the 
words of Boileau, 
* Sottement zélé en sa simplicité, 
Joua les Saints, la Vierge et Dieu par piété.’’ 

The same subject has been treated by some of 
the old French playwrights, and later by Mas- 
singer, in his beautiful play of “* The Virgin- 
Martyr.” 

To the same period belong “ A Dialogue on 
the Popish Mass’’; ‘A Book of Vigils, or Sat- 
ires against the Catholic Clergy”; “ A Dia- 
logue between Peder Smid and Adger Bonde, 
on certain Dogmas of the Church’’; “ The 
Dance of Death,” in the spirit of the Spanish, 
German, and other death-dances of the time ; 
and twenty-two writers of psalms, whose names 
I will not repeat here, but whose labors may 
be found in the psalm-books of the day. In 
the same century occur the names of Herman 
Weigere, translator of ‘ Msop’s Fables,” and 
the renowned German satire of “¢ Reineke Fos,” 
called in Danish, “‘ Revebog or Mikkel Rev ”’ 
(the Book of the Fox, or Michael Fox) ; — Niels 
Jensen, who translated from the German of Hans 
Sachs a piece entitled ‘The Bagnio of Hell, 
a merry Story, in which the Devil laments 
that his Realm is growing too small for him, 
and sends for Workmen to make it larger, and 
how Matters went on there ’”’ ;— Henrich Chris- 
tensen, translator of the rhymed novel of “* King 
Persenober and Queen Constantianobis,’’ to 
whom probably belong, also, a translation of the 
“Alphabetum Aulicum,”’ in which the life of the 
court is described in a series of lines, beginning 
with the letters of the alphabet in succession, 
and ‘The Chronicle of Bergen” in rhyme ; — 
Rasmus Hansen Reravius, author of the ‘*(£co- 
nomia, or how the Father of a Family should 
behave himself,’ and “* The Coronation and Bri- 
dal of King Frederick the Second and Queen 
Sophia ’’; — and Anders Sorensen Vedel, a man 
of much distinction, who remodelled Herr Mik- 
kel’s poem on “ Human Life,”’ wrote a poetical 
history of the Popes, under the title of “ Anti- 
christus Romanus,” and, what is of far greater 
importance to the literary history of his coun- 
try, made two collections of old Danish ballads, 
one of heroic ballads, under the title of “« Kjem- 
peviser,”’ published in 1591, another of bal- 
lads of love (Elskovsviser), which he entitled 
“ 'Tragica,’ and which was not published until 
after his death. 

I must here interrupt, for a moment, the 
chronological order of writers, to.say a word of 
these popular ballads. Their dates are vari- 
ous and uncertain, extending over a period of 
several centuries, from the thirteenth to the 


Sa ew 


AND POETRY. 


eighteenth. A few years ago, a new collection 
was ‘published by Abrahamson, Nyerup, and 
Rahbek, containing two hundred and twenty- 
two ballads and songs; and, still later, two ad- 
ditional volumes by Nyerup, containing one 
hundred and thirty-nine.* These ballads con- 
stitute one of the most interesting portions of 
Danish literature. Some of them celebrate the 
achievements of historic characters, and others 
the more wonderful deeds of the heroes of ro- 
mance. Olger, the Dane, and Tidrick of Bern 
(Theodoric of Verona), occupy the foreground ; 
and various giants, dwarfs, and elves fill up the 
picture. The fierce old champion quaffs the 
blood of his foe ; 
“Up he struck his helmet, 
He drank of human blood ; 
‘In nomine Domini !? 

Was Hero Hogen’s word.’’ t 
The sea-rovers hoist their silken 
yards of gold; the maiden sits in 
white as a lily, and slim as a reed ; 


sails upon 
her bower, 


“‘Her mouth is, like the roses, red, 
Her eyes, like a falcon’s, gray ; 
And every word she utters 
Is like a minstrel’s lay.’? 1 
The little foot-page leads forth the palfrey gray, 
with his saddle of silver and bridle of gold’; the 
knight grasps his sword so firmly that the blood 
starts from his nails; his armor flashes through 
the darkness ; his drinking-horn is silver with- 
in and gold without; the damsel is changed, by 
magic, to a sword, hanging at her hero’s side 
by day, and sleeping under his pillow by night ; 
the dead mother in the grave hears her chil- 
dren cry ; she comes back to earth to comfort 
them, and the dogs howl as she passes through 
the streets of the village. 
In these ballads, the old popular traditions, 
so numerous in the North,§ found an expression 


* Udvalete Danske Viser fra Middelalderen. 5 vols. 
12mo. Copenhagen: 1812-1814. — Udvalg af Danske Vi- 
ser, fra Midten af det 16de Aarhundrede til henimod Mid- 
ten af det 18de, med Melodier. 2 vols. 12mo. Copenhagen: 
(821. 

ft Second ballad of ‘‘ Grimhild’s Hevn.” 
1, 122, 

1 Ballad of ‘‘ Edmund og Benedikt.’? Danske Viser. III. 
296. 

§ ‘Thiele, in his ‘‘ Danske Folkesagn,’”’ 4 vols., Copenha- 
gen, 1820-1823, gives more than five hundred of these. 
Those who are curious in nursery lore will find in the same 
work many of those magic rhymes by which children are 
made happy, and which boys repeat so fluently in their 
sports; as, for example: 

“ Tkkede, vikkede sukkede so, 

Abel, dabel, dommer no, 

Is, as, 

Ole fas, 

Fante ni, 

Fante ti, 

Stikkum, stakkum sti, 

Du staaer og er reent, skjer, klar fri.’? — Vol. IV. p. 183. 
Here, too, is the famous ‘‘ House that Jack built’: 

“Der har du det Huus, som Jacob bygde! 

Der har du der Malt, som laae i det Huus, som Jacob 

bygde! 

Der har du den Muus, som gnaved’ det Malt, som, &c. 

Der har du den Kat, som beed den Muus, som, &c. 


Danske Viser. 


DANISH LANGUAGE AND POET 


The ease with which the knight looks over the 
tree-tops in the forest, or leaps his steed over 
the castle wall, is equalled by the unhesitating 
manner in which the minstrel repeats the story, 
as if he expected it to be believed. This sim- 
plicity runs through most of the ballads ; through 
many of them, also, sounds a strange, wild bur- 
den, repeated after every stanza, and having, 
often, no very close connexion with the subject 
of the ballad ; as, for example; ‘ There stands 
a fortress hight Bern, and therein dwelleth King 
Tidrick”’; “Up, up before day, so come we 
well over the heath ”’ ; ‘“« There make they peace 
on the salt sea, where sail the Northmen,” and 
the like. In this point, as well as in many 
others, they resemble the old Scottish ballads. 
The affinity between the Danish and the Low- 
land Scotch is so great, that the ballads of the 
one may be rendered in the other with the ut- 
most fidelity. On this account Mr. Jamieson’s 
translations are to be preferred to any others. 

Let us now return to the chronological order 
of writers. During the latter half of the six- 
teenth century, flourished two more dramatists, 
Peder Jensen Hegeland, author of six plays: 
the tragi-comedy of ‘¢ Susanna,” ‘ Cain and 
Abel,” “ Abraham,” “ The Resurrection of Laz- 
arus,”’ ** The Leper,” and “* The Rich Man and 
Lazarus,’ of which the first alone remains ; — 
and Hieronymus Justesen Ranch, author of 
‘King Solomon’s Glory,” ‘‘Samson’s Impris- 
onment,” and “ Karrig Nidding ” (the Niggardly 
Miser). In ‘¢Samson’s Imprisonment,” Deli- 
lah’s maidens sing Samson asleep with a song 
about Vulcan and Mars; and, when he is grind- 
ing at the mill, the miller’s men sing a ditty, 
commencing, 

“Turn about! turn about ! 


Till the sack is out, 
Turn about ! turn about ! 


** Although it may come 
From the Pope in Rome, 
Turn about ! turn about ! ’”’ 


“ Karrig Nidding”’ holds the same place in the 
Danish drama that “* Gammer Gurton’s Nee- 
dle’ does in the English, and “* La Farce de 
Pathelin ”’ in the French. 

To close the literary ‘history of this century, 


Der har du den Hund, som jog den Kat, som, &c. 

Der har du den Koe, som stanged’ den Hund, som, &c. 

Der har du den Pige, som var ferloren, der malked’ den 

- Koe med de krummeHorn, som stanged’ den Hund, 
som, &c. 

Der har du den Skriver med Pen og Blekhorn, 

Som egted den Pige, som var ferloren, 

Som malked’ den Koe med de krumme Horn, 

Som stanged’ den Hund, 

Som jog den Kat, 

Som beed den Muus, 

Som gnaved’ det Malt, 

Som laae i det Huus, ‘ 

Som Jacob bygde.’? — Vol. IIT. p. 146." 

For an account of popular tales and romances of the 
North, the reader is referred to Nyerup’s ‘‘ Almindelig 
Morskabslesning i Danmark og Norge,’’ Copenhagen, 1816, 
where he will find due mention made of Whittington and 
his Cat,,Tom Thumb, and Robinson Crusoe. 


we find the names of Hans Christensén Stheni- 
us, author of “ Fortune’s. Wheel,” and a book 
of songs ; Ole Pedersen Kongstad, or Regiosta- 
danus, whose name is the longest thing he 
has left behind him; Jacob Madsen Kidben- 
havn, who translated into Danish the poems 
of David Lindsay, the Scotch poet; and, final- 
ly, Thomas Willumsen, author of a rhymed 
paraphrase of the Psalms. Two anonymous 
productions, ‘* A Dialogue between our Lord 
and Saint Peter,” and “ The Life of Margaret 
Vestenie,” whose death is described with sim- 
ple pathos, conclude the catalogue. 

In the seventeenth century, the taste for 
dramatic writing seems to have increased. At 
the beginning of the century, we find two an- 
onymous plays, ‘ Kortvending” (Vicissitude), 
and a translation of Terence’s “* Eunuch,’’—both 
pieces in verse. ‘The first author mentioned is 
Peder Thogersen, who translated from the Latin 
Rudolph Walter’s sacred comedy of ‘ Nabal,’’ 
and wrote a play in three acts, called “« De Mun- 
do et Paupere,” in which, for the sake of earthly 
vanities, a poor man sells himself to the world, 
as Dr. Faustus, the Duke of Luxembourg, and 
sundry other individuals did to the Devil. In 
the same manuscript are two anonymous plays, 
the comedy of “Tobias,” and the comedy of 
‘“¢ Hecastus,” and one or two others that have 
been mentioned before. Other dramatic wri- 
ters of the same period are Hans Thomeson 
Stege, author of the tragedy of ‘ Cleopatra ”’; 
Anders Kjeldsén Tybo, author of the historic 
drama of “ Absalom”; Jens Kjeldsen, author 
of * Joseph’s History ”’; and Erik Pontoppidan, 
author of “The Bridal of Tobias.”’ 

To the first half of the seventeenth century 
belong, also, Jacob Jacobsen Volf, who com- 
piled a ‘Chronicle of the Jews,” from the Sa- 
cred Scriptures and Josephus; Claus Chris- 
tophersen Lyschander, called by some the En- 
nius of Denmark, and author of the “ Green- 
land Chronicles,” the “'Triumphus Calmarien- 
sis, or the Union of Calmar,”’ and a poem on 
Christian the Fifth; and Anders Arrebo, a 
voluminous writer of psalms and other sacred 
songs, the most famous of which is the *“* Hexa- 
emeron,”’ or a paraphrase of the six days of the 
creation, from Genesis. The latter half of the 
seventeenth century presents but few names, 
and none of great distinction. The most prom- 
inent are, Anders Bording, better known as the 
editor of the “Danish Mercury,” than as a 
poet; and Thomas Kingo, author of “ The Spir- 
itual Choir,’ and editor of the old ‘+ Danish 
Psalmbook.”’ 

With the eighteenth century, begins a more 
glorious epoch in the annals of Danish poetry ; 
for now appears upon their pages the name of 
Ludvig Holberg, who is to his country what 
Moliére is to France, and Cervantes to Spain. 
He was born in Bergen in 1684, and in 1702 
entered the University of Copenhagen as a 
theological student. On leaving the University, 
he travelled in Holland ; and afterwards visited 


RY. 61 | 


England, passing nearly two years at the Uni- 
versity of Oxford. On his return, he established 
himself in Copenhagen, as a teacher of lan- 
guages. In 1714, he was made Professor Ex- 
traordinary ; and, after a few years, again trav- 
elled on the continent, visiting Holland, France, 
and Italy. In 1716, he returned to Copenhagen, 
and, in 1718, became Professor of Metaphysics ; 
in 1720, of Eloquence; in 1730, of History and 
Geography ; and in 1727, Questor of the Uni- 
versity. He was created Baron in 1747, and 
died in 1754. 

His principal works are his historical writ- 
ings; the mock-heroic cat of “* Peder Paars’’; 
ihirty-tive comedies; ‘‘ Nicholas Klimm’s Jour- 
ney to the World under Ground,”’ an imitation 
of ‘¢ Gulliver’s Travels,” originally written in 
Latin ; and an autobiography, which is not the 
least interesting and amusing of his productions. 
It was written chiefly in 1726. 

‘Peder Paars’”’ is a poem in four books, re- 
lating the adventures of the hero on his voyage 


from Callundborg to Aars : 
**T sing here of a hero, the mighty Peder Paars, 

Who undertook a journey from Callundborg to Aars ’” 
and is a satire upon those who in their writings 
magnify trifles into great events and make 
much ado about nothing. In his autobiography, 
he says of it: —‘*This poem was differently 
received according to the different character and 
disposition of its readers. Some were secretly 
displeased with it; others openly avowed the 
indignation it excited; some imagined them- 
selves to be attacked under fictitious names; 
and others, feeling equally guilty, and expecting 
similar treatment, joined in the abuse of the au- 
thor. Some, whose reading had never extend- 
ed beyond epithalamiums, epitaphs, and pane- 

gyrics, were alarmed at the novelty of this pro- 
duction, and condemned the audacity of the 
satirist; others, conceiving their enemies to be 
the objects of attack, read the poem with laugh- 
ter and delight, and took every opportunity of 
repeating what they considered the severest 
passages in the hearing of those to whom the 
satire was supposed to apply. The vulgar, 
whose opinions are commonly superficial, deem- 
ed it the work of an idler; and some literary 
characters, in their excessive anxiety to show 
their penetration, were equally at fault with the 
vulgar. There were some, however, who form- 
eda more favorable judgment of the merits of this 
production, and who applauded me, when my 
name became known, for my attempt to combine 
satire with pleasantry, and to temper the severi- 
ty of reproof by the graces of poetical embel- 
lishment. In their opinion, my poem was so 
far from meriting the light estimation in which 
some critics held it, that they considered its ap- 
pearance an era in ‘the literature of the country. 
‘The Danes,’ said they, ‘have at length a poem 
in their native language, which they need not 
be ashamed to show to Frenchmen and to Eng- 
lishmen.’ By their persuasions I was adouea 
to continue this poem till it reached four books, 


DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


and formed a considerable volume, of which 
not less than three editions were sold in the 
space of a year and a half; a degree of success 
which had never before attended any book writ- 
ten in the Danish language.”’ * 

Of his plays he says: —‘* Weary of continu- 
ing pursuits from which I derived but little 
profit, and which exposed me to so much eal- 
umny and miscohstruction, I abandoned poetry, 
and betook myself to my former studies, deter- 
mining to complete a work which I had begun 
some years before, comprehending a succinct 
account of the civil and ecclesiastical state of 
both kingdoms. But while I was engaged in 
this work, some of my friends — among whom 
were many persons of the first distinction, who 
wished to introduce into this ‘country regular 
plays, like those of other nations, written in the 
Danish language, and who, judging from the 
success of my poem and satires, thought me 
capable of succeeding equally in the drama — 
solicited me to turn my attention to this branch 
of writing. It was not easy for me to resist 
these solicitations, on the one hand; but, on the 
other, I was afraid of adding fuel to the malice 
of my enemies, from which I had already suf- 
fered enough to convince me how dangerous an 
enterprise it 1s to make war against the follies 
and prejudices of mankind. I was at length, 
however, prevailed upon to undertake the task, 
and I wrote those plays which have since been 
collected into several volumes, and which are 
now in every body’s hands. I made it my chief 
object, in these comedies, to attack follies and 
vices which had escaped other dramatic writers, 
and which, in some instances, were peculiar to 
the people of this country. I at first contented 
myself with reading these plays to my friends, 
and was for some time in doubt whether I 
should suffer them to be exhibited on the stage ; 
but I yielded to continued importunity, and 
gave the first five to the company of comedians.”’ 

In the continuation of his autobiography, 
in 1737, he speaks thus of “ Nicholas Klimm’s 
Journey ’’: —‘ There are many persons of both 
sexes in my country who speak confidently of 
their intercourse with fairies and supernatural 
beings, and who are ready to take their corporal 
oaths that they have been carried away by sub- 
terranean spirits to hills and mountain-caves. 
This foolish superstition, which suggested ma- 
terials for the fiction, is ridiculed in Klimius, 
the hero of the tale. The characters interspersed 
through the work are so numerous and various, 
that they may be said to illustrate a complete 
system of ethics; hence a key would be required 
for almost every page. I confess that the way 
in which vices are animadverted upon may give 
this production the air of a satire; but, as man- 
kind generally is the object of these animad- 


* Memoirs of Lewis Holberg. Written by himself in 
Latin, and now first translated into English. London: 


1827. Forming Vol. XII. of Hunt and Clarke’s Autobiog- 
| raphy, in 33 vols. 


18mo. 


oe 


DANISH LANGUAGE 


versions, it is a satire not unworthy of a philos- 
opher. ‘To many, on the other hand, the style 
may seem too feeble, cautious, and restrained ; 
for it is necessary, in works of this kind, so to 
temper the poignancy of the satire as to com- 
bine instruction with amusement. Above all, 
it is necessary that authors should confine them- 
selves within prudent limits, and cautiously ab- 
stain from directing their shafts against individ- 
uals. If this rule be observed, they may make 
satire, which when it is general is deprived of 
all its malignity, the vehicle of solid instruction, 
instead of an instrument of torture. Thus, there 
is less danger in attacking mankind generally 
than a whole nation, and a whole nation than a 
particular family ; and even a particular family 
may be more safely made the subject of animad- 
version than a single individual. The ‘ Journey 
to the World under Ground’ is to be considered 
as a philosophical romance, and the characters 
exhibited in it will suit any nation. There is 
no occasion for a key, therefore, where the door 
stands open, or for a solution, where there is no 
knot to untie. Nevertheless, for the benefit of 
key-searchers, I will provedd to give an expla- 
nation of the whale matter. 

“The story, which is only a vehicle for mor- 
al precepts and reflections, is a mere trifle. 
The materials, as I have just stated, are derived 
from a popular superstition, prevalent among 
my countrymen. ‘The hero of the story is sup- 
posed to be conveyed into the world under 
ground, where he meets with a number of sur- 
prising adventures, calculated to astonish and 
delignt the reader. Many wonderful creatures, 
such as nobody ever imagined before, are suf- 
fered to be inhabitants of this new world; trees, 
for instance, are introduced endowed with the 
gift of speech, and musical instruments. are here 
capable of discussing questions of philosophy or 
finance. The catastrophe of the story is as 
striking as the incidents which delight the read- 
er in the course of the narrative; for in the 
space of half an hour the founder of a great 
monarchy is transformed into a poor bachelor 
of arts. Such being the nature of the work, 
many persons have read the ‘Journey to the 
World under Ground,’ as a mere book of 
amusement. It is true that this production is 
a literary trifle, but it is not altogether a useless 
trifle ; since instruction may in this way be in- 
sinuated into many readers who would shrink 
from a regular didactic treatise ; and as Trimal- 
chio had his epitaph written upon a sun-dial, 
that every body who consulted it might read his 
name, so a work of pleasantry may be made the 
medium of instruction to those who will read 
nothing but books of amusement. A fisherman 
must bait his hook to the taste of the little fish- 
es, if he expects to catch them; and, in like 


manner, philosophers of the greatest note have 
from time to time conveyed instruction through 
the medium of apologues and entertaining tales.”’ 

The other most distinguished names of the 


AND) POETRY. 


63 


eighteenth century are Christian Falster, a writ- 
er of satires, and translator of parts of Ovid 
and Juvenal ;—— Jens Schelderup Sneedorf, au- 
thor of several allegorical poems, and his son, 
Hans Christian, who wrote the well known 
ballad on Herr Henrik, the improver of the 
Copenhagen docks; — Johan Clemens Tode, 
a very voluminous writer, translator of Smol- 
lett’s novels, and author of several lyrical dra- 
mas ; Johan Herman Wessel, a comic writer 
of great merit, author of the tragi-comedy, 
“ Love without Stockings’’ (Kierlighed uden 
Strémper), and the “Tale of the Fork” (Gaffe- 
len), in which an old woman and her husband 
having three wishes allowed them by the gos, 
she instantly wishes for a fork, he wishes it 
were stuck into her body, and she wishes it 
were out again ;—-Ole Johan Samsée, author 
of the tragedy of “¢ Dyveke,”’ and translator of 
F lorian’s plays ;—Johan Nordal Brun, author 
of “ Zarine,”’ the first original Danish tragedy 
ever brought upon the stage ; — Claus Friman, 
and his brother, Peder Harboe, both lyric writ- 
ers of note ;— Peter Magnus Troiel, celebrated 
for his satires;——and Christen Pram, author 
of “ Sterkodder,”’ a poem in fifteen cantos. In 
addition to these may be mentioned Christian 
Brauman Tullin, Johannes Evald, Edward 
Storm, and Thomas Thaarup, all of whom will 
be mere particularly noticed hereafter. 

The principal poetic names of the present 
century are Knud Lyne Rahbek, Peter Andreas 
Heiberg, Jens Baggesen, Adam Gottlob Oehlen- 
schlager, and Bernhard Severin Ingemann, of 
whom biographical sketches will be given in 
connection with the extracts from their writings. 
To these may be added Christian Levin Sander, 
a successful dramatic writer ;— Nicolai F. 8. 
Grundtvig, author of ‘ Bjowulfs Drape,” a 
rhymed paraphrase of the old Anglo-Saxon 
‘¢‘ Beowulf”’ ; — Christian Hertz, author of the 
“¢ Journey to Helicon,” a heroic poem in four 
cantos ;-—his brother, Jens Michael, author of 
‘“‘ Israel Delivered,” an epic poem ;—and a 
crowd of lyric writers of less distinction, though 
not unknown to fame, specimens of whose 
poems may be found in the various collections 
aud anthologies of Danish poetry. For a more 
particular account of the whole series of Dan- 
ish poets from Arrebo to the present time, the 
reader is referred to Nyerup and Kraft’s 
“ Almindeligt Litteratur-lexicon for Danmark, 
Norge og Island,” 2 vols., Copenhagen, 1820, 
4to.;—Rahbek and Nyerup’s ‘Danske Dig- 
tekunsts Middelalder fra Arrebo til Tullin,”’ 
2 vols., Copenhagen, 1805, 12mo.;— Molbech’s 
e Danek Poetisk Anthologie, "ie vols., Copen- 
hagen, 1830, 12mo.; | st Poesier;” published 
by Schultz, 4 EM Copenhagen, 1786-90, 
12mo. ;— the two collections of ‘ Selskabs- 
sange,’’ published by Pulsen, Copenhagen, 
1793-1801, 16mo., and that of Schaldemose, 
Copenhagen, 1816, 16mo. See also Flor’s 
“‘ Dansk Lesebog,”’ Kiel, 1835, 8vo. 


STARK TIDERICK AND OLGER 
DANSKE. 


Stark Tidrick bides him intill Bern, 
Wi his bald brithers acht ; 4 
Twall? stalwart sons had they ilk ane, 
O’ manhead and great macht. 
(Now the strife it stands northward 
under Jutland.) 


And he had fifteen sisters, 
And twall sons ilk ane had ; 
The youngest she had thirteen ; — 
Their life they downa redd.® 
(Now the strife it stands northward 
under Jutland.) 


Afore the Berners they can stand 
Fiel + stalwart kempis > strang : 
The sooth to say, they kythit ® o’er 
1 ae The beech-tree taps sae lang. 
ae to (Now the strife it stands northward 
under Jutland.) 


‘“¢ Now striven hae we for mony a year, 
Wi? kemps and knightis stark : 

Sae mickle we hear o’ Olger Danske, 
He bides in Dannemarck. 


“ This hae we heard o’ Olger Danske, — 
He bides in North Jutland ; 

He ’s gotten him crown’d wi’ red goud, 
And scorns to be our man.” 


Up Sverting hent a stang? o’ steel, 
And shook it scornfullie : 

* A hunder o’ King Olger’s men 
I wadna reck a flie!”’ 


“ Hear thou, Sverting, thou laidly ® page, 
Ill sets thee sae to flout ; 

I tell thee King Olger’s merry men 
Are stalwart lads and stout. 


*« Nae fear for either glaive or swerd 

Or grounden ® bolt hae they ; 
The bloody stour ’s?° their blythest hour ; 
' They count it bairns’ play.” 


This word heard the high Bermeris, 
And took tent !! o’ the same : 

“We will ride us till Dannemarck, 
See an Olger be at hame.”’ 


1 Eight. 5 Champions. 9 Sharp. 
2 Twelve. 6 Appear. 10 Battle. 
3 Do not care for. 7 Took a bar. 11 Heed. 
{| | 4 Many. 8 Loathsome. 


Brea An Sn 


16 Always. 


They drew out o’ the Berner’s land ; 
Acht thousand strang they were : 

“* King Olger we will visit now, 
And a’ till Danmarck fare.” 


King Tidrick sent a messager, 
Bade him till Olger say : 

* Whilk will ye loor now,’ stand the stour, 
Or to us tribute pay?” 


Sae grim in mood King Olger grew, 
Tll could he thole }° sic taunts : 
“Thou bid them bide us on the bent; ?4- 
See wha the payment vaunts! 


“ Tribute the Dane to nae-man pays, 
But dane-gelt !> a’ gate !® taks ; 

And tribute gin ye will hae, ye’s hae ’t 
Laid loundring 17 on your backs !”’ 


King Olger till his kempis said : 
“© T ’ve selcouth 1® news to tell ; 
Stark Tidrick has sent us a messager 
That we maun pay black-mail. 


“ And he black-mail maun either hae, 


Or we maun fecht !9 him here ; 
But he is na‘the first king, 
Will Danmarck win this year.” 


Syne 7° till King Tidrick’s messager 
Up spak that kemp sae stout : 

‘Come the Berners but till Danmarck in, 
Uneath 7! they ‘Il a’ win out.” 


Sae glad was he then, Ulf of Airn, 
Whan he that tidings fand ; 

Sae leugh 2? he, Hero Hogen ; 
And they green’d*° the stour to stand. 


It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
He grew in mood sae fain ; 

And up and spak he, young Child Orme, 
“¢ We ll ride the Berners foregain.’’ 24 


‘¢ The foremaist on the bent I ’se be! ”’ 
That said Sir Iver Blae ; 

‘¢ Forsuith I ’se nae the hindmaist be ! ”’ 
Answer'd Sir Kulden Gray. 


King Olger and Stark Tiderick, 
They met upon the muir; 

They laid on load in furious mood, 
And made a fearfu’ stour. 


12 Rather. 17 Beating. 21 Uneasily. 
13 Bear. 18 Strange. 22 Laughed. 
14 Field. 19 Fight. 23 Longed. 

15 Black-mail. 20 Then. 24 Against. 


frac desinnsemnnsinennnemeernasenee eet oe ICL SST DEG 


a etiecenstnereenene esieeeieeenesenisecaeneig oem cacti eee TEE OTT OS eT 


BALLADS. 


Neither could win the gree ; *° 


The manfw’ Danes their chieftain ware,?¢ 


Nae ane will flinch or flee. 


The bluid ran bullering 27 in burns 
Bedown baith hill and dale ; 

Dane-gelt the Berners now maun pay, 
That ween'd to get black-mail. 


The yowther 7° drifted sae high i’ the sky ; 


The sun worth 29 a’ sae red: 
Great pity was it there to see 
Sae mony stalwart dead ! 


There lay the steed; here lay the man ; 
Gude friends that day did twin: °° 


They leuch *! na a’ to the feast that cam, 


Whan the het bluid-bath was done, 


High Bermeris bethought him then, 
All sadly as they lay : 


* There scarce live a hunder o’ our men; 


How should we win the day ?”’ 


Then took Tiderick till his legs, 
And sindle ®? luikit back ; 

Sverting forgat to say gude-night; 
And the gait till Bern they tak. 


Tidrick he turn’d him right about, 
And high in the lift °° luik’d he: 

“To Bern I trow is our safest gait; 
Here fa’ we scoug nor lee!” 34 


Syne stay’d him Vidrich Verlandson, 
All under a green know : *° 

“Ye ’ve little to ruse ye o’ your raid *° 
The Danish kemps to cow!” 


That tyde they drew frae Bernland out, 
Acht thousand strang were they : 


And back to Bern but only five 
And fifty took their way. 


ae 


LADY GRIMILD’S WRACK. 


Ir was proud Lady Grimild 
Garr’d mask! the mead sae free, 
And she has bidden the hardy knights 
Frae ilka frem ? countrie. 


She bade them come, and nae deval,® 
To bargane * and to strife ; 

And there the Hero Hogen 
Forloot® his young life. 


Victory. 31 Laughed. 1 Made mingle. 
Defend. 82 Seldom. 2 Far. 
Bubbling. 83 Sky. 3 Delay. 
Vapor. 34 Shelter nor peace. 4 Battle. 
Became. 35 Knoll. 5 Lost. 

Part. 


86 Praise for your deed. 
i] 


6 Sauntered. 
7 Preserve. 


eee ESR SURINEL Ye PPO HED PR Se GE AE SA ST COLA SOOT Te Lh LNAI De PN LN WORE VD 


They fought ae day ; for three they fought; It was the Hero Hogen, 


He ’s gane out to the strand, 
And there he fand the Ferryman 
All upo’ the white sand. 


“© Hear thou now, gude Ferryman, 
Thou row me o’er the sound, 

And I Il gie thee my goud ring; 
It weighs well fifteen pound.” 


‘J winna fare thee o’er the sound, 
For a’ thy goud sae red ; 

For and thou come till Hvenild’s land, 
Thou wilt be slaén dead.” 


'T was then the Hero Hogen, 
His swerd out he drew, 

And frae the luckless Ferryman 
The head aff he hew. 


He strak the goud ring frae his arm, 
Gae it the Ferryman’s wife : 

*¢ Hae, tak thou this, a gudely gift, 
For the Ferryman’s young life.” 


It was the Hero Hogen, 
He danner’d ® on the strand ; 
And there he fand the Mer-lady 
Sleeping on the white sand. 


*« Heal, heal to thee, dear Mer-lady, 
Thou art a cunning wife ; 

And [I come in till Hvenild’s land, 
It ’’s may I brook? my life ?”’ 


“Tt ’s ye hae mony a strang castell, 
And mickle goud sae red ; 

And gin ye come till Hvenoe land, 
Ye will be slaén dead.”’ 


"T was then the Hero Hogen, 
His swerd swyth ® he drew, 

And frae the luckless Mer-lady 
Her head aff he hew. 


Sae he has taen the bloody head, 
And cast it 1’ the sound : 

The body’s croppen ° after, 
And join’d it at the ground. 


Sir Grimmer and Sir Germer 
They launch’d sae bald and free, 

Sae angry waxt the wild winds, 
And stormy waxt the sea. 


Sae angry waxt the wild winds, 
Anu fierce the sea did rair ; 
In twain in Hero Hogen’s hand 

Is brast the iron air.!° 


In twain it brast, the iron air, 
In Hero Hogen’s hand ; 


Straightway. 10 Oar. 


8 
9 Corpse. 
F2 


DANISH POETRY. 


And wi’ twa gilded shields then 
The knights they steer’d to land. 


Whan they were till the land come, 
They ilk ane scour’d his brand, 
And there sae proud a maiden 
Saw what they had in hand. 


Her stature it was stately, 
Her middle jimp '! and sma’ ; 
Her body short, her presence 
Was maiden-like witha’. 


They ’ve doén !? them till Norborg, 
And to the yett !° sae free : 

“OQ, whare is now the porter 
That here should standing be? ”’ 


“It’s here am I, the porter, 

That here stand watch and ward ; 
I ’d bear your tidings gladly, 

Wist I but whence ye far’d.”’ 


“Then hither are we come frae 
A’ gaits 14 whare we hae gane ; 
Lady Grimild’s our sister ; — 
It ’s a’ the truth I ’ve sayn.” 


In syne cam the porter, 
And stood afore the deas ; 1° 

Fu’ canny 7’ the tongue was he, 
And well his words could place. 


Fu’ canny 1’ the tongue was he, 
And well his words could wale: 6 

“There out afore your yett stand 
Twa wordy '7 kemps but !8 fail. 


‘Tt ’s out there stand afore your yett 
Twa sae well-wordy men ; 

The tane he bears a fiddle, 
The tither a gilded helm. 


‘¢ He that bears a fiddle bears ’t 
For nae lord’s meat or fee ; 
And wharesoe’er they come frae, 
Duke’s sons I ‘wat they be.” 


It was proud Lady Grimild 
Put on the pilche 1° sae fine, 

And she is to the castell yett 
To bid her brithers in. 


“ Will ye gae till the chamber 
And drink the mead and wine ; 
And sleep upon a silken bed 
Wi twa fair ladies mine ?”’ 


It was proud Lady Grimild 
Put on the pilche sae braw, 

And she ’s.intill the ha’ gane 
Afore her kempis a’. 


11 Slender. 14 Places. 17 Worthy. 
12 Betaken. 15 Table. i8 Without. 
13 Gate. _ 16 Choose. 


19 Fur mantle. 


«« Here sit ye a’, my merry men, 
And drink baith mead and wine ; 

But wha will Hero Hogen sla’, 
Allerdearest brither mine ? 


‘¢ Tt ’s he that will the guerdon fa’,”° 
And sla’ this Hogen dead, 

Sall steward o’ my castell be, 
And win my goud sae red.” 


It ’s up and spak a kemp syne, 
A lording o’ that land : 

‘Tt ’s I will win your guerdon, 
Forsooth, wi’ this right hand. 


“It’s I will fa’ your guerdon ; 
Sla’ Hero Hogen dead ; 

Be steward o’ your castell, 
And win your goud sae red.”’ 


And up spake Folqvar Spillémanid, | 
Wi’s burly iron stang : 

‘¢ Come thou within my arms’ length, 
I ’ll mark thee or thou gang!” 


The first straik fifteen kempis 
Laigh to the eard ?! did strik : 

“Ha, ha, Folqvar Spillemand ! 
Well wags thy fiddlestick ! ” 


Syne dang he down the kempis 
Wi’ deadly dints and dour ; 2” 
And braid and lang the brigg 7° was 
Whare they fell in that stour. 


Aneath were spread wet hides, and 
Aboon were pease sae sma’, 
And Hero Hogen stumbled, 
And was the first to fa’. 


It was the Hero Hogen, 
He wad win up again : 

“¢ Hald, hald, my dearest brither, 
Our paction well ye ken. 


“Ye keep your troth, my brither ; 
Still keepit it maun be ; 

And ance thou till the eard fa’, 
Nae rising is for thee.” 


Sae moody Hero Hogen is, 
Still keep his word will he ; 

Till he has got his death-straik, 
A-fighting on his knee. 


Yet dang he down three, kempis ; 
Nane o’ the least were they : 
Wi’ hammers syne he brast whare 

His father’s treasures lay. 


And him betid a luck sae blyth, 
He gat the lady’s fere ; 


20 Get. 22 Hard. 
21 Low to the earth. 23 Bridge. 


BALLADS. 67 


And she was the proud Hvenild, that 
A son to him did bear. 


Ranke, hight that kemp, that 
Reveng’d his father’s dead: 
Grimild in the treasury, 
She quail’d for want o’ bread. 


Sae drew he frae that land out 
Till Bern in Lombardy ; 
There liv’d amang the Danish men, 


And kyth’d?* his valor hy. 


His mither she gaed hame again, 

And Hvenske-land bears her name ; 
*Mang gallant knights and kempis 

Sae wide is spread their fame. 


——_—g¢— 


THE ETTIN LANGSHANKS. 


Kine Tipricx sits intill Bern, 
He rooses! him of his might ; 
Sae mony has he in battle cow’d, 
Baith kemp and doughty knight. 
(There stands a fortress hight Bern, and 
thereintill dwelleth King Tidrick.) 


King Tidrick stands at Bern, 
And he looks out sae wide: 

‘Wold God I wist of a kemp sae bold 
Durst me in field abide!” 


Syne answer’d Master Hildebrand, 
In war sae ware and wight :? 

‘“¢ There liggs® a kemp in Birting’s Bierg ;— 
Dare ye him rouse and fight?” 


‘¢ Hear thou, Master Hildebrand, 
Thou art a kemp sae rare: 

Ride thou the first i’ the shaw 4 the day, 
Our banner gay to bear.” 


Syne answer’d Master Hildebrand ; 
He was a kemp sae wise: 

‘¢ Nae banner will I bear the day, 
For sae unmeet a prize.” 


Syne answer’d Vidrich Verlandson, 
He spoke in full good mood: 

‘¢ The first 1 the press I’se be the day, 
To march to Birting’s wood. 


Up spak he, Vidrich Verlandson, 
And an angry man he grew: 

“ Thro’ hauberk as thro’ hacketon 
The smith’s son’s swerd sall hew.” 


They were well three hunder kemps, 
They drew to Birting’s land : 

They sought the Ettin> Langshanks, 
And in the shaw him fand. 


4 Wood. 
5 Giant. 


«24 Showed. 
1 Boasts. 


2 Stout and strong. 
3 Lies. 


Syne up spak Vidrich Verlandson : 
*“‘ A selcouth game you ’s see, 

Gin ye lat me ride first to the wood, 
And lippen ® sae far to me. 


‘“¢ Here bide ye a’, ye kingis men, 
Whare twa green roads are met, 
While I ride out in the wood alane, 
To speer’ for you the gate.” 8 


It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
Into the wood he rade; 

And there he fand a little foot-path, 
To the Ettin’s lair that led. 


Syne up spak he, King Tidrick : 
‘‘ Hear what I say to thee ; 

Find ye the Ettin Langshanks, 
Ye healna ® it frae me.” 


It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
To Birting’s hythe 1° he wan ; 
And there the Ettin Langshanks 
Laidly and black he fand. 


It was Vidrich Verlandson 
Strak the Ettin wi’ his stang: 

“© Wake up, ye Langshanks Ettin ; 
Ye sleep baith hard and lang!” 


‘¢ On this wild moor I ’ve lien and slept 
‘For lang and mony a year: 

Nor ever a kemp has challeng’d me, 
Or dar’d my rest to steer.”’ 14 


*‘ Here am I, Vidrich Verlandson, 
With good swerd by my side, 
And here I dare thy rest to steer, 
And dare thy wrath abide.” 


It was the Ettin Langshanks, 
He wink’d up wi’ his ee’: 

‘6 And whence is he, the page sae bald, 
Dares say sic words to me?”’ 


“‘ Verland was my father hight, 
A smith of cunning rare ; 

Bodild was my mother call’d, 
A kingis daughter fair. 


“¢ My full good shield, that Skrepping hight, 
Has mony a dent and clour ; %? 

On Blank, my helmet, mony a swerd 
Has brast, of temper dour. 


‘¢ My noble steed is Skimming hight, 
A wild horse of the wood ; 

My swerd by men is Mimmering nam’d, 
Temper’d in heroes’ blood. 


“¢ And I hight Vidrich Verlandson, 
All steel-clad as you see ; 

And, but thy lang shanks thou bestir, 
Sorely shalt thou abie.!? 


6 Trust. 9 Hide not. 12 Bruise. 
7 Ask, 10 Heath. 13 Suffer.” 
8 Way. 11 Disturb. 


“ Hear thou, Ettin Langshanks, 
A word I winna!4 lie ; 

The king is in the wood, and he 
Maun tribute hae frae thee.” 


“© What gold I have full well I know 
Sae well to guard and ware, 

Nor saucy page sall win’t frae me, 
Nor groom to claim it dare.” 


“ Thou to thy cost salt find, all young 
And little as I be, 

Thy head I'll frae thy shoulders hew, 
And win thy gold frae thee.” 


It was the Ettin Langshanks 
Nae langer lists to sleep : 

‘Young kemp, away, and to thy speed, 
If thou thy life wilt keep.” 


Wi’ baith his hooves up Skimming sprang 
On the Ettin’s side belyve ; !° 

There seven o’ his ribs he brake ; — 
Sae they began to strive. 


It was the Ettin Langshanks 
Grip’d his steel stang in hand } 
He strak a stroke at Vidrich, 
That the stang i’ the hill did stand. 


It was the Ettin Langshanks, . 
He ween’d to strike him stythe ; 1° 

But he his firsten straik has mist, 
The steed sprang aff sae swyth.17 


"T was then the Ettin Langshanks, 
And he took on to yammer : 18 

** Now lies my stang i’ the hillock fast 
As it were driven wi’ hammer.”’ 


It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
And wroth in mood he grew: 

* Skimming, about! Good Mimmering, 
Now see what thou canst do!” 


In baith his hands he Mimmering took, 
And strak sae stern and fierce, 

That through the Langshanks Ettin’s breast 
The point his thairms !° did pierce. 


Then first the Ettin Langshanks 
Felt of a wound the pain ; 

And gladly, had his strength remain’d, 
Wad paid it back again. 


“ Accursed, Vidrich, be thy arm, 
Accursed be thy brand, 

For the deadly wound that in my breast 
I ’ve taken frae thy hand!” 


* Ettin, I ll hew and scatter thee 
Like leaves before the wind, 
But and thou tell me in this wood 
Whare I thy gold may find.” 


14 Will not. 16 Stiff. 18 Lament. 
15 Forthwith. 17 Swiftly. 19 Entrails. 


DANISH POETRY. 


And mair gold nor ’s in a’ this land 


‘© Q, spare me, Vidrich Verlandson, 
And never strike me dead ! 

Sae will I lead thee to the house 
Roof’d with the gold sae red.” 


Vidrich rode and the Ettin crept ; 
Deep in the wood they ’re gone ; 

They found the house with gold sae red 
Like burning light that shone. 


“« Away ye heave that massy stane, 
Lift frae the bands the door ; 


Within ye ’ll find in store.” 


Syne answer’d Vidrich Verlandson ; 
Some treason he did fear: 

‘‘ The kemp is neither ware nor wise 
That sic a stane wad steer.”’ 


“ Well Vidrich kens to turn a steed ; 
*T is a’ he understands : 

But Ill do mair wi’ twa fingers 
Nor thou wi’ baith thy hands.” 


Sae he has taen that massy stane, 
And lightly o’er did turn: 

Full grimly Vidrich ettled *° then 
That he should rue that scorn. 


‘There ’s mair gold in this treasury 
Nor fifteen kings can shaw : 

Now hear thou, Vidrich Verlandson, 
The first thou in salt ga.” 


Syne up spak Vidrich Verlandson, 
His cunning well he knew: 

‘¢ Be thou the first to venture in, 
As fearless kemp should do.” 


It was the Ettin Langshanks, 
In at the door he saw: 

Stark Vidrich strak wi’ baith his hands, 
And hew’d his head him fra. 


And he has taen the Ettin’s blood 
And smear’d wi’ it his steed : 

Sae rade he to King Tidrick, 
Said, ‘‘ Foul has been my speed ! ” 


And he has taen the Ettin’s corpse, 
Set it against an aik ; 

And all to tell the wondrous feat 
His way does backward take. 


‘¢ Here bide ye a’, my doughty feres, 21 
Under this green hill fair : 

How Langshanks Ettin ’s handled me, 
To tell you grieves me sair.”’ 


‘¢ And has the Ettin maul’d thee sae ? 
That is foul skaith and scorn; 

Then never anither sall be foil’d ; — 
We’ll back to Bern return.”’ 


20 Determined. 21 Companions. 


22 Longed. 23 Body. 


‘Thou turn thee, now, King Tidrick, 


Thou turn thee swythe wi’ me ; 
And a’ the gold the Ettin had 
I’ll shew belyve to thee.” 


‘¢ And hast thou slain the Ettin the day ? 


That mony a man sall weet; 


And the baldest kemp i’ the warld wide 


Thou never need fear to meet.”’ 


It was then King Tidrick’s men, 
They green’d 2? the Ettin to see ; 


And loud they leuch at his laidly bouk, 7° 


As it stood by the tree. 


They ween’d that he his lang shanks 


Yet after chem might streek ; 


And nae ane dared to nigh him near, 


Or wake him frae his sleep. 


It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
Wi’ mickle glee he said: 


‘¢ How would ye bide his living look, 
That fleys?* ye sae whan dead ?”’ 


He strak the body wi’ his staff ; 
The head fell to the eard : 

“In sooth that Ettin was a kemp 
That ance might well be fear’d.”’ 


And they hae taen the red gold, 
What booty there did stand ; 
And Vidrich got the better part, 

Well won with his right hand. 


But little he reck’d a spoil sae rich ; 
"T was a’ to win the gree, 

And as the Ettin-queller wide 
O’er Danmarck fam’d to be. 


Sae gladly rode they back to Bern ; 
But Tidrick maist was glad ; 
And Vidrich o’ his menyie a’ 
The foremost place aye had. 


——_¢——= 


HERO HOGEN AND THE QUEEN OF 


DANMARCK. 


Tue king he ’s sitting in Ribé ; 
He ’s drinking wine ; 


Sae he has bidden the Danish knights 


To. propine. 


(Sae nobly dances he, Hogen !) 


«¢ Ye stand up a’, my merry men 
And knightis bold, 

And gayly tread the dance wi’ me 
O’er the green wold.” 


(Sae nobly dances he, Hogen !) 


Now lists the king 0’ Danmarck 
To dance in the ring ; 


BALLADS. 


And neist! cam Hero Hogen 
Afore them, to sing. 


Up wak’d the queen o’ Danmarck ; 
In her bower she lay : 

‘“©Q, whilken o’ my ladies 
Strikes the harp sae ?”’ 


‘¢Tt is nane o’ your ladies 
Whase harp ye hear ; 

It is Hero Hogen 
Singing sae clear.” 


“Ye a’ get up, my maidens, 
Rose chaplets on your hair ; 

Forth we will us a’ ride, 
Wassel to share.”’ 


First rade the queen o’ Danmarck, 
In red scarlet tho ; 2 

Syne ladies rade, and maidens, 
And maries a-row. 


Fw’ lightly rade the queen round 
And round the dance sae free ; 

"T was a’ on noble Hogen aye 
Turned her ee’, 


"T was then Hero Hogen, 
His hand raught?® he: 
“QO, list ye, gracious lady, 
To dance wi’ me?” 


Now dances Hero Hogen ; 
He dances wi’ the queen ; 

And mickle glee, the sooth to say, 
There passes them atween. 


Up there stood a little may 4 
In kirtle blue: 


“© O, ’ware ye fore the fause claverers ; ° 


They lyth to you.” 


It was the king 0’ Danmarck, 
And he can there speer: 


‘¢ What does the queen o’ Danmarck 


A-dancing here ? 


“Far better in her bower ’t were 
On her goud harp to play, 
Nor dancing here sae lightly 
Wi’ Hogen thus to gae.” 


Up there stood a little may 
In kirtle red : 

“¢ Ware now, my gracious lady ; 
My lord’s grim, I rede.” 


©] ’ve just but i’ the dance come in; 


It ’s nae near till an en’; 
And sae my lord the king may 
Mak himsell blythe again.” 


1 Next. 3 Reached. 


24 Affrights. 2 Then. 4 Maiden. 


5 Tdle talkers. 


DANISH POETRY. 


Up there stood a little page 
Intill a kirtle green : 

“Ware ye, my gracious lady ; — 
My lord is riding hame.”’ 


Shame fa’ Hero Hogen, 
That e’er he sang sae clear ; 
The queen sits in her bower up, 
And dowy ® is her cheer. 
(Sae nobly dances he, Hogen !') 


SIR GUNCELIN. 


It was the Earl Sir Guncelin, 
To his mother he can say, 
“Tt ’s I will ride me up-o-land, 
My manhood to essay.” 
(Up, up afore day, sae come we well 
over the. heath-O ! ) 


“¢ And wilt thou ride thee up-o-land, 
And dost thou tell me sae ? 
Then I ’Il gie thee a steed sae good, 
Men call him Kar] the gray. 
(Up, up afore day, sae come we well 
over the heath-O !) 


“Then I ’Il gie thee a steed sae good, 
Men call him Karl the gray ; 

Ye ne’er need buckle on a spur 
Or helm, whan him ye hae. 


“¢ At never a kemp maun ye career, 
Frae never ane rin awa’, 

Untill ye meet with him, the kemp 
That men call Ifver Blaa.”’ 


It was the Earl Sir Guncelin 
Can by a green hill ride; 

There met he him, little Tilventin, 
And bade him halt and bide. 


“¢ Well met, well met, young Tilventin! 
Whare did ye lie last night?” 

*‘T lay at Bratensborg, whare they 
Strike fire frae helmets bright.’ 


It was the Earl Sir Guncelin 
Look’d under his helmet red : 
‘¢Sae be ’t wi’ little Tilventin ! — 
Thou ’s spoken thy ain dead.” 


It was the Earl Sir Guncelin, 
He his swerd out drew ; 

It was little Tilventin 
He in pieces hew. 


Sae rade he till Bratensborg, 
He rapped at the yate : 

“Ts there here ony kemp within 
That dares wi’ me debate ?”’ 


6 Doleful. 


It was Sir Ifver Blaa, 
To the east he turn’d about: 
“Help now, Ulf and Ismer Grib! 
I hear a kemp thereout.” 


It was Sir Ifver Blaa, 
And he look’d to the west: 

“ Thereout I hear Sir Guncelin: 
Help, Otthin ! as thou can best.” 


It was the Earl Sir Guncelin, 
And helm o’er neck he flang ; 

Sae heard, though mony a mile away, 
His mother dear the clang. 


That lady she waken’d at still midnight, 
And till her lord she said : 

“May God Almighty rightly rede? 
That our son may well be sped!” 


The firsten tilt they thegither rode, 
Those kemps sae stark and bold, 

Wide on the field Sir Ifver Blaa 
Was cast upon the mold. 


“ Hear thou, Earl Guncelin, 
An’ thou will lat me live, 

I hae me a betrothed bride, 
And her to thee I ’ll give.” 


“J *ll none of thy betrothed bride ; 
Yet wedded would I be: 

Give me Salenta, sister thine, 
As better liketh me.” 


Sae rode they to the bride-ale ; 
They roundly rode in fere ; 

And they hae bidden the kempery men 
To come frae far and near. 


They bade him, Vidrich Verlandson, 
Stark Tidrick out of Bern, 

And Holger Danske, that aye for feats 
Of chivalry did yearn. 


Child Sivard Snaren they hae bidden, 
Afore the bride to ride ; 

And Ettin Langshanks he maun be 
All by the bridegroom’s side. 


They ’ve bidden Master Hildebrand, 
And he the torch maun bear ; 

Him followed twice sax kemps, and they 
Drank and made lusty cheer. 


And hither came Folquard Spillemand ; 
For that the kemps sall pay ; 

And hither came King Sigfrid Horne, 
As he shall rue the day. 


It was proud Lady Grimild 
Was bidden to busk ? the bride ; 
But hard and fast her feet and hands 
Wi’ fetters they hae tied. 


1 Ordain. 2 Dress. 


Theretill came Lady Gunde Hette, 
In Norden Field that bade ; 

She drank and she danced, 
And luckily was sped. 


There in came Lady Brynial, 
And she carved for the bride ; 
Her follow’d seven sma’ damsels, 

And sat the kemps beside. 


They follow’d the bride to the chamber in, 
Their breakfast there to eat ; 

Of groats four barrels she ate up, 
Sae well she lik’d that meat. 


Sax oxen she ate up, theretill 
Eight flitches of the brawn ; 

Seven hogsheads of the ale she drank, 
Or she to yex® began. 


They follow’d the bride intill the ha’; 
Sae bowden # was her skin, 

They dang down five ells 0’ the wa’ 
Ere they could get her in. 


They led the bride to the bride-bench, 
And gently set her down: 

Her weight it brake the marble bench, 
And she came to the ground. 


They serv’d her wi’ the best o’ fare ; 
She made na brocks® o’ meat ; 

Five oxen and ten gude fat swine 
Clean up the witch did eat. 


That mark’d the bridegroom (well he 
might !), 
"T was little to his wish : 
“¢T never yet saw sae young a bride 
Lay her lugs ® sae in a dish!” 


Up syne sprang the kempery men ; 
Thegither they advise : 

*¢ Whilk will ye rather, pitch the bar, 
Or kemp in knightly guise ?”’ 


The kempery men a ring they drew 
All on the sward sae green ; 

And there, in honor o’ the bride, 
The courtly game begin. 


The young bride wi’ the mickle nieves 7 
Up frae the bride-bench sprang : 

And up to tulzie 8 wi’ her there lap 
The Ettin wi’ shanks sae lang. 


There danced and dinnled® bench and 
board, 
And sparks frae helmets fly ; 
Out then leapt the kemps sae bold : 
“Help, Mother Skratt!”’ they cry. 


8 Wrestle. 
9 Jingled. 


6 Ears. 
7 Fists. 


3 Hiccup. 
4 Swollen. 
5 Waste. 


BALLADS. a oil 
t 
Scciiaaiusalnicaas aia ecient gure amine RT ema D CCAR Lr ee ae ra at ire ane  niatthtenlledaonrfaates= nie mentite dase ctchiaL inst Seapine nec creasas i 4 


Frae Ribé, and intill Slie: 
The least kemp in the dance that was 
Was five ell under the knee. 


The least kemp in the dance that was 
Was little Mimmering Tand ; 

He was amang that heathen folk 
The only Christian man. 


And there a sturdy dance began, 


He 


RIBOLT AND GULDBORG. 


Risoxr was the son of an earl gude ; 
(Sae be that ye are willing ; ) 

Guldborg he lang in secret lo’ed. 
(There ’s a hue and cry for them.) 


Whan she was a bairn he lo’ed her sair, 
(Sae be that ye are willing,) 

And aye as she grew he lo’ed her the mair. 
(There ’s a hue and cry for them.) 


“¢ Guldborg, will ye plight your troth to me, 
And J’ till a better land bring thee. 


«¢ Till a better land I will thee bear, 
Whare there never comes or dule! or care. 


‘¢T will bring thee untill an 6e,? 
Whare thou salt live and nagate ? die.” 


“‘ It’s till nae land can ye me bear, 
Whare there never comes or dule or care ; 


‘«¢ Nor me can ye bring to sic an Ge; 
For to God I owe that I should die.” 


“There leeks are the only grass that springs, 
And the gowl:# is the only bird that sings ; 


‘¢ There a’ the water that rins is wine: 
Ye well may trow this tale o’ mine.” 


“© O, how sall I frae the castell win, 


| Sae fiel > they watch me out and in? 


‘I ’m watch’d by my father, I’m watch’d by 
my mither, 

I ’m watch’d by my sister, I ’m watch’d by my 
brither ; 


‘‘ My bridegroom watches wharever I ga, 
And that watch fears me maist ava! ”’ § 


“¢ And gin a’ your kin were watching ye, 
Ye maun bide by what ye hecht’ to me. 


“¢ And ye maun put on my brynie 8 blae ; 
My gilded helmet ye sall hae ; 


1 Sorrow. 4 Cuckoo. 7 Promised, 
2 Island. 5 Many. 8 Cuirass, 
3 Nowise. 6 Of all. 


FE neti eT nh at ti a ihn 


ht Bae at I OD Dn a Hah tah TIS 


v2 


“« My gude brand belted by your side ; 
Sae unlike a lady ye will ride: 


“© Wi’ gouden spur at your heel sae braw, 
Ye may ride thro’ the mids o’ your kindred a’.” 


His mantel blue he has o’er her thrown, 
And his ambler gray he has set her upon. 


As o’er the muir in fere they rade, 
They met a rich ear] that till them said : 


“© Q, hear ye, Ribolt, dear compere mine, 
Whare gat ye that page sae fair and fine? ” 


“QO, it is nane but my youngest brither, 
And I gat him frae nane but my mither.” 


“¢ In vain ye frae me the truth wad heal - 
Guldborg, Guldborg, I ken ye weel. 


‘¢ Your red scarlet ye well may len ; ® 
But your rosy cheeks fu’ well I ken. 


“ ]’ your father’s castell I did sair, 1° 
And I ken you well by your yellow hair. 


«¢ By your claiths and your shoon [ ken ye ill, 


- But I ken the knight ye your troth gae till ; 


“© And the Brok 11 1 ken, that has gotten your 
han’ 
Afore baith priest and laic man.” 


He’s taen the goud bracelet frae his hand, 
And on the earlis arm it band : 


«¢ Whaever ye meet, or wharever ye gae, 
Ye naething o’ me maun to nae man say.” 


The earl he has ridden to Kall6-house, 
Whare, merrily-drinking, the kemps carouse. 


Whan Sir Truid’s castell within cam he, 
Sir Truid at the deas he was birling 1? free : 


“Here sit ye, Sir Truid, drinking mead and 
wine ; 
Wi’ your bride rides Ribolt roundly hyne.” 18 


Syne Truid o’er the castell loud can ca’: 
“ Swyth on wi’ your brynies, my merry men 
q’ ! 2? 


They scantly had ridden a mile but four, 
Guldborg she luikit her shoulder o’er : 


‘OQ, yonder see I my father’s steed, 
And I see the knight that I hae wed!” 


« Light down, Guldborg, my lady dear, ; 
And hald our steeds by the renyies !*4 here. 


13 Hence. 
14 Reins. 


9 Conceal 
10 Serve. 


11 Badger. 
12 Drinking. 


— 


DANISH POETRY. 


“¢ And e’en sae be that ye see me fa’, 
Be sure that ye never upon me ca’; 


«« And e’en sae be that ye see me bleed, 
Be sure that ye namena me till dead.” 


Ribolt did on his brynie blae ; 
Guldborg she clasp’d it, the sooth to say. 


In the firsten shock o’ that bargain,'® 
Sir Truid and her father dear he’s slain. 


I’ the nexten shock, he hew’d down there 
Her twa brethren wi’ their gouden hair. 


*¢ Hald, hald, my Ribolt, dearest mine, 
Now belt thy brand, for it’s mair nor time! 


«« My youngest brither ye spare, O, spare 
To my mither the dowy news to bear ; 


“To tell o’ the dead in this sad stour ! — 
O, wae, that ever she dochter bure !” 


Whan Ribolt’s name she nam’d that stound, !° 
’"T was then that he gat his deadly wound. 


Ribolt he has belted his brand by his side : 
“Ye come now, Guldborg, and we will ride.” 


As on to the Rosen-wood they rade, 
The never a word till ither they said. 


*©Q, hear ye now, Ribolt, my love, tell me, 
Why are ye na blythe as ye wont to be?” 


“© OQ, my life-blood it rins fast and free, 
And wae is my heart, as it well may be ! 


‘¢ And soon, fu’ soon, I ’ll be cald in the clay, 


‘ 
, 99 


And my Guldborg I maun a maiden lea’, 


“It’s Ill tak my silken lace e’en now, 
And bind up your wound the best I dow.” !7 


“God help thee, Guldborg, and rue on thee; 


19? 


Sma’ boot can thy silken lace do me! 


Whan they cam till the castell yett, 
His mither she stood and leant thereat. 


“Ye ’re welcome, Ribolt, dear son mine, 
And sae I wat is she, young bride thine. 


‘¢ Sae pale a bride saw I never air, 18 
That had ridden sae far but goud on her hair.” 


‘¢ Nae wonder, nae wonder, tho’ pale she be, 
Sae hard a fecht as she ’s seen wi’ me! 


‘© Wold God I had but an hour to live ! — 
But my last bequests awa’ I'll give. 


15 Battle. 16 Time. 17 Can. 18 Till now. 


BALLADS. 


19 Take. 20 Corpses, 1 Rest. 2 Surely. 
10 G 


“To my father my steed sae tall I gie ; 
Dear mither, ye fetch a priest to me! 


‘To my dear brither, that stands me near, 
I lea’ Guldborg that I hald sae dear.” 


“ How glad-thy bequest were I to fang, 19 
But haly kirk wad ca’ it wrang.” 


‘¢ Sae help me God at my utmost need, 
As Guldborg for me is a may indeed. 


«¢ Ance, only ance, with a lover’s lyst, 
And but only ance, her mouth I kist.” 


“‘ Tt ne’er sall be said, till my dying day, 
That till twa brithers I plight my fay.” 


Ribolt was dead or the cock did craw; 
Guldborg she died or the day did daw. 


Three likes 2° frae that bower were carried in 
fere, 
And comely were they withouten peer : 


Sir Ribolt the leal, and his bride sae fair, 
(Sae be that ye are willing,) 

And his mither that died wi’ sorrow and care. 
(There ’s a hue and cry for them.) 


ae 


YOUNG CHILD DYRING. 


Ir was the Young Child Dyring, 
Wi his mither rede did he: 
¢¢] will me out ride 
Sir Magnus’s bride to see.” 
(His leave the page takes to-day frae 
his master.) 


«¢ Wilt thou thee out ride, 
Sir Magnus’s bride to see ? 
Sae beg I thee by Almighty God 
Thou speed thee home to me.” 
(His leave the page takes to-day frae 
his master.) 


Syne answer’d Young Child Dyré ; — 
He rode the bride to meet ; 

The silk but and the black sendell 
Hang down to his horse’s feet. 


All rode they there, the bride-folk, 
On row sae. fair to see ; 
Excepting Sir Svend Dyré, 
And far about rode he. 


It was the young Child Dyré rode 
Alone along the strand ; 

The bridle was of the red gold 
That glitter’d in his hand. 


"T was then proud Lady Ellensborg, 
And under weed smil’d she : 


«¢ And who is he, that noble child 
That rides sae bold and free? ”’ 


Syne up and spak the maiden fair 
Was next unto the bride ; 

“It is the Young Child Dyré 
That stately steed does ride.” 


«¢ And is ’t the Young Child Dyré 
That rides sae bold and free ? 

God wot, he’s dearer that rides that steed 
Nor a’ the lave’ to me!” 


All rode they there, the bridal train, 


Kach rode his steed to stall, 
All but Child Dyré, that look’d whare he 
Should find his seat in the hall. 


«¢ Sit whare ye list, my lordings ; 
For me, whate’er betide, 

Here [ shall sickerly? sit the day, 
To hald the sun frae the bride.” 


Than up spak the bride’s father, 
And an angry man was he: 

‘© Whaever sits by my dochter the day, 
Ye better awa’ wad be.” 


‘Tt ’s I have intill Paris been, 
And well my drift can spell ; 
And aye whatever I have to say, 

I tell it best mysell.” 


‘¢ Sooth thou hast intill Paris lear’d 3 
A worthless drift to spell : 

And aye whatever thou hast to say, 
A rogue’s tale thou must tell.” 


Ben stept he, Young Child Dyré, 
Nor reck’d he wha might chide ; 

And he has taen a chair in hand, 
And set him by the bride. 


"T was lang i’ the night; the bride-folk 
Ilk ane look’d for his bed ; 

And Young Child Dyré amang the lave 
Speer’d whare he should be laid. 


‘¢ Without, afore the stair steps, 

Or laigh 4 on the cawsway stane, 
And there may lye Sir Dyreé ; 

For ither bed we ’ve nane.” 


"T was late intill the evening, 
The bride to bed maun ga ; 
And out went he, Child Dyring, 

To rouse his menyie a’. 


‘* Now busk and don your harnass, 
But and your brynies blae ; 

And boldly to the bride-bower 
Full merrily we ’Il gae.”’ 


Sae follow’d they to the bride-bower 
That bride sae young and bright : 


3 Learned. 4 Low. 


DANISH POETRY. 


And forward stept Child Dyre, 


And quench’d the marriage light. 


The cresset they ’ve lit up again, 
But and the taper clear, 

And follow’d to the bride-bower 
That bride without a peer. 


And up Child Dyré snatch’d the bride, 
All in his mantle blae ; 

And swung her all so lightly 
Upon his ambler gray. °* 


They lock’d the bower, they lit the torch ; 
"T was hurry-scurry a’ ; 

While merrily aye the lovers gay 
Rode roundly to the shaw. 


In Rosen-wood they turn’d about 
To pray their bridal prayer: 

* Good night and joy, Sir Magnus ! 
For us ye ’Il see nae mair.” 


Sae rode he to the green wood, 
And o’er the meadow green, 

Till he came to his mither’s bower, 
Ere folks to bed were gane. 


Out came proud Lady Metelild, 
In menevair sae free ; 

She ’s welcom’d him, Child Dyring, 
And his young bride him wi’. 


Now joys attend Child Dyring, 
Sae leal but and sae bold ; 
He ’s taen her to his ain castell, 
His bride-ale there to hold. 
(His leave the page takes to-day frae 
his master.) 


—=_o 


CHILD AXELVOLD. 


Tur kingis men they ride till the wold, 
_ There they hunt baith the hart and the hind; 
And they, under a linden sae green, 
Sae wee a bairn find. 
(I’ the loft whare sleeps she, the proud Eliné.) 


That little dowie up they took, 
Swyl’d? him in a mantle blae; 
They took him till the kingis court, 
Till him a nourice gae. 
(I the loft whare sleeps she, the proud Eliné.) 


And they hae carried him till the kirk, 
And christen’d him by night ; 

And they ’ve ca’d him Young Axelvold, 
And hidden him as they might. 


They foster’d him for ae winter, 
And sae for winters three ; 

And he has grown the bonniest bairn 
That man on mold mat see. 


1 Swathed. 


And they hae foster’d him sae lang, 
Till he was now eighteen ; 

And he has grown the wordiest child 
Was in the palace seen. 


The kingis men till the court are gane, 
To just, and put the stane ; 
And out stept he, Child Axelvold, 


And waur’d them ilka ane. 


“°T’ were better ye till the house gang in, 
And for your mither speer, 

Nor thus wi’ courtly knights to mell, 
And dare and scorn them here.”’ 


Up syne spak Young Axelvold, 
And his cheek it grew wan: 

“© T ’s weet whaso my mither is, 
Or ever we kemp® again.” 


It was the Young Axelvold 

Thought mickle, but said nae mair ; 
And he is till the bower gane 

To speer for his mither there. 


‘¢ Hear ye this, dear foster-mither, 
What I now speer at thee ; 

Gin aught ye o’ my mither weet, 
Ye quickly tell it me.” 


‘¢ Hear ye this, dear Axelvold, 
Why will ye tak on sae? 

Nor living nor dead ken I thy mither, 
I tell thee on my fay.” 


It was then Young Axelvold, 
And he drew out his knife : 

“ Ye ’s tell me wha my mither is, 
Or it sall cost thy life.”’ 


** Then gae thou till the ladies’ bower, 
Ye hendly ® greet them a’ ;~ 
Her a goud coronet that wears, 


> 99 


Dear mither ye may ca’. 


It was then Young Axelvold 
Put on his pilche sae braw, 

And he ’s up till the ladies’ bower, 
"Fore dames and maidens a’. 


‘‘ Here sit ye, ladies and maries, 
Maiden and courtly fre ; 4 

But and allerdearest mither mine 
I’ the mids o’ you should be.” 


All sat they there, the proud maidens, 
Nae ane durst say a word; 

But it was proud Lady Eline, 
She set her crown o’ the board. 


“ Here sit ye, my right mither, 
Wi’ hand sae saft and fair : 
Whare is the bairn ye bure in dern,® 
Albe goud crown ye wear?” 


2 Strive. 3 Gently, 4 Dame. 5 Secret. 


BALLADS. 75 


Lang stuid she, the proud Eliné, 
Nor answer’d ever a word ; 
Her cheeks, sae richly red afore, 

Grew haw ® as ony eard. 


She doff’d her studded stemmiger, 
And will of rede” she stuid: 

“¢] bure nae bairn, sae help me God 
But and our Lady gude!”’ 


«¢ Hear ye this, dear mither mine ; 
Forsooth it is great shame 

For you sae lang to heal that ye 
Was mither to sic a man. 


«¢ And hear ye this, allerdearest mither, 
What now I say to thee ; 

Gin aught ye o’ my father weet, 
Ye heal ’t nae mair frae me.” 


‘To the king’s palace then ye maun pass ; 
And, trow ye well my word, 

Your dear father ye-may ca’ him there 
That has knights to serve at his board. 


“6 And. do ye till the kingis ha’, 
"Fore knights and liegemen a’, 
And see ye Erland the kingis son, 


238: 


Ye may him your father ca’. 


It was then Young Axelvold 
Put on the scarlet red, 

And in afore the Danish king 
I’ the kingis ha’ he gaed. 


*¢ Here sit ye, kntght and child, and drink 
The mead and wine sae free ; 

But and allerdearest father mine 
I’ the mids o’ you should be. 


«¢ Here sit ye, dearest father mine: 
Men me a foundling name ; 

And a man like me,sae scorn’d to be, 
Forsooth it is great shame! ”’ 


All sat they then, the kingis men, 
As haw as ony eard ; 

But it was Erland the kingis son, 
And he spak the first word. 


Up spak he, Erland, the kingis son, 
Right unassur’d spak he : 

‘© I’m nae thy father, Axelvold, 
Sic like thou say’st I be.” 


It was then Young Axelvold, 
And he drew out his knife : 

“¢ My mither ye sall either wed, 
Or it sall cost thy life.”’ 


« Wi’ knight and squire it were foul scorn 
And deadly shame for me, 

That I should father a bastard bairn, 
A kingis son that be. 


6 Pale, 7 Bewildered. 


or en Oe 


‘“‘ But hear thou this, Young Axelvold, 
Thou art a prince sae fine, 

Then gie thou me, my wife to be, 
Eliné, mither thine.” 


‘ And glad were they in the kingis court, 
Wi lyst and mickle game; 
Axelvold ’s gi’en his mither awa; 
His father her has taen. 


It was the Young Axelvold 
Gae a dunt® the board upon: 
‘¢ |’ the court I was but a foundling brat ; 
The day I ’m a kingis son !” 
(I’ the loft whare sleeps she, the proud Eliné.) 


ee eee 


THE WASSEL DANCE. 


Tue night is the night o’ the wauk ;! 
(There wauk may he that will ;) 
There ’s fiel come to danee and wassel mak. 
(Whare wauks she, the proud Signelild, 
under sae green an 0e.) ; 


Proud Signild speer’d at her mither right, 
There wauk may he that will,) 
«¢ May I gae till the wauk the night? ” 
(Whare wauks she, the proud Signelild, 
under sae green an 6e.) 


“© OQ, what will ye at the wauk-house do, 
But sister or brither to gang wi’ you? 


«¢ Brither or gude-brither hae ye nane, 
Nor gang ye to wauk-house the night alane.” 


That maiden fine has prigget? sae lang, 
Her mither at last gae her leave to gang. 


‘Thou gang, thou gang now, dochter mine, 
But to nae wauk-house gangs mither thine. 


‘The king he is coming wi’ a’ his men ; 
Sae lyth ® my rede, and bide at hame.” 


“¢ There comes the queen wi’ her maries a’; 


> 99 


To talk wi’ them, mither, lat me fa’. 


She to the green wood her way has taen, 
And she is till the wauk-house gaen. 


Afore she wan the green strath 4 o’er, 
The queen was gane to bed in her bower. 


Ere she to the castell yett can win, 
The wassel dance it was begun. 


There danced all the kingis men, 
And the king himsell he danced wi’ them. 


The king raught out his hand sae free : 
. ° ° ° > 
“¢ Fair maiden, will ye dance wi’ me?’ 


8 Blow. 1 Wake. 2Entreated. 3Listen. 4 Plain. 


76 


““T’m only come o’er the dale, to see 
An the Danish queen can speak to me.” 


*¢ Ye dance wi’ us a wee but fear, 
And the queen hersell will soon be here.” 


Out stept Signild, jimp and sma’ ; 


. . ? 
The king gae ’r his hand, and they danced awa. 


“¢ Hear ye what, Signild, I say to thee ; 
A lay o’ love ye maun sing to me.” 


“In lays o’ love nae skill I hae, 
But Ill sing anither the best I may.” 


Proud Signild can sing a sang wi’ that ; 
This heard the queen in her bower that sat. 


This heard the queen in her bower that lay : 


*¢ Whilk ane o’ my ladies is singing sae? 


‘¢ Whilk ladies 0’ mine dance at this late hour? 
Why didna they follow me up to my bower ?”’ 


Syne up spak a page in kirtle red : 
‘It’s nane o’ your ladies, I well ye rede; 


“¢ Nae ane o’ your ladies I reckon it be, 
But it is proud Signild under oe.” 


«¢ Ye bring my scarlet sae fine to me, 
And I will forth this lady to see.” 


Whan she came till the castell yett, 
The dance gaed sae merrily and sae feat. 


Around and around they dancing gae ; 
The queen she stood and saw the deray ; ® 


And bitter the pangs her heart did wring, 
Whan she saw Signild dance wi’ the king. 


It’s Sophi’ says till her bower-woman ; 
‘¢ Bring a horn o’ wine sae swyth ye can ; 


«<A horn o’ goud come hand to me, 
And lat it wi’ wine well filled be.” 


The king raught out his hand sae free: 
«¢ Will ye, Sophia, dance wi’ me?” 


*¢'To dance wi’ thee nor can I nor will, 
"Less first proud Signild drink me till.” 


She hent the horn, and she drank sae free : — 
Her heart it brast, and dead fell she. 


Lang luikit the king in speechless wae, 
As dead at his feet the maiden lay : 


‘¢ Sae young and sae fair! wae, wae is me, 
Thy dowie sakeless © weird’ to see!” 


Sair grat the women and maries there, 
As intill the kirk her like they bare. 


5 Merriment./ 6 Guiltless. 7 Destiny. 


DANISH POETRY. 


Had she but lythit her mither’s rede, 


(There wauk may he that will,) 


That maiden she never sae ill had sped. 


(Whare wauks she, the proud Signelild, 
under sae green an 0€.) 


——)— 


OLUF PANT. 


Our Pant he sits in Korsder-house, 
A-drinking wi’ his men ; 
And merrily drink they and carouse, 
Till themselves they downa tame. 
(Oluf Pant the bonny, 
Wi a’ his menyie, 
They maun a’ sae sorry and wae be !) 


“¢ My service now will ye forleet,! 
And lose baith meat and fee ; 
Or follow me swyth to Gerlev; 
For a lemman there to see?” 
(Oluf Pant the bonny, 
Wi’ a’ his menyie, 
They maun a’ sae sorry dnd wae be!) 


His service nane wad there forleet, 
Amang his merry men a’, 

Nor langer while deval,? but till 
They took their steeds frae the sta’. 


He ’s bidden them saddle the bonniest steed 
They in the sta’ can find : 

‘¢ Mat Burmand’s be our host the night, 
As he this while gall mind!” 


Sae on they ’ve ridden to Studéby, 
Thro’ wood and shaw in haste ; 
Tygé Olesen stood i’ the cauler air, 

And bade them in to guest. 


It was then rich Oluf Pant 
Rade up till Gerlev yett ; 

His steed that day, the sooth to say, 
Full proudly did curvett. 


He rade intill Mat Burmand’s yard, 
Well wrapt in vair® sae gay ; 

And out the husbande he could come, 
All in his kirtle gray. 


“¢ Thou shalt lend us thy house the night, 
And mak us bierdly * cheer ; 

But and gie us thy huswife swyth, 
Or I sall fell thee here.” 


“¢ Gin I lend you my house the night, 
And mak ye bierdly cheer ; 

But and gie you my huswife swyth, 
°T will gang my heart right near.” 


Their steeds he ’s till the stable led; 
Gien them baith corn and hay ; 

And merrily they to the chalmer gang, 
To talk wi’ huswife and may. 


1 Quit. 2 Delay. 3 Fur. 4 Generous, 


ee 7 


BALLADS. ag 


5 Quickly. 
6 Nearest. 


The husbande turn’d him snell® about, © 
All in his kirtle gray, 

And he has sought the gainest ° gate 
To Andershaw that lay. 


Oluf Mortensen, that gude prior, 
Speer’d at the husbande right : 

‘What has befa’n that thee has drawn 
Up here sae late the night?” 


*Q, sad ’s my teen and unforeseen ! 
Oluf Pant is in my hame ; 

But him and his rout I may drive out, 
My wife is brought to shame.” 


"T was then the gude prior Oluf Mortensen 
O’er a’ the house can ca’: 

‘Up, up in haste, and swyth do on 
Your brynies, my merry men a’! 


** Swyth busk ye weel frae crown to heel 
I’ your gear, as best ye may ; 
Oluf Pant to cow will be nae mow;7 


We ’Il find nae bairns’ play. 


*¢ And hye, thou luckless husbande, hame, 
And lock thy dogs up weel ; 

And keep a’ quiet as ye may ; 
We ’ll tread close at your heel.” 


Buskit and boun 8 the stout prior, 
Till Burmand’s yard he rade : 

Now God in heaven his help mat be ; — 
Oluf Pant he draws his blade! 


Oluf Mortensen.at the door gaed in, 
In a grim and angry mood ; 

Oluf Pant lap lightly till his legs, 
And up afore him stood. 


“© Wha bade thee here till Gerlev-town, 
Wi’ my husbande leal to guest? 

Up, up, to horse, and swyth be gone, 
Or thou ’s find a bitter feast.” 


Oluf Pant wi’ that gan smile aneath 
His cleading 0’ towsy ° vair, 

And, “They are mine as well as thine,” 
He saftly whisper’d there. 


Swyth out the prior drew his swerd ; 
He scorn’d to flince or flee ; 

The light in the chandler Oluf Pant put out, 
And wi’ Helené fight maun he. 


I’ the hen-bauks !° up Oluf Pant he crap ; 
There he was nagate fain : 

The prior took tent whareas he sat, 
And in blood-bath laid him then. 


Sae they the rich Oluf Pant hae slain, 
And his men a’, three times three, 
A’ but the silly little foot-page, 
And to him his life they gie. 


7 Game. 
8 Went. 


9 Shaggy. 
10 Hen-roost. 


1 Many. 


ROSMER HAFMAND, 
OR THE MER-MAN ROSMER. 


Bow-nouvens and Elfin-stane, 
And fiel ' mair I canna name, 
They loot them bigg sae stark a ship ; 
Till Island maun they stem. 
(I never will break my troth.) 


They shot the ship out in the brim ? 
That bremm/’d? like an angry bear: 
The White Goose 4 sank; the laidly elves 
Loot her rise up nae mair. 
(I never will break my ‘troth.) 


"T was then the young Child Roland, 
He sought on the sea-ground, 

And leading unfill Eline’s bower, 
A little green sty > he found. 


Roland gaed to the castell ; — 
He saw the red fire flee : 

‘¢ Now come o’ me whatso God will, 
It ’s here that I maun be.”’ 


And it was the Child Roland, 
Intill the court rade he, 

And there stood his sister, proud Eline, 
In menevair sae free. 


And Roland into the castell came: 
His hands he downa steer : 

‘¢ God rue on thee, poor luckless fode,® 
What hast thou to do here?” 


This Eline was to him unkent: 
*¢ What for soe’er thou came, 
What so thy letter or errand be, 
Would thou had bidden at hame! 


*¢ And gae thou till that chalmer in, 
Sae frozen wat and haw ; 

But come the Lang-shanks Ettin in, 
He ’ll rive thee in dugits? sma’. 


*¢ And sit thou down, thou luckless fode, 
And warm thou thy shin-bane ; 

But come the Lang-shanks Ettin in, 
He ‘ll stick thee on this stane.” 


Hame cam Rosmer Lang-shanks, 
And he was wroth and grim: 

*¢ Sae well I wiss there ’s come in here 
A Christian woman or man!” 


Proud Eline lyle is gane to him, 
To win him as she dow :® 

‘«There flew a craw out o’er the house, 
Wi’ a man’s bane in his mou’.”’ 


Rosmer screeched and sprang about : 
“¢ Here ’s a Christian man I ken; 

But and thou tell me truth, but lies, 
I will thee stick and bren!”’ 


7 Pieces. 
8 Can. 


3 Growled. 5 Path. 


4 The name of the ship. §& Man. 
G2 


} 


a nt i AT NE, 


DANISH POETRY. 


Eline lyle took o’er her her blue mantel, 
And afore Rosmer éan stand: 

‘¢ Here is a child frae Island come, 
O’ my near kin and land.” 


‘¢ And is a child frae Island come, 
Sae near a-kin to thee? 

His ward and warrant | swear to be; 
He ’s never be drown’d by me.” 


Sae here in love and lyst fu’ derne ® 
Scarce twa years o’er them flew, 

Whan the proud lady Eline’s cheek 
Grew a’ sae wan o’ hue. 


About twa years he there had been ; 
But there maun be. nae mair ; 

Proud Eline lyle’s wi’ bairn by him: 
That wirks them mickle care. 


Proud Eline lyle’s now taen on her 
Afore Rosmer to stand: 

“Will ye gie till this fremmit 1° page 
Forlof hame till his land ? ”’ 


*¢ And will he gae hame till his land ? 
And say’st thou that for true? 

Then o’ the goud and white money 
A kist I’ gie him fu’.” 


Sae took he mickle red goud, 
And laid it in a kist ; 

And proud Eline lyle laid hersell wi’ it ; — 
That Rosmer little wist. 


He took the man under his arm ; 
The kist on his back took he ; 
Sae he can under the saut sea gang, 

Sae canny and sae free. 


‘¢ Now I hae borne thee till the land ; 
Thou seest baith sun and moon: 
And I gie thee this kist 0’ goud, 
That is nae churlis boon.”’ 


“T thank thee, Rosmer, thou gude fellow; 
Thou ’st landed me but harm ; 

I tell thee now for tidings new, 
Proud Eline lyle’s wi’ bairn.” 


Then ran the tears down Rosmer’s pheees 


As the burn !! rings down the brae: 
‘But I hae sworn thee ward and warrant, 
Here drowning thou should hae.” 


Hame to the knock !* syne Rosmer ran, 
As the hart rins to the hind ; 

But whan to the knock that he cam hame, 
Nae Eline lyle could he find. 


But proud Eline and Child Roland, 
Wi gaming lyst and joy, 

Gaed hand in hand, wi’ kindly talk, 
And mony an amorous toy. 


11 Brook. 
12 Hillside. 


9 Secretly. 13 Hillock. 


10 Foreign. 


Rosmer waxt sae wroth and grim, 
Whan he nae Eline fand, 

He turn’d intill a whinstane gray, 
Siclike he there does stand. 


+p 


WIT AT NEED. 

Tue brither did at the sister speer, 
(Oft and many times,) 

“Will ye na tak a man to your fere ?’ 
(It ’s a’ for her dearie she sorrows ne 

“Ona, O na, dear brither!”’ she said, 
(Oft and many times,) 

For I am o’er young yet to wed.” 


(It ’s a’ for her da@uie she sorrows sae.) 


“¢ Gin they say true in this gate en’, 
Ye ’ve nae been aye sae fleyt! for men.’ 


“ They say was aye for a liar kent ; 
O’ they says nane but fools tak tent.’ 


*‘ But wha was that for a knight sae braw, 
That rade frae your castle due. morning awa’ ?” 


% A knight!” 
deed ! — 
"T was my little foot-page upon his steed!” 


quo’ she; “braw knights in- 


‘‘ But what were they for twa pair 0’ sheen, 
That lay afore your bed yestreen ?” 


“Twa pair o’ sheen!”’ quo’ she; *o "sheen! 
"T is surely my slippers, Billy, you mean.’ 


“ And what wee bairnies, the tither day, 
Was it i’ the bed wi’ you that lay?” 


“Wee bairnies ! —O, ay !—the tither day, 
Wi’ my dowie, I mind now, I did play!” 


“ But what for a bairnie was it that cried 
Sae loud i’ your bower this morrow tide?” 


‘6 Could ever sic greeting a bairnie’s be ? 
*T was my lassie that grat, she had tint? her 


ee he 


And what bonny cradle was it sae braw, 
That Ii’ the neuk sae cannily saw ?”’ 


“ Bonny cradle!” 
een ! 
It ’s my silk loom wi’ the wab you ’ve seen. 


quo’ she ; “¢ gude sain your 


“ Now, brither, what mair hae ye to speer ? 

I’ ve answers aneuch, ye needna fear!” 

Whan women a answers are at a stand, 
(Oft and many times,) 

The North Sea bottom will be dry land. 
(It ’s a’ for her dearie she sorrows sae.) 


1 Afraid. 


SS Ee) Yin een eee et ee ctr 


| 
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THE MER-MAN, AND MARSTIG’s | 


DAUGHTER. 


‘“« Now rede! me, dear mither, a sonsy ? rede ; 
A sonsy rede swythe rede to me, 

How Marstig’s daughter I may fa’, 
My love and lemman gay to be.” 


She ’s made him a steed o’ the clear water ; 
A saddie and bridle 0’ sand made she ; 
? WePens sve. : : 
She ’s shap’d him into a knight sae fair, 
Syne into Mary’s kirk-yard rade he. 


He ’s tied his steed to the kirk-stile, 
Syne wrang-gates® round the kirk gaed he; 
When the Mer-man entered the kirk-door, 
Awa the sma’ images turned their ee’. 


The priest afore the altar stood : 

‘© O, what for a gude knight may this be?” 
The may leugh til! hersell, and said, 

“ God gif that gude knight were for me!” 


The Mer-man he stept o’er ae deas, 
And he has steppit over three : 

“OQ maiden, pledge me faith and troth! 
O Marstig’s daughter, gang wi’ me!” 


And she raught out her lily hand, 
And pledg’d it to the knight sae free : 

‘¢ Hae ; there ’s my faith and troth, Sir Knight, 
And willingly Ill gang wi’ thee.” 


Qut frae the kirk gaed the bridal train, 

And on they dane’d wi’ fearless glee ; 
And down they danc’d unto the strand, 

Till twasome now alane they be: 
‘© OQ Marstig’s daughter, haud my steed, 

And the bonniest ship I ’Il bigg + for thee!” 


Anda whan they came to the white sand, 
To shore the sma’ boats turning came ; 
And whan they came to the deep water, 
The maiden sank in the saut sea faem. 


The shriek she shriek’d amang the waves 
Was heard far up upo’ the land: 

*T rede gude ladies, ane and a’, 
They dance wi’ nae sic unco® man.” 


eee 


ELFER HILL. 


I varp my haffet! on Elfer Hill ; 
Saft slooming? clos’d my ee’ ; 

And there twa selcouth® ladies came, 
Sae fain to speak to me. 


Ane clappit me then, wi’ cheek sae white, 
And rown’d # intill mine ear: 


1 Counsel. 4 Build. 2 Slumber. 
2 Good. 5 Unknown. 3 Strange. 
3 Backwards. 1 Head. 4 Whispered. 


Rise up, but > doubt or fear ! 


¥ « Wake up, fair youth, and join the dance, 


And we will tread the ring, 
While mair nor eardly melody 
My ladies for thee sing.” 


Syne ane, the fairest may on mold, 
Sae sweet a sang began ; 

The hurling stream was still’d therewi’, 
Sae fast afore that ran. 


The striving stream was still’d therewi’, 
Sae fast that wont to rin; 

The sma’ fish, in the flood that swam, 
Amo’ their faes now blin’. 


The fishes a’, in flood that were, 
Lay still, baith fin and tail ; 

The sma’ fowls in the shaw began 
To whitter © in the dale. 


“© O, hear, thou fair, thou young swain! 
And thou wi’ us will dwell, 

Then will we teach thee book and rune, 
To read and write sae well. 


‘¢] 1] lear thee how the bear to bind, 
And fasten to the aik tree ; 

The dragon, that iggs on mickle goud, 
Afore thee fast shall flee.”’ 


They danced out, and they danced in, 
In the Elfer ring sae green ; 

All silent sat the fair young swain, 
And on his sword did lean. 


*¢ Now hear, thou fair, thou young swain, 
But and thou till us speak, 

Then shall on sword and sharp knife 
Thy dearest heart-blood reek.” 


Had God nae made my luck sae gude, 
That the cock did wap” his wing, 

I boot hae bidden on Elfer Hill, 
In the Eifladies’ ring. 


I rede the Danish young swains, 
That to the court will ride, 

That they ne’er ride to Elfer Hill, 
Nor sleep upon its side. 


Senn ae 


KING OLUF THE SAINT. 


Kine Oiluf and his brother bold 
"Bout Norroway’s rocks a parley hold. 


‘© The one of the two who best can sail 
Shall rule o’er Norroway’s hill and dale. 


‘¢ Who first of us reaches our native ground 
O’er all the region shall king be crowned.” 


5 Without. 6 To warble in a low voice. 
9 


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*“‘ Rise up, fair youth, and join our dance ; 


7 Flap. 


80 DANISH POETRY. 


Then Harald Haardrode answer made: 
“ Ay, let it he done as thou hast said, 
g * * 


* But if I to-day must sail with thee, 
Thou shalt change thy vessel, I swear, with me. 


‘For thou hast got the Dragon of speed ; 
I shall make with the Ox a poor figure indeed. 


“The Dragon is swift as the clouds in chase ; 
to) i 3 
The Ox, he moveth in lazy pace.” 


* Hear, Harald, what I have to say to thee, 
What thou hast proposed well pleaseth me. 


“If my ship in aught be better than thine, 
I'll readily, cheerfully, lend thee mine. 


*¢ Do thou the Dragon so sprightly take, 
And I with the Ox will the journey make.” 


‘¢ But first to the church we ‘Il bend our way, 
Ere our hand on sail or on oar we lay.” 


And into the church Saint Oluf trode, 
His beautiful hair like the bright gold glowed. 


But soon, out of breath, there came a man: 
“Thy brother is sailing off fast as he can.” 


‘Let them sail, my friend, who to sail may 
choose ; 
The word of our Lord we will not lose. 


‘¢ The mass is the word of our blessed Lord. 
Take water, ye swains, for our table board. 


‘¢ We will sit at board, and the meat we will 
taste, 
Then unto the sea-shore quietly haste.’ 


Now down they all speed to the ocean-strand, 
Where the Ox lay rocking before the land. 


And speedily they to the ocean bore 
The anchor, and cable, and sail, and oar. 


Saint Olufhe stood on the prow when on board: 
‘Now forward, thou Ox, in the name of the 


Lord! ”’ 


He grappled the Ox by the horn so white : 
«¢ Hie now, as if thou went clover to bite!” 


Then forward the Ox began to hie, 
In his wake stood the billows boisterously. 


He hallooed to the lad on the yard so high: 
“Do we the Dragon of Harald draw nigh?” 


‘¢ No more of the pomps of the world I see. 
Than the uppermost top of the good oak-tree. — 


‘¢T see near the land of Norroway skim 
Bright silken sails with a golden rim. — 
* 


.- os : po ros 


-T see ‘neath Norroway’s mountains proud 


The Dragon bearing of sail a cloud. — 


‘¢T see, I see, by Norroway’s side, 
The Dragon gallantly forward stride.” 


On the Ox’s ribs a blow he gave: 
‘‘ Now faster, now faster, over the wave!” 


He struck the Ox on the eye with force: 
“To the haven much speedier thou must 
course.” 


Then forward the Ox began to leap, 
No sailor on deck his stand could keep. 


Then cords he took, and his mariners fast 
He tied to the vessel’s rigging and mast. 


Twas then —’twas then —the steersman cried: 
« But who shall now the vessel guide ?”’ 


His little gloves off Saint Oluf throws, 
And to stand himself by the rudder he goes. 


*¢ QO, we will sail o’er cliff and height, 
The nearest way, like a line of light!” 


So o’er the hills and dales they career, 
To them they became like water clear. 


So they sailed along o’er the mountains blue, 
Then out came running the Elfin crew. 


‘© Who sails o’er the gold in which we joy ? 
Our ancient father? who dares annoy ?”’ 


“Elf, turn to stone, and a stone remain 
Till I by this path return again!” 


So they sailed o’er Skaaney’s mountains tall, 
And stones became the little Elves all. 


Out came a Carline with spindle and rok: 
“Saint Oluf! why sailest thou us to mock? 


¢¢ Saint Oluf, thou who the red beard hast! 
Through my chamber wall thy ship hath passed.””” 


With a glance of scorn did Saint Oluf say : 
“« Stand there a flint-rock for ever and aye.” 


Unhindered, unhindered, they bravely sailed on, 
Before them yielded both stock and stone. 


Still onward they sailed in such gallant guise, 
That no man upon them could fasten his eyes. 


Saint Oluf a bow before his knee bent, 
Behind the sail dropped the shaft that he sent. 


From the stern Saint Oluf a barb shot free, 
Behind the Ox fell the shaft in the sea. 


1 Meaning, probably, the hill. 


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BALLADS. 81 


Saint Oluf he trusted in Christ alone, 
And therefore first home by three days he won. 


And that made Harald with fury storm, 
Of a laidly dragon he took the form. 


But the Saint was a man of devotion full, 
And the Saint got Norroway’s land to rule. 


Into the church Saint Oluf trode, 
He thanked the Saviour in fervent mood. 


Saint Oluf walked the church about, 
There shone a glory his ringlets out. 


Whom God doth help makes bravely his way, 
His enemies win both shame and dismay. 


—_@— 


AAGER AND ELIZA. 


"T was the valiant knight, Sir Aager, 
He to the far island hied, 

There he wedded sweet Eliza, 
She of maidens was the pride. 


There he married sweet Eliza, 
With her lands and ruddy gold ; 

Woe is me! the Monday after, 
Dead he lay beneath the mould. 


In her bower sat sweet Eliza, 
Screamed, and would not be consoled ; 
And the good Sir Aager listened, 
Underneath the dingy mould. 


Up Sir Aager rose, his coffin 
Bore he on his bended back : 
Towards the bower of sweet Eliza 
Was his sad and silent track. 


He the door tapped with his coffin, 
For his fingers had no skin : 

‘Rise, O, rise, my sweet Eliza! 
Rise, and let thy bridegroom in.” 


Straightway answered fair Eliza : 
*¢ T will not undo my door, 

"Till thou name the name of Jesus, 
Even as thou could’st before.” 


“ Rise, O, rise, mine own Eliza, 
And undo thy chamber door ! 

I can name the name of Jesus, 
Even as I could of yore.” 


Up then rose the sweet Eliza, 

Down her cheeks tears streaming ran ; 
Unto her within the bower 

She admits the spectre man. 


She her golden comb has taken, 
And has combed his yellow hair ; 
On each lock that she adjusted 
Fell a hot and briny tear. 
11 


‘Listen now, my good Sir Aager! 
Dearest bridegroom, all I crave 

Is to know how it goes with thee 
In that lonely place, the grave?” 


“© Kvery time that thou rejoicest, 
And art happy in thy mind, 

Are my lonely grave’s recesses 
All with leaves of roses lined. 


“« Every time that, love, thou grievest, 
And dost shed the briny flood, 

Are my lonely grave’s recesses 
Filled with black and loathsome blood. 


“« Heard I not the red cock crowing ? 
I, my dearest, must away ; 

Down to earth the dead are going, 
And behind I must not stay. 


‘¢ Hear I not the black cock crowing? 
To the grave I down must go ; 

Now the gates of heaven are opening, 
Fare thee well for ever moe.” 


Up Sir Aager stood, the coffin 
Takes he on his bended back ; 
To the dark and distant church-yard 

Is his melancholy track. 


Up then rose the sweet Eliza, 
Full courageous was her mood ; 
And her bridegroom she attended 
Through the dark and dreary wood. 


When the forest they had traversed, 
And within the church-yard were, 

Faded then of good Sir Aager 
Straight the lovely yellow hair. 


When the church-yard they had traversed, 
And the church’s threshold crossed, 
Straight the cheek of good Sir Aager 
All its rosy colors lost. 


“¢ Listen now, my sweet Eliza! 
If my peace be dear to thee, 
Never thou, from this time forward, 
Pine or shed a tear for me. 


‘Turn, I pray thee, up to heaven 
To the little stars thy sight : 

Then thou mayest know for certain 
How it fareth with the knight.” 


Soon as e’er her eyes to heaven 
To the little stars she reared, 
Into earth the dead man glided, 
And to her no more appeared. 


Homeward went the sweet Eliza, 
Grief of her had taken hold ; 

Woe is me! the Monday after, 
Dead she lay beneath the mould. 


— 


THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 


Sin Oxvr he rideth over the plain, 
Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide; 
But never, ah! never, can meet with the man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 


THe saw under the hill-side 
A knight full well equipped ; 

His steel was black, his helm was barred ; 
He was riding at full speed. 


He wore upon his spurs 
Twelve little golden birds ; 

Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 
And there sat all the birds and sang. 


He wore upon his mail 
Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 
And round and round the wheels they flew. 


He wore before his breast 
A lance that was poised in rest, 

And it was sharper than diamond-stone ; 
It made Sir Oluf’s heart to groan. 


He wore upon his helm 
A wreath of ruddy gold ; 


DANISH POETRY. 


And that gave him the Maidens Three, 
The youngest was fair to behold. 


Sir Oluf questioned the knight eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven down ; 
¢¢ Art thou Christ of Heaven?” quoth he, 
“So will I yield me unto thee.” 


‘JT am not Christ the Great, 
Thou shalt not yield thee yet; 
Iam an Unknown Knight, 
Three modest Maidens have me bedight.” 


‘¢ Art thou a knight elected ? 

And have three maidens thee bedight? 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 

For all the maidens’ honor !”’ 


The first tilt they together rode, 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode, 
They proved their manhood best. 


The third tilt they together rode, 
Neither of them would yield ; 
The fourth tilt they together rode, 

They both fell on the field. 


Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 
Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THOMAS KINGO. 


Taomas Kineo was born in Slangerup in 
1634, and died, as bishop of Funen, in 1723. 
He was the author of psalms and spiritual 
songs, whose simplicity and quaintness remind 
the English reader of Crashaw and Quarles. 
He was highly esteemed by his contemporaries, 
and his memory is still held in reverence in 
his native country. He has been called the 


Dr. Watts of Denmark. 


MORNING SONG. 


From eastern quarters now 
The sun ’s up-wandering, 
His rays on the rock’s brow 
And hill’s side squandering ; 
Be glad, my soul! and sing amidst thy 
pleasure, 
Fly from the house of dust, 
Up with thy thanks, and trust 
To heayven’s azure ! 


O, countless as the grains 
Of sand so tiny, 
Measureless as the main’s 
Deep waters briny, 
God’s mercy is, which he upon me show- 
ereth ! 
Each morning, in my shell, 
A grace immeasurable 
To me down-poureth. 


Thou best dost understand, 
Lord God! my needing, 
And placed is in thy hand 
My fortune’s speeding, 
And thou foreseest what is for me most 
fitting ; 
Be still, then, O my soul ! 
To manage in the whole . 


Thy God permitting ! 


May fruit the land array, - 
And corn for eating ! 

May truth e’er make its way, 
With justice meeting ! 


Give thou to me my share with every other, 


Till down my staff I lay, 
And from this world away 
Wend to another ! 


—+p-——= 


CHRISTIAN BRAUMAN TULLIN. 


TuttiIn was born in Christiania, in 1728; 
and received his education at the University 
of Copenhagen, where, besides the usual acade- 
mic course, he applied himself to music, draw- 
ing, and the French and German languages. 
On closing his college life, he returned to 
Christiania, where he devoted himself to the 
study of the law, and of English and Italian. 
Among the English poets, Young and Pope 
were his favorites, and had, doubtless, much 
influence upon his taste. He afterwards became 
director of a nail, starch, and powder manufac- 
tory. He died, as collector of his native town, 
at the early age of thirty-seven. 

His poems were received with great enthusi- 
asm by his countrymen. For a long time he was 
considered the first of the Danish poets. He 
seems, however, to have gained his fame very 
easily ; for, if judged by a high standard of poetic 
merit, or by that which he himself established, 
— ‘“ Thoughts are the soul of poetry ; the more 
of these one finds in a poem, the better is the 
poem,’ —he would not be ranked. among the 
first. The following extract is a paraphrase of 
some of the concluding stanzas of ‘* Maidagen,”’ 
Tullin’s most celebrated piece. It is in a dif- 
ferent measure from the original, and can hard- 
ly be considered as a fair specimen of the au- 
thor’s power. 


EXTRACT FROM MAY-DAY. 


Hait, uncreated Being, source of life, 
Whose love is boundless, and whose mercy wise! 
Whose power hath wrought, to spread thy glo- 

ries wide, 
For every sense .a paradise of joy ! 
Thyself art All, and in thy spirit pure 
Live all created things: each form declares 
Thy touch and pressure ; every meanest tribe 
The sacred image of thy nature bears ! 
Summer, and autumn’s sun, and wintry blasts 
Proclaim thy might and glory ; but the spring, 
Wherefore and whence, O Lord, its genial 
breath ? 
*T is the loud voice that bids the faithless bow; 
With thousand thousand tongues of joy and 
praise, 
With the full choir of new-created life, 
Singing thy name ; proclaiming to the dull 
Thy love, thy bounty, thine almighty hand! 
And thee it most resembles ; like thyself, 
It moulds and fashions ; bids the spirit wake ; 
Gives life and aliment, and clothes the form 


ek ate al RE 


TULLIN.—EVALD. 


i@.2) 
ive) 


With strength and vigor! "T is the holy type 

Of thy creative breath !— How mean of soul, 

How lost are they to every finer bliss, 

Who, prisoned ’mid the dusty smoke of towns 

(When Nature calls aloud, and Life invites, 

Arrayed in youth and freshest beauty), sit 

Forlorn and darkling in the maze of thought! 
Life springs at thy command; thou bidd’st 

awake 

New scenes to witness all thy majesty, 

New shapes and creatures: none dost thou forbid 

To view the wondrous produce of thy word; 

And shall that creature, whom thy bounty raised 

By reason high above the grovelling race, 

With coldness trace thy glory, taste thy gifts 

Contemptuous and unmoved ?—I tremble, Lord, 

I roam, as on a wide and fathomless sea, 

Amid the wonders of thy growing year ! 

I see, but know not: my full heart admires 

The prospect of delight thou spread’st around ; 

And, as thy beck can from the withered plant 

Call forth new verdure, bid fresh blossoms spring, 

Methinks that power may in the mouldering 

corse 

Arouse warm life and vigor. I behold 

Each living thing declare thy liberal hand, 

Thy force, all-bountiful, almighty God! 

And shall not I, on whom thy judging will 


Showers choicer bliss, some duteous tribute pay, | 


Some strain of rapture, to the King of Kings? 
My mind and heart and ravished sense admire 
The might and gorgeous majesty of heaven, 
The glory of thy works; and deem the world 
Created vainly for such torpid souls 

As scorn its beauty and renounce its joys. 


eas 


JOHANNES EVALD. 


Contemporary with Tullin, and, if less known 
during his .lifetime, more honored after his 
death, is Johannes Evald. He was born at 
Copenhagen in 1743. At the age of sixteen, he 
ran away from the University, and escaped to 
Germany, where he entered the Prussian army, 
and afterwards deserted to the Austrian, which 
he joined as adrummer. After two years of 
service, he returned to Copenhagen in 1760, 
where he passed the remainder of his life in 
literary pursuits. He died in 1781. 

Evald is the author of several dramatic works, 
the most important of which are the tragedies 
of ‘“‘ Rolf Krage,” and ‘* Balder’s Dod” (Bal- 
der’s Death), and the lyrical drama of “ Fis- 
kerne”’ (the Fishermen), in which he has in- 
troduced the celebrated national song of ** King 
Christian.”’ He also commenced another trage- 
dy, entitled ‘ Frode,” and a new “ Hamlet,” in 
iambics. It is, however, as a lyric, not as a 
dramatic poet, that Evald is chiefly known and 
valued. In this point of view he has no rival 
among his countrymen. His songs are written 
with remarkable vigor and beauty. In strength 
and simplicity he resembles Campbell. 


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KING CHRISTIAN. 


Kine Curistran stood by the lofty mast 
In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed 5 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast 
In mist and smoke. 
“Fly!” shouted they, ‘fly, he who can! 
Who braves of Denmark’s Christian 
The stroke?” 


Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest’s roar ; 
Now is the hour ! 

He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 

And smote upon the foe full sore, 

And shouted loud, through the tempest’s roar, 
*¢ Now is the hour! ”’ 

“Fly!” shouted they, “for shelter fly ! 

Of Denmark’s Juel who can defy 
The power?” 


North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent 
Thy murky sky! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 
Terror and Death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail that rent 
Thy murky sky! 
From Denmark thunders Tordenskiol’ ; 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 
And fly! 
Path of the Dane to fame and might! 
Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite, 
Proudly as thou the tempest’s might, 
Dark-rolling wave ! 
And, amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine arms 
My grave! ; 


THE WISHES. 


Atri hail, thou new year, that, apparelled in 
sweetness, 
Now spring’st like a youth from eternity’s 
breast ! 
O, say, dost thou come from the bright throne of 
greatness, 
Our herald of mercy, of gladness,.and rest ? 
Cheer the heart of our king with benignity’s 
token ; 
Light his soul with the sunbeam that sets not 
above ; 
Be his sword unresisted, his sceptre unbroken ; 
O, peace be to Christian, the monarch we 
love ! 


With an emerald zone bind the rocks of the 
North ; 
O’er Denmark’s green vales spread a buckler 
of gold ; 
Pour the glories of harvest unsparingly forth, 
And show that our wealth is our dear native 
mould : 


DANISH POETRY. 


Smile on the conqueror of ocean, who urges, 
Through darkness and tempests, his blue path 


to fame; 
May the sea spare her hero, and waft on her 
surges 
Blessings and peace to the land whence he 
came: 


Round the forehead of art twine the wreath 
that she loves, 
And harden to labor the sinews of youth ; 
With a hedge of stout hearts guard our Eden’s 
fair groves, 
And temper their valor with mercy and truth: 
Bless him, to whom heaven its bright flame 


commendeth, 
And shadow his couch with the folds of thy 
love ; 
Give light to our judges, —the heart that ne’er 
bendeth, — 


Inspirit our bards, and our teachers approve. 


O, blest be the firm-hearted hero, who weaves 
not 
A thought or a wish but his spirit may own ! 
O, shame on the cold son of interest, who 
cleaves not 
To the heart of his country, and loves her 
alone ! 
Be her welfare our glory, our joy, our devotion ; 
Unchilled be her valor, her worth undecayed ; 
May her friends on her fields gaze with rap- 
ture’s emotion ; 
May she long love the stranger, but ask not 
his aid! 


» SONG. 


From high the seaman’s wearied sight 
Spies the green forests with delight, 
Which seem to promise rest and joy; 
But woe is him, if hope deceives, 
If his fond eye too late perceives 
The breakers lurking to destroy. 


O sweetest pledge of love and pleasure, 
Enchanting smile! thy depth Ill measure, 
Wary, as in the shallow tide ; 
That, if beneath that garb of beauty 
The mind has shoals to wreck my duty, 
I straight may seek the waters wide. 


SS 


EDWARD STORM. 


Epwarp Storm was born in 1749, at Vaage, 
in Guldbrandsdalen, Norway. He is the au- 
thor of a comic heroic poem, in hexameters, en- 
titled ‘¢« Breger,”’ and a collection of ‘ Fables 
and Tales in the manner of Gellert.’ But in 
the comic vein he is not considered equal to his 
countryman Wessel, whose tragi-comedy of 
“ Kjerlighed uden Strémper” (Love with- 


out Stockings) is looked upon as one of the 
most successful humorous productions of Den- 
mark. He is known chiefly as a lyric poet. 
In his ballads he has caught much of the spirit 
of ancient song. Many of them are written in 
his native Guldbrangsdalske dialect, and these 
are the most esteemed among his countrymen. 
He died in 1794. 


—_———__. 


THE BALLAD OF SINCLAIR. 


Across the sea came the Sinclair brave, 
And he steered for the Norway border ; 

In Guldbrand valley he found his grave, 
Where his merry men fell in disorder. 


Across the sea came the Sinclair brave, 
To fight for the gold of Gustavus ; 

God help thee, chief! from the Norway glaive 
No other defender can save us. 


The moon rode high in the blue night-cloud, 
And the waves round the bark rippled 
smoothly ; 
When the mermaid rose from her watery shroud, 
And thus sang the prophetess soothly : 


“ Return, return, thou Scottish wight ! 
Or thy light is extinguished in mourning ; 
If thou goest to Norway, I tell thee right, 
No day shall behold thy returning.”’ 


‘¢ Now loud thou liest, thou sorceress old! 
Thy prophecies ever are sore ; 

If once I catch thee within my hold, 
Thou never shalt prophesy more.” 


He sailed three days, he sailed three nights, 
He and his merry men bold ; 

The fourth he neared old Norway’s heights ; — 
T tell you the tale as ’t is told. 


On Romsdale coast has he landed his host, 
And lifted the flag of ruin ; 

Full fourteen hundred, of mickle boast, 
All eager for Norway’s undoing. 


They scathe, they ravage, where’er they light, 
Justice or ruth unheeding ; 

They spare not the old for his locks so white, 
Nor the widow for her pleading. 


They slew the babe on his mother’s arm, 
As he smiled so sweet on his foemen : 

But the cry of woe was the war-alarm, 
And the shriek was the warrior’s omen. 


The Baun? flamed high, and the message-wood 
ran 
Swiftly o’er field and o’er furrow ; 
No hiding-place sought the Guldbranders then, 
As the Sinclair shall find to his sorrow. 


1 A heap of wood raised in the form of a cone on the 
summits of the mountains, and set on fire to give notice of 


| invasion. 


‘Ye men of Norway, arise, arise ! 
Fight for your king and your laws; 
And woe to the craven wretch that flies, 

And grudges his blood in the cause ! ” 


And all of Lesso, and Vog, and Lon, 
With axes full sharp on their shoulders, 
To Bredeboyd in a swarm are gone, 


To talk with the Scottish solute 


Close under lid lies a pathway long, 
The swift-flowing Laugen runs by it; 
We call it Kring in our Northern tongue ; 
There wait we the foemen in quiet. 


No more on the wall hangs the rifle-gun, 
For the gray marksman aims at the foemen ; 
Old Nokken? mounts from the waters dun, 
And waits for the prey that is coming. 


The first shot hit the brave Sinclair right, 
He fell with a groan full grievous ; 

The Scots beheld the good colonel’s plight, 
Then said they, ‘‘ Saint Andrew receive us!” 

‘¢ Ye Norway men, let your hearts be keen! 
No mercy to those who deny it!”’ 

The Scots then wished themselves home, I ween, 
They liked not this Norway diet. 


We strewed with bodies the long pathway, 
The ravens they feasted full deep ; : 

The youthful blood, that was spilt that day, 
The maidens of soomnd may weep. 


No Scottish flower was left on the stem, 
No Scotsman returned to tell 

How perilous ’ tis to visit them 
Who in mountains of Norway dwell. 


And still on the spot stands a statue high, 
For the foemen of Norway’s discerning ; 

And woe to him who that statue can spy, 
And feels not his spirit burning ! 


THORVALD. 


Swayne Tvesxize did a man possess, 
Sir Thorvald hight ; 

Though fierce in war, ‘kind acts in peace 
Were his delight. 

From port to port his vessels fast 
Sailed wide around, 

And made, where’er they anchor cast, 
His name renowned. 

But Thorvald has freed his king. 


Prisoners he bought, — clothes, liberty, 
On them Bovowed: 

And sent men home fein slavery 
To their abode. 


2 The river-god. 


STORM. 85 | 


86 


And many an old man got his boy, 
His age’s stay ; 
And many a maid her youth’s sole joy, 
Her lover gay. 
But Thorvald has freed his king. 


A brave fight Thorvald loved full dear, 

i For brave his mood ; 

But never did he dip his spear 
In feeble blood. 

He followed Swayne to many a fray 
With war-shield bright, 

And his mere presence scared away 
Foul deeds of might. 

Oe + But Thorvald has freed his king. 


They hoist sail on the lofty mast ; 
It was King Swayne; 

He o’er the bluey billows passed 
With armed train. 

His mind to harry Bretland ! boiled ; 
He leapt on shore : 

And every, every thing recoiled 
His might before. 

But Thorvald has freed his king. 


Yet slept not Bretland’s chieftain good ; 
He speedily 
i. Collects a host in the dark wood 
Of cavalry. 
And evil, through that subtle plan, 
Befell the Dane ; 
They were ta’en prisoners every man, 
And last king Swayne. 
But Thorvald has freed his king. 


*¢ Now hear, thou prison-foogd!? and, pray, 
My message heed : 

Unto the castle take thy way, 
Thence Thorvald lead ; 

b Prison and chains become him not, 

Whose gallant hand 

So many a handsome lad has brought 
From slavery’s band.” : 

But Thorvald has freed his king. 


The man brought this intelligence 
To the bower’s door ; 

But Thorvald, with loud vehemence, 
“«T ’Il not go,”’ swore. 

*¢ What! go, and leave my sovereign here, 
In durance sore ? 

No! Thorvald then ne’er worthy were 
To lift shield more.”’ 

But Thorvald has freed his king. 


| 

| What cannot noble souls effect ? 

| Both freedom gain 

Through Thorvald’s prayer, and the respect 

| His deeds obtain. 

| And, from that hour unto his grave, 

| Swayne ever showed 

| Towards his youth’s friend, so true and brave, 
Fit gratitude. 

| But Thorvald has freed his king. 

| 


1 Britain. 2 The governor of the prison. 


eg 


DANISH POETRY. 


Swayne Tveskieg sat with kings one tide, 
O’er mead and beer ; 

The cushion soft he stroked, and cried, 
“Sit, Thorvald, here. 

Thy father ne’er ruled land like me 
And my compeers; 4 

But yarl and nobleman is he 
Whose fame thine nears. 

For Thorvald has freed the king. 


29 


eS 


THOMAS THAARUP. 


Tuomas Tuaarup was born at Copenhagen 

in 1749, and, after completing his studies at the 
University, he became Professor of History, 
Philosophy, and Belles Lettres in the Royal 
Naval Academy, a post which he occupied 
twenty years. In 1800 he retired to Smid- 
strup, where he lived upon his pension until his 
death in 1821, at the advanced age of seventy- 
two. ; 
His principal works are the three national 
operas of ‘ Hostgildet’’ (Harvest Home), “ Pe- 
ters Bryllup”’ (Peter’s Marriage), and “* Hiem- 
komsten ” (the Return Home). As a poet, he 
is more remarkable for his common sense and 
correct versification than for invention or pow- 
er. He is more patriotic than poetical. 


oe 


r THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY. 


Tuovu spot of earth, where from my bosom 
The first weak tones of nature rose ; 

Where first I cropped the stainless blossom 
Of pleasure, yet unmixed with woes ; 

Where, with my new-born powers delighted, 
I tripped beneath a mother’s hand ; 

In thee the quenchless flame was lighted, 
That sparkles for my native land! 


And when in childhood’s quiet morning 
Sometimes to distant haunts we rove, 

The heart, like bended bow returning, 
Springs swifter to its home of love. 

Each hill, each dale, that shared our pleasures, 
Becomes a heaven in memory ; 

And e’en the broken veteran measures 
With sprightlier step his haunts in glee. 


Through east, through west, where’er creation | 
Glows with the cheerful hum of men, 
Clear, bright it burns, to earth’s last nation, 

The ardor of the citizen : 
The son of Greenland’s white expansion 
Contemns green corn and laughing vine ; 
The cot is his embattled mansion, 
The rugged rock his Palestine. 


Such was the beacon-light that guided 

Our earliest chiefs through war and woe ; 
E’en love itself in fame subsided, 

Though love was all their good below : 


Thus young Hialte rushed to glory, 

And left his mourning maid behind ; 
He fell, — and Honor round his story, 
Dropping with tears, her wreath entwined. 


Such’ flame, O Pastor-chief! impelled thee 
To quit the crosiér for the blade ; 

| Not e’en the Heaven-loved cloister held thee, 
Whep Denmark called thee to her aid: 

No storms could chill, no darkness blind thee, 
Ankona saw her thousands bend, 

Yet, when her suppliant arms entwined thee, 
She found a man in Denmark’s friend. 


O’er Norway’s crags, o’er Denmark’s valleys, 
Heroic tombs profusely rise, 
Memorials of the love that rallies 
Nations round kings, and knits their ties. 
Sweet is the bond of filial duty, 
Sweet is the grasp of friendly hand, 
Sweet is the kiss of opening beauty, 
But sweeter still our native land. 


Thou monument of truth unfailing ! 
Sublime, unshaken Frederickshall ! 

In vain, with peal on peal assailing, 
Charles thundered at thy fatal wall : 

Beneath thy cliff, in flames ascending, 
A sacrifice to virtue blazed, 

When patriot bands, serene, unbending, 
Consumed the domes their fathers raised. 


O royal town ! in memory hallowed 
To Denmark’s last and darkest day ! 

The prize that Sweden’s hunter followed 

. Behind thy feeble-ramparts lay : 

But faith, the strength of towers supplying, 
Bade Vasa tremble for his name ; 

While, round the rescued Hafnia lying, 
Expired stern Sweden’s flower and fame. 


Long, long shall Danish maidens sigh 
For those who in their battle fell; 
And mothers long, with beaming eye, 
Of Frederickshall and Hafhia tell! 
The child, that learns to lisp his mother, 
Shall learn to lisp his country’s name ; 
Shall learn to call her son a brother, 


And guard her rights with heart of flame. 


Burn high, burn clear, thou spark unfading, 
From Holstein’s oaks, to Dofra’s base ; 
Till each, in war his country aiding, 
Remain in peace her strength and grace! 
The sons of wisdom shall approve us, 
The God of patriots smile from high, 
While we, and all the hearts that love us, 
Breathe but for Denmark’s liberty. 


TO SPRING, 


Tuy beams are sweet, beloved spring! 

The winter-shades before thee fly ; 
The bough smiles green, the young birds sing, 
The chainless current glistens by ; 


THAARUP.—RAHBEK. 


Till countless flowers, like stars, illume 
The deepening vale and forest-gloom. 


O, welcome, gentle guest from high, 
Sent to cheer our world below, 
To lighten sorrow’s faded eye, 
To kindle nature’s social glow ! 
O, he is o’er his fellows blest 
q i -} 
Who feels thee in a guiltless breast ! 


Peace to the generous heart, essaying 
With deeds of love to win our praise ! 
He smiles, the spring of life surveying, 
Nor fears her cold and wintry days: 
To his high goal, with triumph bright 
fo) 5 ? : i F a) ’ 
The calm years waft him in their flight. 
J s 


Thou glorious goal, that shin’st afar 
5 5 ’ ’ 
And seem’st to smile us on our way ; 
Bright is the hope that crowns our war, 
The dawn-blush of eternal day ! 
There shall we meet, this dark world o’er, 
And mix in love for evermore. 


—_—-?—— 


KNUD LYNE RAHBEK. 


RauBEK was born at Copenhagen in 1760, 
and died there in 1830. His long life was an 
active and laborious one. He was aman of 
many occupations, a traveller, a professor, an 
editor, a critic, and a poet. He began his lite- 
rary career by translations from Racine and 
Diderot, and an original play called “ Den Unge 
Darby” (The Young Darby). A few years after- 
wards, in connexion with his friend Pram, 
author of the epic poem of “ Sterkodder,” he 
established a monthly review under the title 
of “¢ Minerva.”’ He was the author, also, of 


another periodical, in imitation of Addison’s: 


‘“¢ Spectator,” entitled “* Den Danske Tiulskuer ” 
(The Danish Observer), which is considered 
by his countrymen as his monumentum ere 
perenntus, and a mirror of the times. He him- 
self has been called “the man of the eighteenth 
cegtury.”’ The following ballad is a favorable 
specimen of his poetic powers. 


os 


PETER COLBIORNSEN. 


"Fore Fredereksteen King Carl he lay 
With mighty host ; 

But Frederekshal, from day to day, 
Much trouble cost. 

To seize the sword each citizen 
His tools let fall, 

And valiant Peter Colbiornsen 
Was first of all. 

Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


’Gainst Frederekshal so fierce and grim 
Turned Carl his might, 

The citizens encountered him 
In numbers slight; 

H 


Fe 


2k eee 


esa 


=e ht 


yr . 


EE 


Ae & — c a 
=e es 
se SOE 


For much-loved land, 
And it was Peter Colbiornsen 
That led the band. 


Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


Such heavy blows the Norsemen deal 
Amid the foe, 

Like ripe corn ’fore the reaper’s steel 
The Swedes sink low. 

But sturdiest reaper weary will; 
So happ’d it here ; 

Though many the Norwegians kill, 
More, more appear. 

Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


Before superior force they flew, 

, As Norsemen fly, 

They but retired, the fight anew 
Unawed to ply. 

Now o’er the bodies of his slain 
His way Carl makes; 

He thinks he has the city ta’en, 
But he mistakes. 

Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


A speedy death his soldiers found 
Where’er they came ; 

For Norse were posted all around, 
And greeted them. 

Then Carl he sent, but sorely vexed, 
To Fredereksteen, 

And begged that he might bury next 
His slaughtered men. 

Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


‘“¢ No time, no time to squander e’er 
Have Norsemen bold, 


He came self-bidden ’mongst us here,” 


Thus Carl was told ; 
“If we can drive him back again, 
We now must try,” © 
And it was Peter Colbiornsen 
Made that reply. 
Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


Lo! from the town the flames outburst, 


High-minded men ! 
And he who fired his house the first 
Was Colbiornsen. 
Eager to quench the fire, the foes 
Make quick resort, 
But bullets fell as fast as snows 
Down from the fort. 
Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
Now rose the flames toward the sky, 
Red, terrible ; 
His heroes’ death the king thereby 
Could see right well. 
Sir Peter’s word he then made good, 
His host retires ; 
But in his path the steen it stood, 
And on him fires. 
Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 


DANISH POETRY. 


But, ah! they fought like Northern men 


Magnificent ’midst corse and blood 
Glowed Frederekshal ; 

Illumed its own men’s courage proud, 
And Swedesmen fall. 

Whoe’er saw pile funereal flame 
So bright as then ? 

Sure never shall expire thy name, 
O Colbiornsen ! 

Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemtn. 


—-o-——- 


PETER ANDREAS HEIBERG. 


HriperG was born at Vordingborg in 1758. 
‘Till 1800, he lived in Copenhagen, where he 
devoted himself to writing for the stage. Next 
to Holberg, he has produced the greatest num- 
ber of original Danish comedies, most of which 
are noted for acuteness, wit, and knowledge of 
the world. In 1800, he was banished from his 
native country on account of his political writ- 
ings. Since that time, he has resided in Paris, 
where, during the reign of Napoleon, he was 
employed in the Bureau of Foreign Affairs. 
His later writings consist chiefly of philosoph- 
ical and literary essays in the French journals. 


NORWEGIAN LOVE-SONG, 


THE bright red sun in ocean slept ; 
Beneath a pine-tree Gunild wept, 
And eyed the hills with silver crowned, 
And listened to each little sound 

That stirred on high. 


“Thou stream,” she said, “from heights * 
above, 
Flow softly to a woman’s love! 
As on thy azure current steering, 
Flow soft, and shut not from my hearing 
The sounds I love. 


“« Ere chased the morn the night-cloud pale, 
He sought the deer in distant dale : 
‘Farewell!’ he said, ‘when evening closes, 
Expect me where the moon reposes 

On yonder vale.’ 


“Return, return, my Harold dear! 
This wedded bosom pants with fear ; 
By woodland foe I deem thee dying ; 
O, come! and hear the rocks replying 


To Gunild’s joy.” 


Then horns and hounds came pealing wide ; 
“’T is he! ’tis he!’’ fair Gunild cried ; 
‘¢ Ye winds, to Harold bear my ery!” 
And rocks and mountains answered high, 


cis he! “tis hey 


TYCHO BRAHE, OR THE RUINS OF URANIENBORG. 


Tou by the strand dost wander,— 
Yet here, O stranger, stay ! 


Turn towards the island yonder, 
And listen to my lay : | 


Pra 3 Sa 


NSOD vrs serene — - == 


ct EB SA REA SN te ASE LO et ois . a ALN ena SUE L ASA ABTA a AE TA tt ara 


HEIBERG.—BAGGESEN. 


Thy every meditation Then he his eye erected 
Bid thither, thither haste ; Into the night so far, 
A castle had its station And keen the course inspected 
On yon banks ages past. Of every twinkling star : 
; The stars his fame transported 
In long past days in glory Wide over sea and land; 
: It stood, and grandeur sheen ; And kings his friendship courted, 
Now —’t was so transitory — And sought his islet’s strand. 
Its ruins scarce are seen. cm 
But it in ancient tide was But the stars pointed serious 
For height and size renowned, To other countries’ track ; 
It seen from every side was His fate called him imperious, 


Uprising from the ground, He went, and came not back. 

The haughty walls, through sorrow, 
Have long since sunken low ; 

The heavy ploughshares furrow 


Thy house, Urania! now. 
3 


For no sea-king intended, 
I ween, was yonder hold ; 
Urania! it ascended 
In praise of thee so bold. | 
Close by the ocean roaring, 


: Each time the sun is sinking 
Far, far from mortal jars, “a pre 
‘ .t friendly looks on Hveen ; 
It stood towards heaven soaring, 


a ats rays there linger, thinking | 
And towards the little stars. / Pe tise g = | 
On what that place has been. | 


° NOY « ag sJanrl r | 
A gate in the wall eastward The moon hastes, melancholy, i 


Showed like a mighty mouth ; 
There was another westward, 
And spires stood north and south. 


Past, past her coast so dear 5 
And in love’s pleasure holy 
Shines Freya’s starlet clear: 


The castle dome, high rearing | 
e stray ee in Then suddenly takes to heavin 
Itself, a spirelet bore, ern oa a eer OP alee aes 
ans p at y + 
Where stood, ’fore the wind veering, (Of that same ruin old 
A Pegasus, gilt o’er. The basis deep, believing, | 
= Sy SP Ba eee ’t is oft told 
mome evening, — t 1s oit told, — 
Towers, which the sight astounded, For many moments, gladly, 
rth and s were plac would rise up from th — 
In north and south were placed, at ld p fi he mould ; 
strong pillars foundec may not;—-so it sad 
Upon strong pillars founded, It may not; t sadl 
And both with galleries graced. Sinks in Death’s slumber cold. 
=e } 
And there they caught attention 
. | 
Of all, who thither strolled, Pe 
Quadrants of large dimension, | 
And spheres in flames that rolled. 
E JENS BAGGESEN. | 
One, from the castle staring, 
Across the island spied Jens Baacrsen was born at Korséer in 1764, | 
a bhi cea anag bearing, and died at Hamburg in 1826. A large por- 
C ‘ 8 F . . . . i} 
nf oceans bidey tide tion of his life was passed on the Continent. 
Bist ne i ahaa pret He was for a time professor in the University 
va eh Be ea bright of é ihe ay at Kiel; but ‘travelling, and a residence in for- 
ne ens t a thst Spd ees eign capitals, seem to have been more in accord- 
ith many a Hower and tree. ance with his restless spirit than a fixed abode 


in his native land. 

His principal writings. are a collection of 
comic stories, called The Labyrinth,” or Tales 
of a Traveller in Germany, Switzerland, and | 
France; the operas of “* Holgerdanske’’ and | 
“ Erik Kiegod’”’; *¢ Parthenais,” an idyllic po- | 
em in the manner of Voss’s “ Luise,”’ and Goe- | 
the’s *“* Hermann und Dorothea”; a burlesque 
epic, ‘‘ Adam und Eva’’; and several volumes 


When down came night careering, 
And vanished was the sun, 

The stars were seen appearing 
All heaven’s arch upon. 

Far, far was heard the yelling 
(When one thereto gave heed) 

Of those who watched the dwelling, 
Four hounds of mastiff breed. 


The good knight ceased to walk on of lyric and miscellaneous poems. Some of 
The fields of war and gore ; these works were written originally in Ger- 
His helm and sword the balk on man. 
He hung, to use no more. Baggesen was much engaged, also, in those 
From earth, its woe and riot, quarrels of authors which so often disgrace the 
His mind had taken flight, literary world and embitter the lives of schol- 
When in his chamber quiet ars. He was particularly hostile to Oehlen- 
He sat at depth of night. schlager, a poet who has attained a far greater 


= nt tli pla 


DANISH POETRY. 


onist. Baggesen’s lyric poems are considered 
his best productions. Many of them are written 
with great tenderness of feeling and elegance 
of style. 


CHILDHOOD. 


THERE was a time when I was very small, 
When my whole frame was but an ell in 
height ; 
Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall, 
And therefore I recall it with delight. 


I sported in my tender mother’s arms, | 
And rode a-horse-back on best father’s knee ; 
Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms, 
And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to 
me. 


Then seemed to me this world far Jess in size, 
Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far ; 
Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise, 
And longed for wings that I might catch a 
star. 


| 90 
and more widely extended fame than his antag- 


I saw the moon behind the island fade, 
And thought, ““O, were I on that island 
there, 
I could find out of what the moon is made, 
Find out how large it is, how round, how 
fair!” 


Wondering, I saw God’s sun, through western 
skies, 
Sink in the ocean’s golden lap at night, 
And yet upon the morrow early rise, 
And paint the eastern heaven with crimson 
light ; 


And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly 
Father, 

Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, 

And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung 


together, 
Dropped, clustering, from his hand o’er all 
the sky. 


With childish reverence, my young lips did say 
The prayer my pious mother taught to me: 

‘© O gentle God! OQ, let me strive alway 
Still to be wise, and good, and follow thee!” 

So prayed I for my father and my mother, 
And for my sister, and for all the town; 

The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother, 
Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and 

down. 


They perished, the blithe days of boyhood per- 
ished, 
And all the gladness, all the peace I knew! 
Now have I but their memory, fondly cherish- 
ed ; — 
God! may I never, never lose that too! 


And my rapt fancy heard celestial choirs 


. el Nr mt 
= SS } 


TO MY NATIVE LAND. 


Tuovu spot of earth, where from the breast of 
woe 

My eye first rose, and in the purple glow 

Of morning, and the dewy smile of love, 

Marked the first gleamings of the Power above : 


Where, wondering at its birth, my spirit rose, 
Called forth from nothing by his word sublime, 

To run its mighty race of joys and woes, 
The proud coeval of immortal time : 
: 


Thou spot unequalled! where the thousand lyres 1 
Of spring first met me on her balmy gale, 


In the wild wood-notes and my mother’s tale: || 


Where my first trembling accents were addressed 
To lisp the dear, the unforgotten name, 

And, clasped to mild affection’s throbbing breast, 
My spirit caught from her the kindling flame : 


My country! have I found a spot of joy, 
Through the wide precincts of the chequered 
earth, . 
So calm, so sweet, so guiltless of alloy, 
As thou art to his soul, whose best employ 
Is to recall the joys that blessed his birth ? 


O, nowhere blooms so bright the summer rose, 
As where youth cropt it from the valley’s | 

} 

breast ! 


O, nowhere are the downs so soft as those 
That pillowed infancy’s unbroken rest! 
In vain the partial sun on other vales 
Pours liberal down a more exhaustless ray, 
And vermeil fruits, that blush along their dales, 
Mock the pale products of our scanty day ; 


In vain, far distant from the land we love, 
The world’s green breast soars higher to the 
sky : 
O, what were heaven itself, if lost above 
Were the dear memory of departed joy ? 


Range ocean, melt in amorous forests dim, 
O’er icy peaks with sacred horror bend, 
View life in thousand forms, and hear the hymn 
Of love and joy from thousand hearts ascend, 
And trace each blessing, where round freedom’s 
shrine 
Pure faith and equal laws their shadows twine : 


Yet, wheresoe’er thou roam’st, to lovelier things * 

W .th mingled joy and grief thy spirit springs ; 

And all bright Arno’s pastoral lays of love 

Yield to the sports, where through the tangling 
grove 

The mimic falcon chased the little dove. : 


O, what are Eloisa’s bowers of cost, 
Matched with the bush, where, hid in berries 
white, 
Mine arms around my infant love were crossed ? 


z 


Rene ch il laut taht A AIA ant aS IE SIAL EINER Ma, NTS ST a an CK 


OEHLENS 


What Jura’s peak, to that upon whose height 


I strove to grasp the moon, and where the 
flight 


Of my first thought was in my Maker lost? 


No! here, — but here, —in this lone paradise, 
Which Frederic, like the peaceful angel, gilds, 
Where my loved brethren mix in Pe eisl ties, 
From Nor way’s rocks to Holstein’s golden 
fields ; 


O Denmark ! in thy quiet lap reclined, 
The dazzling joys of varied earth forgot, 
I find the peace I strove in vain to find, 
The peace I never found where thou wert 
not. 


The countless wonders of my devious youth, 
The forms of early love and eanly truth, 
Rise on my view, in memory’s colors dnessea: 
And each lost angel smiles more lovingly 
And every star that cheered my early sky 
Shines fairer in this happy port of rest! 


OS 


ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


Apvam Gorrtop OEHLENSCHLAGER, the 
greatest poet of Denmark, was born in a sub- 
urb of Copenhagen in 1779. His boyhood was 
passed at the castle of Frideriksbérg, a royal 
residence, of which his father was organist and 
steward or governor. The castle was occupied 
by the king and his court in the summer, but 
during the winter the boy “ was left to aatier 
at will through the lofty, magnificent, and soli- 
tary apartments, to gaze on the portraits of 
kings and princes; and, surrounded by these 
splendors not his own, to pore over romances 
and fairy tales, obtained from some circulating 
library in town, to which he made frequent 
pilgrimages for this purpose through storm and 
snow ; or to listen to his father, who, as the au- 
tumnal evenings closed in, used to assemble his 
family about him, and read aloud to them ac- 
counts of voyages and travels.” * 

In this manner the poet lived the first twelve 
years of his life. He was now transferred to 
the city, and commenced his studies under Ed- 
ward Storm, a Norwegian scholar and poet. 
He showed but little fondness for scholastic 
pursuits, but occupied himself chiefly with writ- 
ing and acting plays and boxing, “ walking 
about,” as he himself says, ‘“for a long time, in 
coats which had once figured on the backs of 
crown princes, and stiff boots which had been 
worn by kings, while my pantaloons were made 
out of the cloth which had covered some old 
billiard table, now out of commission,” all 
bought by his father on speculation from the 
keeper of the king’s wardrobe. In this irregular 
manner he spent four years, gaining little Latin 


* Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. VIII., p. 2. 


Spi Ie Via CME Da prone CEI tae i On AS ck en wpa GSS 


CHLAGER. 


and less Greek, but acquiring a moderate know- 
ledge of geography and history, and studying 
the Danish, German, and French languages. 
His father intended to make him a merchant; 
but the merchant, in whose counting-house he 
desired to place him, not being able to receive 
the young man, the plan was abandoned, and 
the poet went back to his studies. He was 
soon discouraged by finding that the defects of 
his early training made it extremely difficult, if 
not quite impossible, to achieve distinction in a 
classical or ti healogieal career ; and, his former 
schoolboy taste for theatrical representation re- 
viving, he suddenly resolved to try his fortune 
on the stage. His success as an actor was only 
moderate ; but the experience he acquired in 
theatrical affairs was of some advantage to him 
in his subsequent career as a dramatic poet. 
He formed an acquaintance at this time with a 
young student, named Oersted, by whose argu- 
ments he was persuaded to desert the stage and 
apply himself to the oe of the law. 
This shifting of the scene took place in 1800. 

About the same period, occurred a love passage 
between our law-student and Councillor Hege r’s 
daughter Christiana, his future wife, the peoalt of 
which is thus rel: tea by the writer in the ‘ For- 
eign Quarterly Review.” ‘‘ All the poet’s means 
were merely, as the schoolmen would say, pos- 
sible, but not very probable, entities ; he had not 
yet distinguished himself in literature ; his law 
he could not hope to render available for years ; 
and therefore the prospects of the lovers were 
any thing but flattering. It was naturally with 
a beating heart, therefore, that Oehlenschliger 
laid his proposals before the father, a musician, 
optician, fire-work maker, and fifty other things 
besides. He might have spared himself all 
anxiety on the subject; for the old gentleman, 
after listening to the young lawyer’s maiden 
speech on the question, coolly rang the bell 
for his daughter, told her in a moment hew the 
matter stood, placed her hand in tltat of Oeh 

lenschlager, and me oeteed the subject.” 

In 1801, Oehlenschlaiger’s professional studies 
were interrupted by the tumults of war, caused 
by the expedition “of the British fleet against 
Copenhagen. The young lawyer became one 
of a company of volunteers raised for the de- 
fence of the country ; but the hardest services 
they were called upon to perform were to march 
and countermarch in stormy weather. This 
military episode was of short duration. At the 
return of peace, Oehlenschlager resumed his 
studies, lightening his professional pursuits by 
private theatricals, literary clubs, and the care- 
ful study of the legendary lore of the North. 
In 1803, he published a small collection of 
poems, a dramatic lyrical sketch, and soon af- 
ter a comic opera called “ Freya’s Altar,” and 
‘¢ Vaulundur’s Saga,’’ a modernized fable from 
the Edda. 

His first important work, however, was the 
Oriental drama of “* Aladdin.” ‘The success of 
this attempt was such, that he renounced the 


3 


aa - REET - 


2 DANISH POETRY. 


study of the law, and resolved to devote him- 
self wholly to poetry. Through the friendly 
interposition of Count Schimmelmann, he ob- 
tained a travelling pension from the Danish 
government, by which he was enabled to visit 
Germany, France, and Italy. In this tour he 
became acquainted with the most eminent lite- 
rary men of Halle, Berlin, and Dresden; and 
at Weimar he enjoyed for some time a confi- 
dential intercourse with Wieland and Goethe. 
He was in Weimar during its occupation by 
the French after the battle of Jena; but, as 
soon as the-disturbed state of the country permit- 
ted, he hastened to Paris, where he completed 
three tragediés on national subjects, ‘¢ Hakon 
Jarl,” “ Palnatoke,” and “ Axel and Walbvwirg,”’ 
works which betray no marks of slavish imita- 
tion of any school, but are full of originality 
in thought, and are marked by great beauty of 
execution. In these poems he reproduces the 
bold and energetic spirit of the elder times of 
the North, softening its harsher features occa- 
sionally by the light of modern refinement. 
The contrast between the cruel and bloody 
rites of the Scandinavian paganism, and the 
manners and precepts taught by the Christian 
religion, is seized by him with striking skill ; 
and his great familiarity with the times in 
which his scenes are laid is manifested, says 
the writer already quoted, ‘not in the accumu- 
lation of minute particulars or antiquarian allu- 
sions, but in a primeval simplicity and essential 
truth pervading and informing the whole.” 

In Paris, Oehlenschlager made the acquaint- 
ance of Madame de Staél and Benjamin Con- 
stant, and of Baggesen, with whom he after- 
wards waged a bitter literary warfare. He 
visited Madame de Staél at Coppet, and there 
met Augustus William Schlegel, with whom, 
however, he had no very genial intercourse. 
Schlegel read his poems, and advised him with 
regard to his German style ; for, being skilled in 
both languages, — doctus utriusque sermonis, — 
Oehlenschlager wrote his principal works in 
the German as well as in the Danish; but the 
great critic was cautious and reserved in ex- 
pressing any opinion of their merits. 

Leaving Madame de Staél’s residence, he 
proceeded on his Italian tour, to which he had 
long been looking forward. At Parma he vis- 
ited the frescoes of Correggio in the churches 
of St. Joseph and St. John. “The idea of 
writing a play,” says he, “on the subject of 
his (Correggio’s) life—an idea which I had 
already entertained in Paris—again occurred 
to my mind; and in Modena, when I saw the 
little fresco painting over the chimney-piece in 
the ducal palace, which had been executed in 
his seventeenth year, it was finally resolved 
on.” 

In the execution of his plan, he adopted 
Vasari’s account of Correggio’s death, as the 
groundwork of the piece. The delineation 
of the artist’s character is singularly beautiful. 
The gentle and sensitive painter is brought 


li tS ETT i tt RINNE at hn a 


into striking contrast with the daring and sub- 
lime genius of Michael Angelo, as will be 
seen in one of the following extracts. The 
picture of domestic life and love, graced by 
congenial tastes for art and enthusiasm in its 
pursuit, was never drawn with more simplicity, 
truth, beauty, and felicity, than in this exquisite 
drama. ‘His celebrated drama, ‘ Correggio,’ ” 
says Wolfgang Menzel, in his “* German Litera- 
ture,’ “became the fruitful parent of the ‘ pain- 
ter-dramas,’ which appeared in great numbers, 
in company with the ‘painter-novels,’ after 
Heine, in his ‘Ardinghello,’ and Tieck, in 
‘Sternbald’s Travels,’ had made the romantic 
life of the artist the subject of fiction,” 

Goethe’s “¢ Tasso” resembles ‘¢ Correggio ”’ in 
design, except that he takes a poet, and not an 
artist, for his hero; other works, constructed 
upon the same principle, are Schenck’s “Albert 
Diirer,” Deinhardstein’s “‘ Hans Sachs,” Rau- 
pach’s “ Tasso,” Halm’s ‘ Camoens,?’ Gutz- 
kow’s “ Richard Savage’’; these all come un- 
der the general denomination of the Kiinstler 
drama, — the artist drama, — inasmuch as they 
celebrate great artists or poets. 

After an absence of five years from his coun- 
try and the councillor’s daughter, Oehlenschla- 
ger began to feel an irresistible longing to re- 
turn. 

In his passage through Germany he visited 
Goethe again; and his account of the inter- 
view —the last they ever had — presents, in 
curiously contrasted lights, the simple, genuine, 
affectionate, and honest character of the Dane, 
and the cold, measured, diplomatic manner of 
the poet-minister of Weimar. 

‘©T had dedicated to him,”’ he says, ‘my 
‘Aladdin,’ had sent him a German copy of my 
‘Hakon Jarl’ and ‘Palnatoke,’ with an affec- 
tionate letter, and I now expected a paternal re- 
ception, such as a scholar would anticipate from 
amaster. Goethe received me courteously, but 
coldly, and almost like a stranger. Had subse- 
quent events, then, extinguished in his mind the 
recollection of happy hours spent together, which 
in mine remained so dearly cherished, so incapa- 
ble of being forgotten? or were these recollec- 
tions slumbering only, and peradventure might 
be awakened ? Was I too impatient, that the son 
did not at once find the father he had expected ? 
I know not. In truth, I could not suppress the 
pain I felt, —but I thought that if I could be 
allowed to read my ‘ Correggio’ to him, our old 
communion and fellowship would revive. Mat- 
ters, however, it seems, were otherwise arranged. 
When I told him, through Riemer, that I had 
written a new tragedy, which I wished to read 
to him, he sent me word that I might send him 
the manuscript, and he would read it himself. 
I told him he could not read it, as I had only 
avery ill written copy in my possession, full 
of corrections and interlineations. Such as it 
was, however, I gave it to Riemer. He brought 
it back to me, and told me that Goethe in fact 
found he could not*read it; but that when I 


printed it, he would do so. This pained me, 
but I endeavoured to preserve my firmness and 
good humor. Goethe twice asked me politely 
to dinner, and there I was bold and satirical, 
because | found it impossible to be open-hearted 
and simple. Among other things, I recited some 
epigrams, which I had never printed, on some 
celebrated writers. Goethe said to me good-hu- 
moredly, ‘This is not your field ; — he who can 
make wine should not make vinegar.’ .¢ And 
have you, then,’ I answered, ‘ made no vinegar 
in your time?’ ‘The devil!’ said Goethe, 
‘suppose I have, does that make it right to do 
so?’ ‘No,’ rejoined I,—‘ but, wherever wine 
is made, some grapes will fall off which will 
not do for wine, though they make excellent 
vinegar, and vinegar is a good antidote against 
corruption.’ 

‘* Could we have had time only to become 
acquainted with each other again, all would 
have gone well, and Goethe would have al- 
lowed me to read my play to him. But, unfor- 
tunately, my departure could not be put off, and 
we took a cold farewell of each other. It 
grieved me, however, to the soul; for there was 
not a being in the world that I loved and hon- 
ored more than Goethe, and now we were 
parting, perhaps never again to meet in life. 
The horses had been ordered at five o’clock the 
next morning. It was now half past eleven at 
night; I sat melancholy in my room, leaning 
my head upon my hand, the tears standing in 
my eye. All at once an irresistible longing 
came over me to press my old friend once more 
to my heart; though the pride of mortified 
feeling contended with it in my heart, and 
pleaded that I ought not to present myself to 
him in an attitude of humiliation. 

“T ran to Goethe’s house, in which there 
was still light; went to Riemer in his room and 
said, ‘My dear friend, can I not speak to 
Goethe fora moment? I would willingly bid 
him farewell once more.’ Riemer was _ sur- 
prised, but, seeing my agitation, and knowing 
its source, he answered, ‘I will tell him; I will 
see whether he is still up.’ He returned and 
told me to go in, while he himself took his 
leave. There stood the creator of ‘ Gotz of 
Berlichingen’ and ‘ Herman and Dorothea,’ in 
his night-gown, winding up his watch before 
going to bed. When he saw me, he said to me 
kindly,‘ Ah! friend, you come like Nicodemus.’ 
‘Will the privy councillor,’ said I, ‘permit me 
to bid a last farewell to the poet Goethe ?’ 
‘Now, then,’ replied he with affection, ‘ fare- 
well, my child!’ ‘No more! no more!’ said I, 
deeply moved, and hastily left the room. For 
twenty years now I have not seen Goethe nor 
written to him, but I have named my eldest 
son after him; I have repeatedly read through 
and lectured upon his noble productions ; his 
picture hangs in my room. I love him, and am 
convinced that if fate should once more bring 
me into his neighbourhood, I should still find 
in him the old paternal friend. I know also 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
Ie ae ape ee ee i ee es PS MD YN TN Ne Ae 


93 


that he has always spoken with kindness of 
me,” 

Oehlenschlager was married immediately af- 
ter his return, and soon received the appoint- 
ment of Professor Extraordinary in the Univer- 
sity. His winters were employed in lecturing 
on elegant literature in Copenhagen, and the 
leisure of his summers was given assiduously 
to composition. In 1815 he was made a Knight 
of Dannebrog (Danish Flag), and in 1827 elect- 
ed Ordinary Professor and Assessor in the Con- 
sistory. 

Other pieces of his are “‘ Ludlam’s Cave,” 
“Erich and Adel,” “Hugo von Rheinberg,”’ 
‘¢ Steerkodder,”’ and “Charles the Great.’ “+ His 
lyric: poems, in general, are distinguished by 
force and simplicity of expression, a simplicity, 
in fact, which sometimes degenerates into com- 
mon or prosaic lines; and almost always by a 
natural and unexaggerated vein of feeling.” * 
But both his lyrical poems and his novels are 
inferior to his dramatic compositions. One of 
his works of fiction, however, a reproduction 
of the old German romance of the “ Island 
Felsenburg,”’ is described by Menzel as “a 
novel full of rich and warm life.”’ 

The admirable translations from Oehlenschla- 
ger’s dramas, which we have taken from “ Black- 
wood’s Magazine,” are by Mr. Gillies. An an- 
alysis of his ‘Axel and Valburg,” and of the 
‘¢ Vaerings in Miklagord,” with extracts, may 
be found in the “Foreign Review,” for Octo- 
ber, 1828, and one of his comedy of ‘ The Broth- 
ers of Damascus,” in Blackwood, No. 248, for 
June, 1836. 

Oehlenschliger is still living in Copenhagen. 


EXTRACTS FROM ALADDIN, OR THE WONDERFUL 
LAMP. 


FROM THE DEDICATION. 


Born in the distant North, 

Soon to my youthful ear came tidings forth 
From Fairy Land: 

Where flowers eternal blow, 

Where youth and beauty go 
In magic band. 


Even in my childish days 

I pored enchanted on its ancient lays ; 
Where the thick snowy fold 

Lay deep on wall and hill, 

I read, and felt the chill 
Of wonder, not of cold. 


Methought the driving hail, 

That on the windows beat with icy flail, 
Was Zephyr’s wing : 

I sat, and by the light 

Of one dim lamp had sight 
Of Southern spring. 


* Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. VIII., p. 31. 


: 
| 
| 
: 
| 
| 
| 


DANISH POETRY. 


NOUREDDIN AND ALADDIN. 


[Two rocks, bending towards each other, form an arch; 
a small plain in front, clothed with grass and flowers, 
partly overshaded by the trees upon the rocks. A springe 
flows from the cleft of the rocks, and loses itself in the 
distance. } 


NOUREDDIN and ALADDIN (in conversation). 
ALADDIN. 
Wextt, uncle, you do tell the loveliest stories 
That ever in my life I listened to, 
And I could stand and hearken-here for ever. 
Methinks I feel myself a wiser man 
Already, since we left the city gate, — 
You ’ve led me such a round through every 
quarter 
Of the wide world. All that you say of trade 
Doubtless is true ; but, I confess, your tales 
Of Nature’s magic and mysterious powers, 
Of men who by mere luck and chance obtain, 
Even in an instant, all that others toil for 
Through a long, weary life, yet toil in vain, — 
These themes were those I loved. 


NOUREDDIN. 
These themes indeed 
The noblest are that can employ the soul. 


ALADDIN (looking about, bewildered). 


But where, in Heaven’s name, are we? Your 
fine talk 

So charmed me on, I quite forgot the way. 

Far over stock and stone, through field and 
thicket, 

We’ve. wandered on, 
now, — 

Alone amidst the mountains. Ah! we must 

Have walked a fearful way. And, now I think 
on ’t, 

I did at times feel, as it were, awearied, 

Although I soon forgot it. Was it so, 

Dear uncle, with thee too? 


far from the gardens 


NOUREDDIN, 
Not so, my son. 
"T’ was purposely that by degrees I drew thee 


_ From out the stir and tumult of the town 


Here into Nature’s still, majestic realm. 

I saw thy young heart beat with frolic joy, 

While through the gardens we together wan- 
dered, 

Which, like an isolated ring of flowers, 

The, rocky bases of the mountains girdled. 

But though those blooming bowers and trick- 
ling rills, 

The tempting fruits with which they ’re studded 
over, 

May claim a passing homage from the eye, 

Yet such diminutive and puny Nature, 

Hemmed in on every side by dreary want, 

Chained in the galling fetters of possession, 

Sinks into naught beside these glorious hills, 

In this their royal, their gigantic greatness. 

By chance apparently, dear youth, but yet 

With foresight and deep purpose, have I led thee 


ihe 


Thus from the mean to the majestic on ; 

And what I said, I said, to make thy spirit 

Familiar with the wonderful, lest thou 

(Even as a wild, unbroken courser does, — 

Strong in his youthful speed, but wild of wit) 

Shouldst swerve aside because the thunder bel- 
lowed. 

This have I done to school thy mind, — and now 

Methinks I may impart my purpose to thee. 


ALADDIN. 
Speak on then, uncle, —I am not afraid. 


NOUREDDIN. 
Know, then, my child, for many a year 1’ve 
pored 
O’er Nature’s closely clasped mysterious volume, 
Till in its pages I detected secrets 
That lie beyond the ken of common eyes. 
So have I, among other things, discovered 
That here —upon the spot whereon we stand — 
A deep and vaulted cavern yawns beneath, 
Where all that in the mountain’s breast lies bu- 
ried, . 
Far fairer, livelier, brighter, blooms and sparkles, 
In the deep tints of an eternal spring, 
Than the weak growths of this our surface earth, 
Where swift the flower decays as swift it grew, 
And leaves but withered, scentless leaves be- 
hind. ‘ 
Know, then, my son, if thou hast heart to ven- 
ture 
Into this wondrous cave (’t was for thy sake 
I brought thee hither, — I myself have seen 
Its wonders often), I will straight proceed, 
Soon as a fire of withered twigs is kindled, 
By strength of deep, mysterious, charmed words, 
To bare its entrance to thine eyes. 


ALADDIN, 
What! — uncle ! — 
A cavern here beneath, — here, where we 
stand ? ' 


NOUREDDIN, 


Even so. 
nay, 
The very magazine of boundless nature. 


The loveliest of earth’s grottoes, — 


ALADDIN, 


And you can lay its entrance bare by burning 
Dry twigs, and uttering some charmed words? 


NOUREDDIN, 


Nephew, such power has Allah’s grace be- 
stowed. 


ALADDIN, 


Well, never in my lifetime did I hear — (pauses). 


NOUREDDIN, 


Already frightened ! 


ALADDIN, 


Frightened ? — not at all; — 
And yet it is too wonderful. 


Rh Ak Re tt RSS amr Wikia aR Each EE A CRA ends Ee 


NOUREDDIN. 
Look, then: 


See where yon faded twigs their branches stoop, 

All parched and withered on the sun-burnt 
rocks, — 

Go, get thee thither, — bring us wood to make 

Our fire,*~and haste, for it grows late and 
gloomy. 


ALADDIN. 
Uncle, I fly, —I long to be within 
The charming cave, —I’ll fetch the wood di- 
rectly. [Exit. 
NOUREDDIN (alone). 
So, then, the moment is approaching, that 
Makes me the lord of earth and all its treasures, 
This is the spot for which I longed through life, 
For which so many a weary foot I ’ve travelled. 
There comes mine instrument. 
runs, 
Thoughtless of ill, the wood upon his back ! 
His eagerness impels him on too fast ; 
He stumbles oft ; — soon will his fall be deeper ! 
Poor simple fool! Stand still and fix thine eye, 
For the last time, on yonder flowery beds, — 
Warm thy poor carcass in the genial sun! 
Soon wilt thou howl, far, far from sun or flow- 
ers, 
In darkness and in famine courting death. 
Weakness would call my purpose cruelty. 
"T’ is wisdom rather, where no passion mingles. 
That which is fixed is fixed, and cannot but be. 
Does he who searches Nature’s secrets scruple 
To stick his pin into an insect ? 


See, where he 


ALADDIN (entering with a bundle of twigs on his back). 
Uncle, 
Here’s wood enough to roast an elephant. 
But while I broke the branches off and laid them 
Upon my back, what thought occurred to me, 
But the old tale of Abraham and Isaac, 
How the poor boy upon his back was doomed 
To bear the wood for his own sacrifice ? 


[He turns round, then waves his hand triumphantly 
above his head. 
But Allah sent from heaven a guardian angel 
To rescue him. O, Allah aids us all 
Then when our need is greatest! Is ’t not so? 


NOUREDDIN (confused). 
Unfathomable fate o’erruleth all. 


ALADDIN. 
And yet, methinks, poor Isaac must have been 
A little simple, that he did not see through 
His father’s cunning plan. Had I been he ! — 
But this, too, is, perhaps, a mere invention. 


NOUREDDIN. 
Most probably. There, —lay the bundle down: 
I will strike fire. But, first, a word with thee. 
From the first hour I saw thee yester eve 
Catch the three oranges within thy turban, 
I set thee down a brave and active stripling, 
A youth to court, not shrink from, an adventure. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 95 


ALADDIN. 


There, uncle, you have judged me right, I hope. 


S 


NOUREDDIN. 
Prepare, then, for a spectacle of wonder. 
When on this blazing wood is incense scattered, 
When the charmed words are spoken, — earth 
will shake, 
And from its breast heave forth a stone of mar- 
ble, 
Four-cornered, —in the midst an iron ring : 
‘This thou mayst raise with ease by merely ut- 
tering 
Softly thy father’s and thy grandsire’s names, 
Beneath that stone thou wilt behold a stair ; 
Descend the steps, fear not the darkness ; soon 
The cavern’s fruits will light thee brighter far 
Than this oppressive, sickly, sulphurous sun. 
Three lofty grottoes first will meet thine eye, 
Flashing with veins of gold and silver ore 
Dug from the mountain’s adamantine deeps. 


Pass by them all, and touch them not. They 
stand 

Too firmly fixed; thou wouldst but lose thy la- 
bor. 


These chambers passed, a garden opens on thee ; 

Not Eden’s self more fair ;— perchance the same, 

That since the Deluge in these rocky cliffs 

Lies buried. Fruits the richest, the most radi- 
ant, — 

Fruits of all hues,—crimson, or blue, grass-green, 

White, yellow, violet, crystal-clear as are 

The diamonds in a sultaness’ ear, 

Enchant the eye. Gladly would I go with thee, 

But in one day but one may enter in. 

Now, for myself, I ask of thee but this: 

Walk through the garden to the wall of rock 

Beyond ; — there, in a smoky, dark recess, 

Hangs an old lamp of copper; — BRING ME THAT. 

I am a virtuoso in such matters, 

A great collector of old odds and ends ; 

And so the lamp, worthless enough to others, 

Has an imaginary worth to me. 

Returning, pluck what fruits thou wilt, and 
bring them 

Along with thee, but haste, and bring the 
lamp. 


ALADDIN. 
Enough, dear uncle, I am ready now. 


{Noureddin takes out a box of incense, and throws some 
upon the fire. Distant thunder. A flash of lightning 
falls and kindles the fire. The earth opens, and shows a 


large~ square block of marble, with an iron rjng in the 
middle. | 


NOUREDDIN. 
Now quick, Aladdin, — grasp the ring, — pull 
firmly. 
ALADDIN (trembling). 


Ah! No, dear uncle !— spare me, dearest uncle ! 
I tremble so, I cannot, cannot, do it. 


NOUREDDIN (fells him to the ground with a blow). 


Coward and slave, wilt anger me ?— Are these 
My thanks for all the labor I have taken, 


r* Ce en TS ee ee eS 
————————— 


96 


That thou shouldst, like a petted lapdog, look 

Askance, and whine and tremble, when I stroke 
thee? 

Lay hold upon the ring, — or, by the Prophet, 

And by the mighty Solomon, I ’ll chain thee 

To that same stone, and travel hence without 
thee, 

And leave thy carcass for the eagles’ prey. 


ments NS | et Sen hbE Naseer A seen Winona 


: ALADDIN. 
Dear uncle, pardon me, be not so angry, — 
I will in all things do thy bidding now. 


NOUREDDIN. 
Well, be a man, — and I will make thy fortune. 


ALADDIN AT THE GATES OF ISPAHAN. 


Heavens, what a 

é journey ! 

He took me on his back; I felt as if 

Upon a bath of lukewarm water floated. 

How high he flew in the clear moonshine ! how 

The earth beneath us strangely dwarfed and 
dwindled! 

The mighty Ispahan with all its lights, 

That one by one grew dim and blent together, 

Whirled like a half-burned paper firework, such 

As giddy schoolboys flutter in their hands. 

He swung me on in wide gigantic circles, 

And showed me through the moonbeams’ magic 
glimmer 

The mighty map of earth unroll beneath me. 

I never shall forget how over Caucasus 

He flew, and rested on its icy peak ; 

Then shot plumb down upon the land, as if 

He meant to drown me in Euphrates’ bosom. 

A huge three-master on the stormy Euxine 

Scudded before the blast ; he hovered over her, 

Pressed with his toe the summit of the mast, 

And, resting on its vane as on a pillar, 

He stretched me in his hand high into heaven, 

As firm as if he trode the floor of earth. 

Then, when the moon, like a pale ghost, before 

The warm and glowing morning sun retreated, 

He changed himself into a purple cloud, 

And dropped with me, soft as the dews of dawn, 

Here by the city gate among the flowers. 

Then, changed again by magic, like a lark 

He soared and vanished twittering in the sky. 


ALADDIN, 
i| My head is swimming still. 


ALADDIN IN PRISON. 


ALADDIN (fastened to a stone bya heavy iron chain. He re- 
mains gazing fixedly in deep thought, then bursts out —) 
| Almighty God! is this a dream? a dream? 
Yes, yes, itis a dream. I slumber still, 
In the green grass, within the forest glooms. 


| DEATHWATCH (in the wall). 
Pili; Pi, 
| No hope for thee. 


ela Se 


DANISH POETRY. | 


ALADDIN. 
What sound was that? Sure, ’t was the death- 
watch spoke. 


DEATHWATCH. 
Ply Bas tD ls 
No hope for thee. 


ALADDIN, 
Is this thine only chant, ill-boding hermit, 
Croaking from rotten clefts and mouldering 
walls, — 
Thy burden still of death and of decay ? 


DEATHWATCH. 
Pi, pi, pi, 
No hope for thee. 


ALADDIN. 
I do begin to credit thee, — thou speakest 
With such assurance that my heart believes thee. 
Prophet of ill! Death’s hour-glass! who hath 
sent thee 
Hither, to shake me with thy note of death ? | 


DEATHWATCH. 


| 
Pi, pi, pi, | 
No hope for thee. 


ALADDIN, 
It cannot change its ditty, if it would; 
"T is but a sound, 


a motion of the mouth ; — 
Her g is but ‘¢ Pi, pi,’’— the rest was fi 

er song is but “ Pi, pi, the rest was fancy. 
"T was I that heard it, — ’t was not she that sung. 


DEATHWATCH, 


No hope for thee. 


ALADDIN. 
Ha! insect !— what is this ? — Think’st thou 
to shake 
My fixed philosophy with that croak of thine ? 


DEATHWATCH, 
Pi! 
i 


ALADDIN. 
Well, — be it as it may, — my hope is gone. 
This brief, but oft repeated warning-note 
Weighs down my bosom, fills my heart with 
fear. 
Yes, ‘tis too clear. It must be so. Th’ En- 
chanter 
Is master of the lamp. The lamp alone 
Could thus undo its work. O levity, — 
Thou serpent, that from Paradise drove forth 
Adam, — destroyer of all earthly bliss, — 
Tempter, that in good hearts dost sow the seed 


Of evil, bane of health, and wealth, and peace !— 
Through thee, and thee alone, I suffer here. 
How dark these dungeon walls close over me ! 
How hollow sounds the rushing of the wind, 
Howling against the tower without! ’T is mid- 
night, — 
Midnight! and I must tremble for the dawn. 
The lovely dawn, which opes the eyes of men, 


SR ar EN EN 


— 


The leaves of flowers, to me alone is fearful ; 

To them it brings new life, but death to me. 
[The moon breaks through the clouds and shines into 

the prison. 

What gleam is that? Is it the day that breaks? 

Is death so nigh? Oh, no; it was the moon. 

What wouldst thou, treacherous, smiling appa- 

rition ? 

Com’st thou to tell me I am not the first 

Upon whose ashy cheeks thy quiet light 

Fell calmly, on his farewell night of life ? 

To tell me that to-morrow night thy ray 

Will greet my bleeding head upon the stake ? 

Sad moon, accursed spectre of the night, 

How often hast thou, like a favoring goddess, 

Shone o’er me in my loved Gulnara’s arms, 

While nightingales from out the dusky bowers 

Vented our mute felicity in song ! 

I deemed thee then a kind and gentle being, 

Nor deemed, as now, that in that lovely form 

Could lurk such coldness or such cruelty. 

Alike unruffled looks thy pallid face 

On myrtle bowers, on wheel or gallows down. 

The selfsame ray that shone above my joys, 

And kissed the couch of innocence and love, 

Shone on the murderer’s dagger too, or glided 

O’er mouldering gravestones, which above their 


dead 

Lie lighter than despair upon the hearts 

Of those that still are living! — Com’st thou 
here 


Thus to insult me in my hour of need, 

Pale angel of destruction? Hence! disturb not 

The peace of innocence i’ th’ hour of death. — 
[The moon is obscured by clouds. 

By Heaven, she flies !—She sinks her pallid face 

Behind her silver curtains mournfully, 

Even as an innocent maiden, when she droops 

Her head within her robe, to hide the tears 

That flow for others’ sorrows, not her own. 

O, if my speech hath done thee wrong, fair moon, 

Forgive me! O, forgive me! I am wretched. 

I know not what I say. Guiltless am I, 

Yet guiltless I must yet endure and die.— 

But see! what tiny ray comes trembling in, 

Like an ethereal finger from the clouds, 

And lights on yonder spider, that within 

Its darksome nook, amidst its airy web, 

So calm and heart-contented sits and spins? 


THE SPIDER, 
Look upon my web so fine, 
See how threads with threads entwine ; 
If the evening wind alone 
Breathe upon it, all is gone. 
Thus within the darkest place 
Allah’s wisdom thou mayst trace ; 
Feeble though the insect be, 
Allah speaks through that to thee! 
As within the moonbeam I, 
God in glory sits on high, 
Sits where countless planets roll, 
And from thence controls the whole : 
There with threads of thousand dies 
Life’s bewildered web he plies, 

13 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


97 


‘ 


And the hand that holds them all 
Lets not even the feeblest fall. hi 


ALADDIN IN HIS MOTHER’S CHAMBER. 


ALADDIN (alone). 


[He stands and gazes upon all with his hands folded. 


There stands her spindle as of yore, but now 
No cheerful murmur from its corner comes ; 
We grow familiar with such ancient friends, 
And miss their hum when they are hushed for 
ever. 
There is some wool upon the distaff still ; 
I ’ll sit me down where my poor mother sat, 
And spin like her, and sing old strains the while. 
[He sits down, sings, and bursts into tears. 
It will not do, I cannot make it move 
With its accustomed even touch: too wildly, 
Too feverishly fast I turn the wheel. 
O God!— Look there! These thin and fee- 
ble threads 
Her hands have spun, 
firm ; 
They hang unbroken and uninjured there ; — 
But she that spun them — my poor mother — lies 
With frozen fingers underneath the yew. 
There hangs her old silk mantle on the wall, 
With its warm woollen lining, — here her shoes ; 
Now thine old limbs are cold enough, my mother! 
Thou wouldst not leave this dwelling,—wouldst 
not quit 
Thy life of old; thy loving, still existence 
My vanity and pride have undermined. 
O ye that may this humble roof hereafter 
Inhabit, if at dead of night ye hear 
Strange sounds, as of a chamber goblin-haunted, 
Be not alarmed. It is a good and gentle 
House-spirit. Let it sit, and spin, and hum ; — 
It will not harm ye. Once it was a woman 
That spun the very skin from off her fingers, 
All for her son, —and in return he killed her. 
This have I done.—This have I done. —O me! |{ 
[Seats himself again and weeps. 
There stands her little pitcher by the wall, — 
There on the floor lies a half-withered leaf ; 
And such am I, — that leaf was meant for me. 


and they stand fast and 


[He gazes long with wild glances on the spot where the 
wonderful lamp used to hang, —then exclaims, with a 
distracted look, 

By Heaven, the lamp still hangs upon the nail! 

What! think’st thou that I cannot clutch thee ? 

There, — 


[Takes a chair, mounts upon it, and lays hold of the nail. 


Now, there, I have thee, —thou art mine again. 
Now, then, Gulnara shall be mine again, — 
The palace shall be mine, with all its treasures. 
But soft! I'll visit first my mother’s grave. 


Now, friend, hast looked thy fill? The old lady 
was 


! 
THE LANDLORD (enters). 
Perhaps a near relation ? | 


98 DANISH POETRY. 


ALADDIN. 
Distant only. 

Now I am ready. But will you permit me 
To take this worn-out copper lamp with me? 
You see ’t is scarcely worth an asper. 


LANDLORD (staring). 


Friend, 


I see no lamp. 


ALADDIN. 
See! this in my right hand. 

’T is, as I said, a trumpery piece of metal, 

But I am fond of such old odds and ends ; 

And thus the lamp, worthless enough for others, 
Has an imaginary worth to me. 


LANDLORD. 


Good friend, thou hast nothing in thy hand, be- 


lieve me. 


ALADDIN (aside). 
So then the lamp hath gained this property, 
That it becomes invisible to strangers. 
Charming! They cannot rob me of it now. 
[Aloud, as he places the supposed lamp in his bosom. 
Well, since you say so, friend, I must believe 
The lamp was but a vision of the brain. 
Farewell, good friend, and thanks. Stay, let 
me lift 
This withered leaf and place it in my turban, - 
"T is all I ask of her inheritance. 
Now fare thee well. 


‘ 


LANDLORD, 
Poor man! his brain is turned. 
Now take thy leaf, good friend, and get thee 


ALADDIN AT HIS MOTHER’S GRAVE. 


ALADDIN (lying on his mother’s grave. He sings). 


Sleep within thy flowery bed, 

Lulled by visions without number ; 
Needs no pillow for thy head, 

Needs no rocking for thy slumber. 


Moaning wind and piteous storm, 
Mother dear, thy dirge are knelling; 
And the greedy gnawing worm 
Vainly strives to pierce thy dwelling. 


Thick in heaven the stars are set, — 
Slumber soundly to my singing, — 
Hark, from yon high minaret 
Clear and sweet the death-note ringing ! 


Hush, the nightingale aloft 
Pours her descant from the tree ! 
Mother, thou hast rocked me oft, 
Let me do the same for thee. 


Is thy heart as loving now, 
Listen to my wail and sorrow 
From this hollow elder-bough 
I for this a pipe will borrow. 


But the feeble notes are lost, 
Chilled by this cold wintry weather: 
Ah! the night-wind’s piercing frost 
Withers leaves and life together. 


Here I can no longer lie, 

All’s so cold beside thee, mother ; 
And no cheerful fire can I 

Ask of father, friend, or brother. 


Mother, sleep !— though chill thy bed, 
Lulled by visions without number, 
Needs no pillow for thy head, 
Needs no rocking for thy slumber. 


(Exit. 


HAKON JARL. 


Tis tragedy celebrates a subject of national 
interest in the North. It involves the downfall 
of the ancient Scandinavian paganism, and the 
establishment of Christianity. Olaf Trygveson, 
descendant of Harald the Fair-haired, has been 
left in possession of his father’s conquests in 
Ireland, where he has been converted to Chris- 
tianity. In the mean time Hakon Jarl has 
usurped the power, and meditates the assump- 
tion of the kingly crown. But his cruelty and 
licentiousness have raised up a strong party 
against him among the Bondas; and his at- 
tempt to seize Gudrun, the beautiful daughter 
of Bergthor, the smith who had been ordered 
to make a crown for the tyrant, inflames the 
people to the highest pitch, and the Jarl’s re- 
tainers are driven off. The young prince Olaf, 
in an expedition to Russia, lands on an island 
near the coast of Norway; he escapes the 
snare laid for him by the crafty Jarl, and, find- 
ing the people eager for his restoration, resolves, 
contrary to his first intention, to strike for the 
crown. The tyrant is overthrown, and with 
him the religion of Odin.—The subject is man- 
aged with great dramatic skill. The poem 
contains many passages of rare beauty, and 
some of terrible power; the sacrifice of the 
Jarl’s son makes the reader thrill with horror. 


HAKON AND THORER, IN THE SACRED GROVE. 


HAKON. 
We are alone. Within this sacred wood 
Dares no one come but Odin’s priests and Ha- 
kon. 
THORER, 
Such confidence, my lord, makes Thorer proud. 


HAKON, 
So, Thorer, thou believ’st all that to-day 
Was told of Olaf Trygveson at table, 
Till that hour, was unknown to me? 


THORER, 
To judge 
By your surprise, my lord, and, if I dare 
To say so, by your looks, such was the truth. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 99 


HAKON. 
Trust not my looks ;— my features are mine own, 
And must obey their owner. What I seem 
Is only seeming. With the multitude 
I must dissemble. — Now we are alone, 
Hear me! Whate’er of Olaf thou hast said, 
I knew it long before. 


THORER, 
His warlike fame 


Had reached to Norway? 


HAKON. 
Ay. 
THORER. 
But thou art serious. — 
What mean’st thou, noble Jarl ? 


HAKON, 
Give me thine hand, 
In pledge of thy firm loyalty ! 


THORER, 


T hereto 
Thy kindness and my gratitude must bind me. 


HAKON, 
Thou art a man even after mine own heart! 
For such a friend oft had I longed. — With 

prudence 

Thou know’st to regulate thine own affairs ; 
And, if obstructions unforeseen arise, 
With boldness thou canst use thy battle-sword ; 
And as thy wisdom is exerted, still 
So must thy plans succeed. 


THORER, 


The gods endow us 
With souls and bodies, 
part. 
4 HAKON. 


each must bear their 


Man soon discovers that to which by nature 
He has been destined. His own impulses 
Awake the slumbering energies of mind ; 
Thence he attains what he feels power to reach ; 
Nor for his actions other ground requires. 


THORER. 
It is most true. 


HAKON, 
My passion evermore 
Has been to rule, — to wear the crown of Nor- 
Ways 
This was the favorite vision of my soul. 


THORER, 
That vision is already realized. 


HAKON. 
Not quite, my friend ;—almost, but yet not 
wholly. 


3 am I styled but Hakon Jarl, — the name 


Whereto I was begot and born. 


j THORER. 
’"T is true} 
But when thou wilt, then art thou King. 


HAKON. 
My hopes 
Have oft suggested that our Northern heroes 
Will soon perceive it more befits their honor 
A monarch to obey than a mere Jarl. 
Therefore at the next congress I resolve 
At once to explain my wishes and intent. 
Bergthor, the smith, a brave old Drontheimer, 
Labors already to prepare my crown. 
When it is made I shall appoint the day. 


THORER. 
Whate’er may chance, thou art indeed a king. 


HAKON, 
Thou judgest like a trader, still of gain ; — 
But yet, methinks, the mere external splendor 
Is not to be despised. Even to the lover 
A maiden’s warm embrace is not so rapturous 
As to a monarch’s head the golden crown. — 
My favorite goal is near. But now the day 
Draws to a close; the twilight dews descend ; 
And, as the poet sings, my raven locks 
Are mixed with frequent gray. Give me thine 
hand : 
Erewhile I could have grasped thee, till the 
blood 
Sprung from thy nails, like sap from a green 
twig ; — 
Say to me truly, hast thou felt it now ? 


THORER. 
The strongest pressure may not from a man 
Extort complaint. 


HAKON. 
But mine was no strong pressure. 
Thou speak’st but to console me. 
here ? 
My forehead is with wrinkles deeply ploughed. 


Seest thou 


THORER. 
Such lineaments become a warlike hero. 


HAKON. 
Yet Norway’s maidens love them not. In short, 
My friend, I now grow old; but therefore still 
The twilight of mine evening would enjoy. — 
Clearly my sun shall set. Woe to the cloud 
That strives to darken its last purple radiance ! 


THORER, 
Where is that cloud ? 


HAKON. 
Even in the West. 

THORER. 
Thou mean’st 
Olaf, in Dublin ? 

HAKON. 


He is sprung from Harald 

Surnamed the Yellow-locked. — Know’st thou 
the Norsemen ? 

A powerful, strong, heroic race, yet full 

Of superstition and of prejudice ; 


100 


I know full well that in a moment’s space 
All Hakon’s services they will forget, 
And only think of Olaf’s birth, whene’er 


They know that he survives. 


THORER, 
Can this be so? 


HAKON. 


I know my people. — And shall this enthusiast, 
This traitor to his country (who has served 
With Otto against Norway, on pretence 

Of Christian piety), ascend our throne, 

And tear the crown from Hakon ? 


THORER,. 
Who dare think so ? 


HAKON, 


I think so, friend, and Olaf too.— Now mark 
me: 

He is the last descendant of King Harald ; 

Yet Hakon’s race yields not to his. Of old 

The Jarls of Klade ever were the first 

After the king ; and no one now remains 

Of our old royal line, but this vain dreamer, 

Who has forsworn the manners and the faith 

Of his own native land, —a ransomed slave, ' 

Born in a desert, of an exiled mother. 


HAKON DISCLOSES HIS DESIGNS TO THORER. 


HAKON. 
Enough. I called you to this meeting here, 
That I may speak in friendly confidence : 
I know you love me, and deserve this trust. 
Then listen, —for the times require decision. 
My life has passed away in strife and storm; 
Full many a rock, and many a thicket wild, 
Have I by violence torn up and destroyed, 
Ere in its lofty strength the tree at last 
Could rise on high. Well! that is now ful- 
filled, — 
| My name has spread o’er Norway with re- 
nown, — 
Only mine enemies can my fame decry. 
I have met bravery with bravery — 
And artifice with art—and death with death! 
Weak Harald Schaafell and his brothers now 
Injure the realm no more; for they are fallen ! 
If I proved faithless to the gold-rich Harald, 
Yet had his baseness well deserved his fate. 
The youthful powers of Jomsburg now no more 
May fill the seas with terror; I have them 
Extirpated. This kingdom every storm 
Has honorably weathered, — and ’t was I 
That had the helm, —I only was the pilot; 
I have alone directed — saved the vessel, — 
And therefore would I still the steersman be, 
| Still hold my station. 


THORER. 
| 'T is no more than justice. 


DANISH POETRY. 


HAKON. 

Olaf alone is left of the old line ; 

And think’st thou he is tranquil now in Ireland? 

What would’st thou say, wise Thorer, if I told 
thee, 

In one brief word, that he is here ? 


THORER, 
Here ? 
HAKON, 
Ay. 
CARLSHOVED, 


What, here in Norway ? is it possible ? 


HAKON (to Thorer). . 

I could not choose but smile, when thou to-day 
Long stories told us of thy pious friend 
Olaf, in Dublin, — even as if mine eyes 
Have not long since been watching him!—I 

heard 
Your words in silence then, — but now ’t is time 
Freely to speak. This morning news arrived, 
That Olaf with a fleet had sailed from Dublin, 
To visit Russia, but meanwhile has landed 
Hard by us here at Moster, with intent, 
As it is said, but to salute his country 
After long absence. 


THORER, 
This indeed is strange. 


HAKON. 
If, like a wild enthusiast, he in truth 
Has lingered on his way but to refresh 
His lungs with some pure draughts of mountain 
air 
I know not; but this much must be deter- 
mined, — 
Whether beneath an innocent wish he bears not 
Some deep concealed intention. Thou hast been 
His guest at Dublin; therefore, on the claim 
Of old acquaintance, now canst visit him. 
The wind is fair ; — early to-morrow morning 
Thou couldst be there. 


THORER, 


And what is thy design ? 


HAKON, 
No more but to discover his designs ; » 
And, if he tarries longer on our ground, 
At once to meet him on the battle-field. 
Brave warriors love such meetings, and search 
not ' 
Too scrupulously for grounds of their contention. 
He has a fleet like mine ;— power against 
power ; — 
Such is our Northern courtesy. Few words, 
Methinks, are needful. 


JOSTEIN. } 
Surely not. 


THORER, 
But how 


Shall J detain him? 


ee eee 


zx 


ESeboascah os aeieris deemasioaeie aeccore e eee ee 


SO CONE tp te pA 2d Daf a hee ca. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 101 
A. ; HAKON. MESSENGER, 
Visit him; and Say. —— He is in Drontheim’s bay already harboured. 
What doubtless he has wished to hear, — that 
Hakon AKON, ' 


Far through the land is hated ; that men wait 
But for a warrior of the rightful line 

To tear him from the throne. If this succeeds, 
Then let him disembark. On the firm ground 
Right gladly will I try the chance of war. 

But if the bait allures not, —— why, ’t is well, 
Then let him go, 


THORER, 
Now, Sir, I understand, 
And am obedient. 


HAEON, 
Thou shalt not in vain 


Have served me, Thorer. 


THORER, 
That, indeed, I know. 
Hakon’s rewards are princely, — yet without 
them 


I had been firm. 


HAKON (shaking him by the hand), 
Mine honest friend ! — (Turning to the others.) And 
you, 
As Olaf’s cousins, will you go with 'Thorer, 
And second his attempts ? 


JOSTEIN. 
We are his cousins, — 
But Hakon is our patron and commander ; 
By joining in this plan we shall but prove 
King Olaf’s innocence. 


THORER, 
°"T is well. 


HAKON AND MESSENGER. 


HAKON, 


Now —tell me all — where stands the insurgent 
army ? 


MESSENGER, 
In Orkdale, Sire, by Orm of Lyrgia 
Commanded, and by Ekialm and Alf 
Of Rimol. They are there with hearts intent 
Their sister to avenge. 


HAKON, 


IT do confide 
In my tried bands of heroes, who will soon 
This wild horde put to flight. 


: MSSSENGER, 
Yet anger, Sire, 
Has armed them powerfully. 


HAKON, 
With sudden rage, — 
A momentary fire, — that vanishes 
Whene’er the sword of Hakon Jarl appears. 
Has Olaf’s fleet approached near the land? 


| 


How? And my son has not there made him 
captive ? 

Not barred his entrance ? 
happened ? 


Ha! What then has 


MESSENGER. 
At early morning, Sire, King Olaf came, — 
He had five ships,— thy son had three,— in size 
Far less. A heavy fog reigned all around: 
Lord Erland deemed that Olaf’s fleet was thine ; 
Then, on a nearer view, perceived too late 
His error, and would have returned, but soon 
Was overtaken by the enemy. 
His ship was stranded. Then on deck he sprung, 
With all his crew; but on a sinking wreck 
They could not fight; but in the waves sought 
refuge, 
Diving beneath the fleod, they swam to land. 
Yet Olaf never lost sight of thy son ; 
From his bright armor and his burnished shield, 
He deemed it was thyself, and called aloud, 
“‘Hakon! thou shalt not now escape from 
death, — 
When last we met, I swore our next encounter 
Should be the unsparing strife of life and 
death!” 
With these words, suddenly he seized a pole 
That on the water floated. O, forgive me, 
If I would spare myself the dread recital, 
And thee the knowledge of the rest! 


HAKON. 
Not so: 
I charge thee, tell the whole. He seized an oar,— 
What then? 


MESSENGER. 
He struck thy son upon the head, 
So that his brains burst forth into the sea. 


= HAKON. 
Hast thou ho more te tell ? 


MESSENGER. 
It vexed King Olaf, 
When ’t was explained that he who had been 
struck 
Was not Jarl Hakon.—- Many men were slain. 
Yet some he spared, and learned from them the 
news, 
Where stood the insurgent army ; and how much 
The people against thee had been incensed. 


HAKON. 
Hast thou yet more to tell ? 


MESSENGER, 


My liege, I have not. 


HAKON, 
Then go! [The Messenger goes out. 


“It vexed King Olaf, when ’t was proved 
12 


— 


a ae | 


SS 
vA J 
a 


OIE ers 
bas 


‘i 


102 


That he who had been struck was not Jarl 
Hakon !”’ 
Not so! By Heaven, mine enemy could find 
No other means to wound my heart so deeply ! 
Erland thou hast not struck ; he feels it not; 
And the sea-goddesses have now received hign 
Have pressed “him lovingly to their white bosoms, 
Rolled him in their blue mantles, and so borne 


him 
To QOdin’s realm! But Hakon thou hast 
wounded ; 


Ay, struck ian very deeply! O dear Erland, 

My son, my son! He was to me most dear ; 

The light and hope of my declining age ! 

I saw in him the heir of my renown, 

And Norway’s throne! Has fortune, then, re- 
solved 

To cast me off at last? And is Walhalla 

Now veiled in clouds? its glories all obscured ? 

The gods themselves o ‘erpowered ! ? Burns 
Odin’s light 

No longer ? Is thy strength exhausted too, 

Great Thor ? The splendor of the inamortal gods 

Declining into twilight, and already 

Their giant foes triumphant? Rouse thee, 
Hakon ! 

Men call thee Northern Hero. Rouse thyself! 

Forgive thy servant, O Almighty Powers, 

If, worldly-minded, he forgot Walhalla! 

From this hour onwards all his life and deeds 

To you are consecrated. The bright dream, 

That in the sunset placed upon my head 

The golden crown, is fled. The storm on high 

Rages, —the dark clouds meet, and rain pours 
down, — 

The sun appears no more ; and when again 

The azure skies are cleared, the stars in heaven 

Will glimmer palely on the grave of Hakon ! 

The sea now holds my son! The little Erling, 

"T is true, remains behind. How can I hope 

That such a tender youngling can resist 

The raging storm’s assault? So let me swear 

By all the. diamonds in the eternal throne, 

Stars of the night, by you; and by thy car, 

All-powerful Thor that turns the glittering pole 

At midnight toward the south; even pou this 
hour 

I live no more, but only for Walhalla ! 

My life is wholly to the gods devoted. 

If worldly pride erowhile my heart deluded, 

Yet may I be forgiven, thou noble Saga! 

It was thy sovereign Shans that led me on. 

And have my deeds, Almighty Father, drawn 

Thy wrath upon my head? Well, then; desire 

A sacrifice, whate’er thou wilt, it shall 

Be thine! 


HAKON AND HIS SON ERLING IN 
GROVE. 


THE SACRED 


[Hakon enters, leading his son Erling by the hand.] 


ERLING. 


"T is cold, my father ! 


DANISH POETRY. 


HAKON. 
’'T is yet early morning. 
Art thou so very chill ? 


ERLING. 


Nay, —’t is no matter. 
I shall behold the rising sun, — how grand ! 
A sight that I have never known before. 


HAKON. 


Seest thou yon ruddy streaks along the east ? 


ERLING. 
What roses! how they bloom and spread on || 
high ! 
Yet, father, tell me,whence come all these pearls, 
Wherewith the valley here is richly strewn? 
How brightly they refiect the rosy light ! 


HAKON. 


They are not pearls, — it is the morning dew; 
And that which thou deem’st roses is the sun. 
Seest thou? He rises now! Look at him, boy! 


ERLING. 


O, what a beauteous whirling globe he seems! 
How fiery red! Dear father, can we never 
Visit the sun in yonder distant land ? 


HAKON, 
My child, our whole life thitherward is tending ; ~ 
That flaming ball of light is Odin’s eye ; 

His other is the moon, of milder light, 

That he just now has left in Mimer’s well, 
There by the charmful waves to be refreshed. 


ERLING,. 
And where is Mimer’s well ? 


HAKON, 


The sacred ocean, — 

Down there, that, foaming, 
rocks, — 

That is old Mimer’s deep and potent well, 

That strengthens Odin’s eyes. From the cool 
waves, 

At morning, duly comes the sun refreshed, — 

The moon again by night. 


beats upon the 


ERLING, 
But now it hurts me, — 
It mounts too high. 


HAKON. 

Upon his golden throne 
The Almighty Father mounts, soon to survey 
The whole wide earth. The central diamond 
In his meridian crown our earthly sight 
May not contemplate.— What man dares to 

meet 
The unveiled aspect of the king of day ? 


ERLING (terrified). 


Hu! hu! my father !—In the forest yonder !— 
What are those bearded, frightful men ? 


I 


ag 


SSS Se Semeesnrcoereererrereie eee oe 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
cree ee eee na on TAILOR 


HAKON, 
Fear not, — 


These are the statues of the gods, by men 

Thus hewn in marble. They blind not with 
sun-gleams ! ; 

Before them we can pray with confidence, 

And look upon them with untroubled firmness. 

Come, child ! — let us go nearer! 


ERLING, 


No, my father! 
I am afraid ! — Seest thou that old man there ? 
Him with a beard? I am afraid of him! 


HAKON. 
Child, it is Odin!—Wouldst thou fly from 


Odin ? 


ERLING. 
No, no;—I fear not the great king in heaven; 
Hea is so good and beautiful ; : and, calls 
The flowers from the earth’s bosom, and himself 
Shines like a flower on high. — But that pale 
sorcerer, 
He grins like an assassin ! 


HAKON, 


Ha! 


ERLING. 
Father, at least, 


Let me first bring my crown of flowers; I left it 

There on the hedge, when first thou brought’st 
me hither, 

To see the sun rise. Then let us go home; 

Believe me, that old man means fice no good ! 


*HAKON, 
Go, bring thy wreath, and quickly come again. 
[Exit Erling, 
A lamb for sacrifice is ever crowned. 


Immortal Powers, behold from heaven the faith 
Of Hakon in this deed! 


ERLING, 
Here am I, father, 


And here ’s the crown. 


HAKON. 
Yet, ere thou goest, my child, 
Kneel down before great Odin. 
hands 
Both up to heaven, and say, Almighty Father, 
Hear little Erling ! As thy child, receive him 
To thy paternal bosom !” 


Stretch thy 


ERLING. (He kneels, stretching his arms out towards the 
sun, and says, with childish innocence and tranquilli- 
ty, =e) 

* O great Odin, 

Hear little Erling ! As thy child, receive him 

To thy paternal bosom {”? 


{Hakon, who stands behind, draws his dagger, and intends 
to stab him, but it drops out of his hand. Erling turns 
about quietly, takes it up, and says, as he rises, 


| Here it is, — 


| Your dagger, father! ’T is so bright and sharp ! 


When I grow taller, I will have one too, 
Thee to defend against thine enemies! 


HAKON, 

Ha! what enchanter with such words assists 
thee 

To move thy father’s heart ? 


ERLING. 
How ’s this, my father ? 
You are not angry, sure ? — 


What have I done? 


HAKON, 
Come, Erling, follow me behind that statue. 


ERLING.* 
Behind that frightful man? O, no! 


HAKON (resolutely). 
Yet listen !— 
There are fine roses blooming there, — not 
white, 
But red and purple roses. ’T is a pleasure 
To see them shooting forth.— Come, then, my 
child ! 


ERLING. 


Dear father, stay : I am so much afraid — 
I do not love red roses. 


HAKON. 
Come, I say! 
Hear’st thou not Heimdal’s cock ? 
and crows. 
Now it is time! 


He crows 


[Exeunt behind the statues. 


DEFEAT AND DEATH OF HAKON. 


[Rimol. — Night. — Thora and Inger sitting at - table with 
work. The lights are nearly burnt out. ] 


THORA, 


Sleep, Inger, weighs upon thee heavily. 


INGER, 


Midnight has passed long since. But listen, now, 
They come. There is a knocking at the gate. 


THORA. 


No, —’t was the tempest. Through the livelong 
night 

It beats and howls, as if it would tear up 

The house from its foundation. 


INGER, 
In such weather, 
Your brothers, noble lady, will not come, 
But wait till it is daylight. 


THORA. 


Well, then, child, 
Go thou to bed. 
morning 
The battle must have been ;—— and Ekialm 


Sleep flies from me. This 


And Alf have promised me to come with tidings. 
Go thou to: bed; and I shall watch alone. 


INGER, 
If you permit me. But again I hear 
That sound. Methinks it cannot be the storm. 
[Exit. 
THORA. 
How sad am I! How sorely is my heart 
Oppressed !— My brothers against Hakon Jarl! — 
Whoever wins, poor Thora must be lost ! — 
[An archer comes. 


EINAR. 
God save thee, noble Thora! and good morning! 
For, if I err not, it is morn already ; — 
The cock crows loudly in the court without. 
Tidings I bring for thee. My name is Einar, — 
Einar the bowman. — Fear not, though I were 
Erewhile the friend of Hakon ; —for, since he 
Offered his own child for a sacrifice, 
To gain the victory, I have been to him 
A foe relentless. 


THORA. 
O immortal Powers ! — 


EINAR, 
Just cause, indeed, hast thou for thy dislike, 
And he deserves abhorrence even from all, 
But most from thee. But to the point. For me,— 
I am King Olaf’s liegeman. I have known 
Thy brothers but for a short space ; yet soon 
Firm friends had we become. Vicissitudes 
Of war cement in one brief hour a bond _ 
That years of peaceful life could not unite. 
They fought like Normans; — well, so did we 
ao 
And Olaf conquered. Like the waste sea-foam, 
The worn-out troops of Hakon were dispersed.— 
Hotly the battle raged beneath the clash 
Of blood-stained shields ; and every sword and 
spear 
With gore was reeking. 
Descended on the field. 
carnage, 
And had their fill. — More freely pours not forth 
Odin the foaming nectar in Walhalla! — 
Thousands were slain ; but Hakon and his squire 


Escaped our swords. We now pursue their 
flight !— 


The war-goddesses 
They would have 


THORA (anxiously). 


But my dear brothers, Einar, what of them? —. 


Thou com’st a stranger — late at night —I trem- 
ble — 
My brothers — tell me ! — 


EINAR, 
They have sent me hither, — 
They could not come themselves. 

Thora, 

Rejoice ; for Ekialm and Alf have now 
Rode with the suntise to Walhalla’s towers. 
With Odin there they sit amid the heroes, 
And to their meeting drain the golden horn! — 


But, noble 


DANISH 


POETRY. 


THORA, 


O Freya !— 


BINAR, 
Noble lady, at their fate 
Thou shouldst rejoice. To few, alas! is given 
A death so glorious. Ever in the van 
They shone distinguished. There it was I found 
them ! — 
Jarl Hakon, like a wild bear of the forest, 
Raged in the battle; and the strife was hard. 
Together whole battalions intermixed ; — 
Half Norway fought for Hakon; and the rest, 
Against them, on the side of our King Olaf. 
Thy brothers strove with vehemence thee to 
avenge 
By the life-blood of Hakon. Yet, behold! 
Both fell beneath his sword. — His arm, indeed, 
Is powerful, when ’t is énergized by wrath. 
What more? They found a noble conqueror. 
Whate’er men say, Jarl is a peerless hero; 
This on the field to-day was amply proved. ° 


THORA. 
Alas! my brothers | — 


EINAR. 


Nay, I envy them! 
Of Odin’s realm they are the denizens, 
And wear their swords amid immortal heroes. 
Ere morning will their monument be raised, 
To brave the wreck of time. In gratitude, 
There will King Olaf place the eternal wreath 
Of massy stone.—‘ Salute our sister Thora! ”’”— 
These were the last words on their lips. —I 
promised ; 
That promise I have thus fulfilled. — And now 
I ride about with a strong band of horsemen 
In search of Hakon. Olaf, too, is with us. 
We meet again at Gaula; for to-day 
The Congress is, — but where it holds I know y 
not. 
Soon, as we hope, our prey shall be secured, 
And all thy wrongs be fearfully avenged. — 
Now may the gods be with thee ; and farewell! 
(Exit. 
THORA. 
Ye sacred Powers! how have I, then, deserved 
A fate so cruel? What have been my crimes, 
That my poor heart should thus be rent asun- 
der?——__ [Enter a stranger, muffled in a cloak. 
Whence comes this unknown guest ? — Stran- 
ger! who art thou? 


STRANGER. 
Are we alone and in security ? 


THORA, 
How! Speak’st thou of security, —even now, 
When thou thyself my solitude hast broken, 
And on my grief intruded ?— Say, what art thou? 


STRANGER (throwing off his disguise). 
Know’st thou me now? 


P THORA. 
O heavenly Powers !— Jarl Hakon! 


tape 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


aa a eee Te mr a em topes eee | 


HAKON, 
Even he himself. 


THORA, 
And hast thou fled to me ? 


HAKON, 
By all Walhalla’s gods!— Thou shouldst not 
wonder ! — 
Will not the noble game, that all day long 
Has been pursued, at last for refuge fly 
To haunts the most unmeet or unexpected ? 


THORA, 
Jarl, thou art pale, thy looks are desolate ! 


HAKON. 
Heaven knows, I have contended like a wolf 
. That would protect her young. With this good 
sword 

Souls have I sent enough this day to Lok 

Or Odin. Now am I sore spent. My troops 
Are broken. Fortune has proved treacherous, 
And Olaf with his Christian charms has blunted 
The swords of Northern heroes. Many fled; 
Others more base endeavoured to betray me ; 
No man is left in whom I may confide. 

On my devoted head the hand of Rota, 
Blood-loving goddess, icy-cold was laid, 

And heavily. In silence with one slave 

Have I rode through the night. By fiery thirst 
Long have I been tormented. In that cup 

Is there cold water? 


THORA, 
Wait, and I will bring you 


HAKON (drinks), 
No, stay! How much indeed this draught re- 
freshed me ! — 
At Gaula fell my horse ; I killed him there; 
Threw off my war-cloak, drenched it in his 
blood, 
And left it to deceive mine enemies. 


THORA. 


O Hakon! 


HAKON. 
As I passed thy dwelling by, 
And stood before the dark and silent gate, 
Whereon the storm was breaking, a deep thought 
Awoke within. me, that here yet one soul 
Survived, of whom I was not quite an outcast, 
And who the gate to me would open gladly. 
I called to mind how often thou hadst sworn 
That I was dear to thee. — Yet well I knew 
That love can turn to hatred. Be it so! 
Here am I, Thora! Wilt thou now conceal me 
From Olaf and his horsemen? For thy love 
Then am I grateful, —love that heretofore 
I have not duly prized. If thou art doubtful, 
I cannot supplicate. Then shall I go 
Once more, amid the desolate night, and climb 
The highest cliff; look, for the last time, round 
Even on that realm that honored and obeyed 

me ; 
14 


Then, with the tranquil heart of stern resolve, 
Rush on this tried and faithful sword. The storm 
Will on its wild wings quickly bear my soul 
Unto the father of all victories ; 

And when the sun reveals my lifeless frame, 
It shall be said, “ As he hath lived exalted, 

So did he nobly die!” 


THORA. 
No more of this! 
O Hakon, speak not so! My hatred now 
Is past and gone. Gladly shall I afford 
A refuge from thy numerous foes. 


HAKON,. 
Know’st thou 


That I with this hand sacrificed the boy, 
The favorite little one, to thee so dear ? 


THORA. 
Thou to the gods hast offered him: I know it: 
A deed that proves the miserable strife, 
The oppression, of thy heart. 


HAKON, 
But know’st thou too, 
That I, with this hand which thou kindly 
graspest, 
And — no —I cannot say the rest ! 


THORA, 
I know 


That thou hast killed my brothers in the battle. 


HAKON, 


Indeed? and still 


THORA. 
Thora is still the same. 
O Hakon ! thou hast acted cruelly ; 
With scorn repaid my love, and killed my 

brothers ; 

Yet in the battle it goes ever thus, 
Life against life ; and they, as Hinar said, 
Are in Walhalla blest. — 
Ab! tell me, Hakon, 
Is this no vision? Art thou here indeed, 
In Thora’s humble cottage, far remote 
From thy proud palace ’mid the forest wild, 
Surrounded by the fearful gloom of night? 
Say, is the pale and silent form that now 
Leans on his sword, so worn and spiritless, 
No longer with imperial robes adorned, 
Thyself indeed ? 


HAKON. 
The shadow which thou seest 
Was once indeed the monarch of all Norway, 
And heroes did him homage and obeisance ; 
He fell in one day’s battle, — ’t was at Klade. 
Ha! that is long past now, — almost forgot. 
His pallid spectre wanders up and down, 
To scare beholders in the gloom of night. 
His name was Hakon! 


THORA. 
T indeed am now 


Revenged, and fearfully! Away with hatred, 


Sree NH 
se 

ql 

i 

t 


DATS. es TRI 


Senet AOC A Ae Aa RAs SA ha i Ma Ce EN eh 


ae 
4 


Henceforth, and enmity ! Come love again! 

I were indeed a she-wolf, and no woman, 

If in my bosom hatred not expired 

At such a look as thine is now !— Come, then, 
Lean on thy Thora; let me dry thy temples, 
That fire again may light thy faded eyes. 


HAKON (wildly). 
What is thy name, thou gentle maid of Norway ? 


THORA. 
The maidens here have called me Violet. 
Methinks, indeed, I was a little flower, 

Grown up within the shelter of thine oak, 

And there alone was nourished,—therefore now 
Must wither, since no longer ’t is allowed, 

As wont, within that honored shade to bloom. 


HAKON. 
Violet! a pretty name. 


THORA. 
How ’s this? O Heaven! 
A fever shakes thee in mine arms. This mood 
Is new, indeed, and frightful. When, till now, 
Have I beheld tears on thy cheeks? 


HAKON. 
How, Violet, 

Thou pale blue floweret on the hero’s grave, 
And wonder’st thou if I shed tears? Hre now, 
Hast thou not seen hard rocks appear to weep, 
When suddenly from freezing cold to warmth 
Transported? It is but of death the token. 
Then wonder not, pale, trembling flower! 


THORA. 


O Jarl! 


My own! my Hakon! Help me, Heaven! 


HAKON. 
The snow 


Fades on the mountains ; now its reign is o’er; 
The powerful winter melts away, and yields 
Before the charmful breath of flowery spring. 
Jarl] Hakon is no more; his ghost alone 

Still wanders on the earth. Yet boldly go, 
And through his body drive a wooden spear 
Deep in the earth beneath. Then shall, at last, 
His miserable spectre find repose. 


THORA. 
My Hakon, be composed; speak not so wildly. 
The loftiest spirit, howsoe’er endowed, 

Must yield at last to fortune. Thy proud heart 
Has long with hate and enmity contended ; 
Now let its o’erstretched chords relent, at last, 
In tears upon the bosom of thy love. — 

But follow me. Beneath this house a vault 
Deep in the rock is broad and widely hewn, 
That no one knows but I alone, and there 
Will I conceal thee till the danger ’s past. — 
Soon may a better fortune smile on us! 


HAKON. 
Say to me truly, think’st thou that once more 
Beyond that dusky vault the day will dawn? 


DANISH POETRY. 


THORA, 


My lord, I doubt it not. 


HAKON. 
And to the vault, 

Hollow, obscure, unknown, deep in the earth 
(That barrier ’gainst all enemies and danger), 
To that dark fortress, refuge most secure, 
Wilt thou conduct me ? 


THORA. 


Ay, my best beloved. 


Come, then, 
My bride in death, Ill follow thee, my Hrxa! 
Lead on, I tremble not. 


HAKON, 


THORA. 
O heavenly Powers ! 


HAKON. 
Think’st thou thy looks can e’er appall my heart? 
True, thou art pale, thy lips are blue; nay more, 
Thou kill’st not quickly with the glittering spear, 
Like thy wild sisters Hildur and Geirskogul, 
But slowly smother’st first with ice-cold anguish 
(Ere life departs) the heart’s internal fire ; — 
Yet ’t is all one at last. Come, then! In me, 
Of valorous pride thou hast not yet o’ercome 
The lingering flames. I follow thee, with steps 
Firm and resolved, into the grave. 


THORA. 
Ye gods 
Of mildness and of mercy, look upon him ! 
[Exeunt. 


[Woody country at Gaula.—Olaf, Carlshoved, Jostein, 
Greif, Soldiers. 
GREIF, 
It dawns, my liegé. Methinks the day will prove 
Clear and rejoicing, as the night was gloomy. 
Wilt thou not, till the horses are refreshed, 
Repose beneath these trees ? 


OLAF. 
I cannot rest, 

Till we have Hakon prisoner ; — his army 

Is but dispersed, — not wholly overcome. 
Young Einar deems that we already triumph ; 
But he has less of wisdom than of valor. 

If Hakon gains but time, he will be saved. 
The streams will seek reunion with the sea. 

I would not waste the land with ceaseless war, 
But with the blessings of long peace enrich. 
Hakon must fall; for, while this heathen lives, 
The rose of Christianity in Norway 

Will never bloom. 


[Einar, the bowman, enters with Hakon’s war-dress. 


EINAR. 
Olaf, thy toils are o’er ! 
Beside a mountain-stream Jarl Hakon’s steed 
Lay bathed in gore,—and there I found his 
mantle, 
All bloody too. — Thy soldiers must have met 
And killed him there. 


Sense tstessensnonnieert Sires aRsstooap aod cease eas Geant Ge cate a 
sar PFE r* a 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
cee EE a EE NSAI oe eT RAE SM dace. 99 SN GAS ll 


OLAF. 


Indeed? Can this be so? 
_is this his dress? Who recognizes it? 


GREIF, 
The dress in truth is there, but where ’s the 
Jarl ? 
Lay he there too? 
EINAR. 


His horse and cloak alone 
Have I beheld. 


GREIF. 

Bring also the Jarl, and then 
We may repose ; but not before. Methought 
Thou knew’st him better. He, if I mistake not, 
By this time has assumed another dress. — 
Let not this trick mislead you, Sire. It suits 

_ The crafty Jarl. He has contrived it all 
But to deceive us. 


OLAF, 
Forward, then, my friends ! — 
We are near Rimol. There is held the Congress, 
And we may gain some tidings of the foe. 


GREIF, 
Ay,— there lives Thora, his devoted mistress. 


EINAR. 
Nay, that is past, — Jarl has deserted her, 
And slain her brothers. 


GREIF, 


Well, but it is said 
True love may never be outworn; and we 
Must try all chances. 


OLAF. 
Come, to horse! The day 


Is dawning brightly. 
[Exeunt. 


[A rocky vault.—Hakon. Karker.—The last carries a 
burning lamp, and a plate with food. Hakon has a spear 
in his hand.] 

KARKER, 

In this cavern, then, 

Are we to live? Here is not much prepared 

For life’s convenience. Where shall I set down 

Our lamp? 


HAKON. 
There ; — hang it on that hook. 


KARKER, 
At last, 


This much is gained. And here, too, there are 
seats 

Hewn in the rock, whereon one may repose. 

My lord, will you not now take some refresh- 
ment? 

This whole long day you have been without 
food. 


HAKON. 
I am not hungry, boy ;—— but thou mayst eat. 


KAREER. 
With your permission, then, I shall. 
[He eats. Hakon walks up and down, taking long steps. 
My lord, — Hu! 
’T is in sooth a frightful place ! 
Saw’st thou that black and hideous coffin there, 
Closé to the door, as we stepped in? 


[Looking round. 


HAKON, 
Be silent, 
And eat, I tell thee.— (Aside) In this dark 
abode 


Has Thora spent full many a sleepless night, 
Lonely and weeping. Then, in her affliction, 
That coffin she has secretly provided, 
Even for herself; and here that fairest form 
One day awaits corruption ! 

[He looks at Karker. 
Wherefore, boy, 
Wilt thou not eat? With eager haste, till now, 
Didst thou devour thy food. What has thus 

changed thee? 


KARKER. 


My lord, I am not hungry, and methinks 
This food tastes not invitingly. 


HAKON,. 
How so? 


Be of good courage. Trust in me, thy master. 


KARKER. 


Lord Jarl, thou art thyself oppressed and sad. 


HAKON, 
‘“‘ Oppressed and sad!” How dar’st thou, slave, 
presume ? 
I say, be merry! If thou canst not eat, 
Then sing. I wish to hear a song. 


KARKER. 
Which, then, 


Would you prefer ? 


HAKON. 


Sing what thou wilt. However, 
Let it be of a deep and hollow tone, 
Even like the music of a wintry storm ! 


A lullaby, my child, a lullaby ! 


KARKER, 


A lullaby ? 


HAKON, 
Ay, that the grown-up child 
May quietly by night repose. 


KARKER, 


My lord, 


I know a famous war-song, — an old legend. 


HAKON. 


Has it a mournful ending? Seems it first, 

As if all things went prosperously on, 

Then winds up suddenly with death and mur. 
der? 


DANISH POETRY. 
pete kl eg Scatcnpet anna dnp disipimass aint tt es tS ase Bank 


KARKER. 

No, Sire. The song is sad from the beginning. 
HAKON, 

Well; that I most approve. . For to commence 
A song with calmness and serenity, 
Only to end with more impressive horror, — 
This is a trick that poets too much use ; — 
Let clouds obscure the morning sky,— and then 
We know the worst! Begin ‘the song. 


KARKER, 
“‘ King Harald and Erling they sailed by night 
(And blithe is the greenwood strain), 
But when they came to Oglehof, 
The doughty Jarl was slain!” 


HAKON, 


How, slave! 
Hast lost thy reason ? 
My father’s death-song? 


Wilt thou sing to me 


KARKER. 
How! Was Sigurd Jarl 
Your father, Sire? In truth, I knew not this; 
His fate at last was mournful. 


HAKON, 
Silence ! 


KARKER, 


Here 
One finds not even a little straw to rest on. 


HAKON, 


If thou art weary, on the naked earth 
Canst thou not rest, as I have often done ? 


KARKER, 
Since it must be so, I shall try. 


HAKON. 
Enough. 


Sleep, —sleep ! 

[Karker stretches himself on the ground and falls asleep; 

Hakon looking at him. 
Poor nature! slumber’st thou already ? 
The spark which restlessly betokened life 
Already sunk in ashes! But ’t is well, — 
"T is well for thee. — Within this Reart what 
flames 
Violently rage !— Ha! stupid slave! hast thou, 
Emanded by the Normans, unto me 
My father’s death-song as a warning sung? 
Shall Hakon’s fate be like the fate ‘a Sigurd : ? 
He was, as I have been, unto the gods 
A priest of bloody SS But howe ! 
Can the wise God of Christians have o’ercome 
Odin and all his powers? And must he fall 
Who has of Christians been the enemy ? 
[He pauses. 
"Tis cold within this damp and dusky cave ; 
My blood is freezing in my veins. 
[He looks at Karker. 

He dreams. 
How hatefully his features are contorted ! 


He grins like some fantastic nightly spectre ! 
[Shaking him. 
Ho! Karker! Slave, awake! What mean those 
faces ? 


KARKER. 
’*t was a dream. 


Ah! 


HAKON. 
And what, then, hast thou dreamed ? 


KARKER. 
Methought I saw 


HAKON. 
Be silent. Hear’st thou not ? 
What is that noise above ? 


KARKER. 
Horsemen, my lord, — 
A numerous troop. I hear their armor clashing. 
They are, as I suspect, King Olaf’s people, 
Who arch for us. 


‘ HAKON, 
This cave is all unknown. 
Its iron gates are strong. 
Here are we safe. 


I have the key. 


KARKER, 
But hear’st thou what the herald 
Is now proclaiming ? 


HAKON, \ 
What were the words ? 


No. 


KARKER. 
King Olaf will with riches and with honor 
Reward the man who brings to him the head 
Of Hakon, Jarl of Klade. 


HAKON (looking at him scrutinizingly). 
Feel’st thou not 
Desire to win this wealth?—-Why art thou 
trembling ? 


Why are thy lips turned pale ? 


KARKER, 
The vision scared me. — 
Perchance, my lord, you could explain it for me. 


HAKON, 
What hast thou dreamed ? 


KARKER. 
That we were both at sea, 
In one small vessel, ’mid the tori waves ; 
I had the helm. 


HAKON, 
That must betoken, Karker, 
That my life finally depends on thee. 
Therefore be faithful. In the hour of need, 
Stand by thy master firmly ; and one day, 
He shall reward thee better than King Olaf. 


KARKER, 
My lord, I dreamed yet more. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


109 


HAKON. 


Boy, tell me all! 


KARKER, 
There came a tall black man down to the shore, 
Who from the rocks proclaimed, with fearful 
voice, 
That every harbour was barred up against us. 


HAKON, 
Karker, thou dream’st not well; for this betokens 
Short life even for us both. Be faithful still : 
As thou thyself hast told me, we were born 


On the same night; and therefore:| in one day 
We both shall die. 


2 KARKER, 
And then, methought, once more, 
I was at Klade ; and King Olaf there 
Fixed round my neck a ring of gold. 


HAKON, 
Ha! this 
Betokens that King Olaf round thy neck 
A halter will entwine, when treacherously 
Thou hast betrayed thy master. — But no more.— 
Place thyself in that corner. I will here 
Recline, and so we both will go to sleep. 


KARKER, 
Even as thou wilt, my lord. 


HAKON., 
What wouldst thou do ? 


KARKER, 
"T was but to trim the lamp. 


HAKON, 


Go, take thy place ; 
And leave the lamp. Thou might’st extinguish 
1t5 
|| Then should we sit in darkness. It is more 
Than J can well explain, how every night 
Those who retire to sleep put out the light ! ! 
Of death it is, methinks, a fearful emblem, 
More threatening far than slumber. What ap- 
pears 
In life so strong and vivid as the light? 
Where is the light when once it is eeaniched: ? 
Let my lamp stand. It burns but feebly now ; — 
Yet still it burns, and where there ’s life is 
hope! 
Go, take thy place, and sleep. 
{He walks unquietly up and down, and then asks — 
Now, Karker, sleep’st thou ? 


KARKER, 


Ay, my good ford. 


HAKON, 

Ha! stupid slave !— (Rising up.) Jarl Hakon! 
Is this wretch, then, the last that now remains 
Of all thy mighty force ?—I cannot trust him; 
For what can such a dull and clouded brain 
Conceive of honor and fidelity ? 
Like a chained dog, fawning he will come 

straight 


Pa 


To him who offers the most tempting morsels. 

Karker, give me thy dagger. Slaves, thou 
knowest, 

Should wear no weapons. 


KARKER. 
From yourself, my lord, 
It was a gift; and here it is again. 


HAKON, 
"T is well. Now sleep. 
KARKER. 
Immediately. 
HAKON (aside). 
A fever 


Burns in my brain and blood. I am outworn, 

Exhausted with the combat of the day, 

With watching, and our long nocturnal flight. 

Yet sleep I dare not, while that sordid slave — 
[He pauses. 

Well, I may rest awhile, yet carefully 

Beware of sleep. 


[He sits down, and is overpowered by slumber. 


KARKER, 

Ha! now —he sleeps '— He trusts me not; 

he fears 
That I may now betray him to King Olaf. 
Olaf gives wealth and honors for his life ; 
What can I more expect from Hakon Jar! ? 
He moves! Protect me, Heaven! He rises up, 
And yet is not awake. 


Karker; as if he fled from some fearful apparition). 


GoLD-HARALD ! ScHAAFELL ! 


What wouldst thou with me? Go! leave me 


in peace ! 

Wherefore dost thou intrude thy death-pale 
visage 

Between hase broken rocks? Haratp! thou 


liest ! 
I was to thee no traitor.—How, now, children ! 
What would you here ? 
for now 
There is no time for 
bridegroom !— 
And Odin, s marble statue — it has fallen! 
And Freya stands with flowers upon her head! 
[Listening. 


Go home ! ! go home! 


dalliance. Then your 


Who weeps there ’mid the grass? 

Ha! that is worst. 

Poor child ! poor little Erling! dost thou bleed? 

And have I struck too deeply : ? ?Mid the roses, 

Till now snow-white, are purple drops descend- 
ing? [Calling aloud. 


Ha! Karker! 


Karker ! 


HARKER. 
Still he dreams. My lord, 
Here is your faithful slave. 


HAKON. 


HAKON (rising up in his sleep, and coming forward towards 
Hold! take that spear,— Bes 


| 
| 


i} 
| 
1 
i 


Strike it at once into my heart. ’T is done! 


There ! strike ! 


KARKER, 
My lord, canst thou indeed desire 
That I should such a deed fulfil ? 


HAKON. 
No more! 
[ Threatening. 


Thou wretch, strike instantly! for one of us 
Must fall, — we cannot both survive. 


KARKER, 
Nay, then, 


Die thou! [He takes the spear and stabs Hakon. 


HAKON (falling). 
Now in my heart the avenging spear 
Of Heaven is deeply fixed. Thy threatening 
words, 
Olaf, are now confirmed. 


KARKER, 

Now it is past ; 
And cannot be recalled. Therefore shall I 
No time devote to lamentation here. 
I could not weep him back to life again. 
These iron doors now must I open wide, 
And bring this dead Jar] to the king; then claim 
The wealth and honor that to me are promised. 
"T is done! but he himself desired his death ; 
I blindly but performed what he commanded ! 

[Exit, bearing out the body of Hakon Jarl. 


SOLILOQUY OF THORA. 


[The cavern. The lamp still burns. Servants bring ina 
coffin, set it silently in the cave, and retire. ‘Thora 
comes slowly, with a drawn sword and a large pine-tree 
garland in her hands. She remains long deeply medita- 
tive, and contemplates the coffin.] 


THORA, 
Now art thou in thy coffin Jaid, Jarl Hakon ! 
In Thora’s coffin. Who could have foreseen 
this ? 
May thy bones rest in peace! If thou hast erred, 
By sufferings thou has amply made atonement; 
And no one now to thee, laid in the grave, 
One insolent word may speak of blame or scorn. 
As in thy life, so even in death I love thee! 
For some brief years thy light o’er Norway 
shone, 
Eyen like the sun, new life through all diffusing. 
Now have thy bands of warriors all forgot thee, 
And sworn allegiance to a foreign power ! 
One feeble woman only now is left 
To mourn and weep for thee! So let her now 
Those honors pay, that others have neglected. 
From Thora’s hand receive this coronet, 
Of Northern pine-trees woven ; and let it twine 
Around thy battle sword, and so betoken 
That thou wert a brave champion of the North; 
A noble forest tree, though by the storm 
Of winter wild o’erpowered at last., Old legends, 


DANISH POETRY. 


———————— Cr ——— ee 


In distant ages, when the colors quite 

Have from the picture faded, and no more 

But the dark outline is beheld, will say, 

‘¢ He was a wicked servant of the gods.” 

Thy name will be a terror to the people ; — 

Not so it is to me! for, O, I knew thee! 

In thee the noblest gifts and greatest heart 

Were in the tumult of wild times perverted. 

So then, farewell, great Hakon Jarl! Thy soul 

Is now rejoicing in the halls of Odin. 

Now. must I leave thee here in solitude ; 

And when these gates are opened next, the 
slaves 

Of Thora shall her lifeless frame deposit 

Beside the loved remains of her dear friend. 


— 


EXTRACTS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF CORREGGIO. 


ANTONIO DA CORREGGIO, AND MARIA HIS WIFE. 


ANTONIO (alone. He sets down the picture, and seems con- 


founded). 
Is this a dream? Or has indeed the great 
And gifted Buonarotti been with me? 
And such his words! O, were it but delusion ! 
[He sits down, holding his hand over his face; then 
rises up again. 
My brain whirls round.— And yet I am awake ! 
A frightful voice has broke my sleep.—‘ A 
Bungler!”’ 
Such name, indeed, I never had believed 
That I deserved, if the great Buonarotti 
Had not himself announced it! 
[He stands lost in thought. 
On my sight 
Rose variegated floating clouds. I deerhed 
That they were natural forms, and eager seized 
The pencil to arrest their transient beauty ; — 
But, lo! whate’er I painted is no more 
But clouds again, — a many-colored toy, 
Wherein all nobler attributes of soul 
Are sought in vain ;—— even just proportion’s 
rules 
Are wanting too! 
This I had not suspected ! 
From deep internal impulse, with pure heart, 
Have I my self-rewarding toil pursued. 
When at the canvass placed, methought I 
kneeled 
Even at the everlasting shrine of Nature, 
Who smiled on me, her favored votary, 
And glorious mysteries revealed. But, O, 
How have I been deceived ! — [A pause. 
I well remember, 
When but a boy, I with my father went 
To Florence on the market-day, and ran 
Alone into St. Lawrence church, and there 
Stood at the graves of Giulio and Lorenzo ; 
Contemplated the immortal imagery, — 
The Night, the Day, the Twilight, and Aurora, | 
All in white marble cut by Buonarotti. 
My stay was brief, but on my heart the impres- 
sion 


Was deep and lasting ; —I had then beheld 


[Mournfully. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


The high Unique; the noblest works of art! 

All was so strange, —so beautiful and great, 

And yet so dead and mournful, —I rejoiced 

When I came forth and saw once more the fields 

And the blue sky. But now again I stand 

Beneath the cold sepulchral vault. The forms, 

So fugitive, of light and cheerfulness, 

Are vanished all away. Shuddering I stand 

Before the Twilight and the Night, — de- 
spised, — 

Forsaken ! [Much moved. 

Well! henceforth I paint no more ! 

Heaven knows ’t was not'from vanity I labored, 

But rather as the bees erect their cells, 

From natural impulse, — or the birds their nests. 

If this is all a dream, then he shall once, 

Yet once more, not in anger, but with calm 

And tranquil dignity, such as his art 

Has on Lorenzo’s tomb portrayed, confirm 

My sentence. Then farewell, ye cherished 
hopes! 

Then I am still a poor and humble peasant ! 

Ay, with a conscience pure and peaceful. Still, 

I shall not mourn, nor sink into despair. 

If { am not a painter, yet my lot 

Is neither mean nor abject; — if this great 

And far-famed Angelo should so denounce me, 

Yet would an inward voice, by Heaven inspired, 

The assurance give, “Thou art not base nor 
guilty !”’ 


MARIA (enters). 
How ’s this, Antonio? Thou art melancholy. 
Thy picture ’s thrown aside. — ’T is strange, in- 
deed, 
To find thee unemployed, when thus alone. 


ANTONIO, 
Maria, dearest wife, my painting now 
Is at an end. 


MARIA. 


Hast thou, then, finished quite ? 


ANTONIO (painfully, and pressing her hand). 


Ay, child, — quite finished ! 


MARIA. 


How is this? O Heaven! 
Thou weep’st, Antonio ! 


ANTONIO, 
Nay, not so, Maria. 


MARIA. 


Dear husband, what has happened here? O, 
tell me! 


ANTONIO, 
Be not afraid, Maria. I have thought 
On many things relating to our life ; 
And I have found, at last, that this pursuit, 
By which we live, brings not prosperity ; 
So have I, with myself, resolved at once 
To change it quite. 


lil 


MARIA, 
I understand thee not! 


ANTONIO. 
Seven years ago, when from thy father’s hand 
I, as my bride, received thee, canst thou still 
Remember what the old man said? « Antonio, 
Leave off this painting. He who lives and 

dreams 

Still in the fairy world of art, in truth, 
Is for this world unfit. Your painters all, 
And poets, prove bad husbands ; for with them 
The Muse usurps the wife’s place ; and, intent 
On their spiritual children, they will soon 
Forget both sons and daughters.”’ 


MARIA. 
Nay, in truth, 
He was an honest, faithful heart. Methinks, 
Such to those useful plants may be compared 
That grow beneath the earth, but never bloom 
With ornamental flowers. No more of this ! 


ANTONIO, 
‘¢ Be,” said he then, “a potter, like myself, — 
Paint little figures on the clay, and sell them. 
So, free from care, live with thy wife and chil- 
dren, 
And unto them thy time and life devote.” 


MARIA, 
He saw not that which I then loved in thee, 
Thy genius, and thy pure, aspiring soul ! 
He knew not that thine art, which he despised, 
Had shared my love, and was itself a blessing ! 


ANTONIO. 
My child, full many things have been believed 
That were not true. Thy hopes have all been 
blighted ! 


MARIA, 
Antonio! wilt thou force me to be sad ? 


ANTONIO (embraces her). 
Thou art an angel !—TI have found thee still 
In every state contented. But too well 
I know thy hopes were blighted. Nor have I 
To thee given up the emotions of my heart, 
But wasted them in visionary strife, 
And fugitive creations. What I gained 
Has partly on dear colors been expended ; 
And for the rest I have not managed wisely. 
At times we lived in superfluity, 
But oftener scarce could meet the calls of 
want ; — 
So has thy tender heart enough been tried ; 
It shall no more be thus! We shall not strive 
For that which is impossible, nor waste 
This life in feverish dreams. I shall renounce 
them, — 
Step back into obscurity. Henceforth, 
I may not be an artist, —but will learn 
The duties of a husband and a father. 


MARIA, 
Thou canst not be an artist? — Then no more 
Can Art survive upon this earth ! 


ANTONIO. 
Dear wife, 


Thou lov’st me? 


MARIA. 
Ay, — because I know thee wholly. 


ANTONIO. 
Thou smil’st so sweet and innocently, — mark 
you, 
How that unmeaning imp is grinning there ? 
[Pointing to the picture. 
MARIA (perplexed). 
Antonio ! 


ANTONIO. 
Now I see the faults. O, wherefore 
Have I not had ere now some faithful friend 
Who might have shown them to me? For I 
feel 
Within me the capacity to mend them! 


MARIA. 
O Heaven! what means all this? 


ANTONIO (interested, and contemplating the picture). 
It seems to me, 
As if in that poor picture there were still 
Something not wholly so contemptible ; — 
Not color only, — no, —nor finishing, — 
Nor play of light and shade, — but something, 
too, 
Of soLemn and suBLIME ! 


MARIA. 
Nay, what has happened ? 
Antonio, pray thee, tell me! 


ANTONIO, 
He shall once — 


Once more confirm his sentence. He has tzice 
Thundered it forth, but yet my condemnation 
Must be a third time uttered ; —I shall then 
Paint cups, and be a potter' 


MARIA, 
Who has been here ? 


| ANTONIO (with dignity). 
The great and far-famed Micuart ANGELO.’ 


MARIA. 
And — he — uz said these things? 


ANTONIO, 
Be quiet, child ; 
We shall await the third time. From that world 
Of cherished dreams and magic imagery 
I may not willingly be torn away! 
Yet once more for my sentence! Then, hence- 
forth, 
I shall renounce them all, and, for my share, 
Strive but for art to blazon crockery-ware ! 


ANTONIO AND GIULIO ROMANO. 


ANTONIO. 


DANISH POETRY. 


Will be far too transparent. From all eyes, 
O, might it be withdrawn! O, why was I 
By want compelled to sell it? Was it not 
Deception, thus so large a sum to gain 
By such a worthless labor? Yet Octavian 
Himself surveyed the picture ; and the price 
On his own judgment offered. 1 then said 
It was too much. 

[Taking a pencil, 
Yet here, amid the grass, 
I shall paint one pale hyacinth. That flower, 
When beauteous maidens die, adorns their tomb. 
For me the lovely form of Hop: has now 
Declined in death ; and for her sake shall I, 
For the last time, here plant one flower! 
But then, — 
How shall I live, if I must paint no more? 
For Art hath like the breath of heaven become, 
A requisite of life ! 

[A pause. 
Well, be it so! 
Let the long week in manual toil be spent, 
For wife and child! The Sunday morning still 
Remains mine own. Then, once more on my 
sight, 

The smiling Iris with her sevenfold bow 
Will rise in wonted beauty. I shall draw, 
And groups compose again, and color them, — 
All for mine own delight. To say the least, 
’T is but a harmless luxury ; and my pictures 
Will yet adorn our cottage walls, and please 
Maria and my boy, who love them too! 
When I am gone, and travellers wander here, 
They will not look on them unmoved; for all 
Are not like Michael Angelo. — Perchance 
It may be said, this man at least aspired, 
And had true love for Art. 


GIULIO ROMANO (enters). 
Here now he sits, 
The man by Heaven inspired, — painting again 
Some picture that shall fill the world with won- 
der. 
O, how I long to speak with him! 
* tience! 
I shall by gradual steps prolong my joy. — 
Am I awake? What have I seen? How, Giulio? 
Must thou from Rome to this poor village come, 
To find the second Rafaelle? °T is, indeed, 
Wondrous and unexpected! In the city, 
Schools and academies we build, and princes 
Aid all our efforts. Even from infancy 
Our eyes are fixed on models, and our hands 
Are exercised ; but when at length arrives 
The brilliant opportunity to prove 
The powers that we have gained, what are we 
all 
But scholars ? not, indeed, of praise unworthy, 
Good, specious im1rators! If, once more, 
True genius is to show itself on earth, 
It blooms not in the hot-house. All such aid 
That amaranthine flower disdains. In woods 
And wilds, by the free breath of storms per- 
vaded, 


Yet pa- 


Now there wants but the varnish! Ha! that veil | It flourishes, by chance implanted there, | 


| 


ra 


(REO UT RN A TEIN EAI E Nh ALi OW RL Rend OS ha tenctateth se chlaahsdinshensi-aenlciphioetabetaland det Raden ies eee cin iachercheriemtadoanntacinsmeishanttee see Oe ee 
\ 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


113 


And by supernal powers upheld. We gaze 
With veneration on our ancient masters, 

And deem that genius has its acme gained, 
And died with them. But while, all unawares, 
We mourn its loss, lo! suddenly it springs, 
Fresh, youthful, vigorous, into life again, 
Demanding admiration ever new ! 

How wondrous that those visitants divine, 
That must illume our earth, so oft are born 
Even in the humblest cells of poverty ! 


ANTONIO (still at the picture). 
Stand there, thou little pale blue hyacinth, — 
Thy hues betokening death ! 


GIULIO, 


He looks, indeed, 

Like the fair forms that he delights to paint, 
Mild, amiable, and sensitive. But care 

And sadness mark his features. The fine hues, 
That to the cheeks of others he imparts, 
Bloom not upen his own. 


ANTONIO (turning half round). 
There comes again 
A stranger visitant ! 
[They mutually salute. 


GIULIO. 
Forgive me, Signor, 
If I disturb you! But how could I leave 
This place, till I that wondrous artist knew, 
Whose works adorn it ? 


ANTONIO, 


Then — you meet ah, Heaven! 
But a_poor, melancholy man ! 


GIULIO, 
How ’s this ? 
Has the bright sun, that must the world illume, 
Even for himself nor light nor warmth? 


ANTONIO. 
Thy looks 
Are friendly, stranger ; and I do believe 
Thou dost not mock me. Yet, unconsciously, 


Thou wound’st me deeply. Sun indeed ! — If 
thou 

Knew’st but the darkness of the soul that dwells 
here {== 

Not even one star gleams through my rayless 
night ! — 

GIULIO. 

Nay, from thy Nieutr beams forth resistless 

glory, — 


That with the radiance of immortal fame 
Will one day circle round thee. Signor, I 


pins? 
Thy name ? 


ANTONIO, 


Antonio Allegri. 


GIULIO. 
"Tis well, — 
Antonio ALLEGRI DA Correcaio ! 
15 


How can this name sound strange unto mine 
ears, 

That shall ere long on all tongues be familiar ? 

I have indeed beheld thy Nreut, Antonio, 

There, in the church. What thou wouldst rep- 
resent, 

Thou hast thyself performed, —a miracle ! 

Through the deep gloom of earthly life shines 
forth 

Light to rejoice the shepherds ;~-and, like them, 

I stand amazed before you, — powerless quite 

To explain the wonders that I look upon, 

Veiling my dazzled eyes, and half in doubt 

If all that I behold is not delusion ! — 


ANTONIO, 


O Signor, ’t is, indeed, delusion all ! — 
Thou art a man of honor, — and thou lov’st 
Our art, —but let me venture thus to say,— 
I know too well what Art should be! 


GIULIO, 
Thy words 


Perplex me, Signor. 


ANTONIO, 
I have been indeed, 
Through many a year, a riddle to myself. 


~~ 


GIULIO» 


Thouw art in all things inconceivable. 

How has thy genius bloomed thus all unaid- 
ed ? 

How has the world and thine own worth to thee 

Remained unknown ?— 


ANTONIO, 
But, for example, now, 
How deem’st thou of this picture 


GIULIO, 
How shall words 
Express my feelings ?—-If I say ’tis nozix, 
What have I said? =~ Till now, Rafuelle’s Ma- 
donna 
Had all mine admiration ; in my heart, 
She ruled alone. But now, once more, Maria, 
Another and the same, smiles out upon me ; — 
With more of woman’s tenderness and love 
Maternal, ~~ less of queenly dignity. 
Rafaelle, indeed, has earthly forms endowed 
With grace divine,— but thou hast brought from 
heaven 
Ethereal spirits, here in mortal frames 
Submissively to dwell ! 


ANTONIO (anxiously). 
But then, indeed, 
Are there no faults ? 


GIULIO. 
Where so much is achieved, 
Faults have no room to exist. In the full bliss 
Of superfluity, who would complain, 


Because he has not all 2? — 
32 


a 
ee 


i i Ce it = 


take 


114 


ANTONIO. 
But what, —I pray you, — 
What here is wanting ? 


GIULIO. 
All that is required 
To form a masterpiece is here.- It lives, 
And breathes instinct with life divine, —by 
depth 
Of meditative reason planned, — by all 
The powers of genius, feeling, industry, 


3) 
Brought to perfection. Who would ask for 


more ? 
ANTONIO, 
So much for praise, — but tell me now the 
faults. 
GIULIO. 
Thy genius nowhere fails; even where the 
powers 
Of Art are wanting, or where memory wan- 
dered, 


Thou hast, by some peculiar strength of soul,— 

Some fine ideal energy, — bestowed 

A charm even on the faults, — which, I might 
say, 

Is all thine own; — but here, too, thou resem- 
blest 

Rafaelle, — our great precursor. 


ANTONIO, 
Yet, once more, 
I pray you point out all my faults; you know 
not 
How gladly I from you would hear of them ! 


GIULIO. 
Well, then, — the mere anatomist might say 
There are defects of drawing in this picture. 


" ANTONIO. 
Now, — for example ? 


GIULIO, 
The foreshortening here 
Is not quite accurate. 
pear 
Too round ; the contour is too full. But then 
You love such blooming graces; and, for this, 
Avoid the harshness of reality. 


The child’s limbs ap- 


ANTONIO. 
Once, once more, Signor,—then I breathe 
again ; — 
How deem’st thou of the smile upon these 
lips, — 


The Virgin’s smile, and then the Child’s ? 


GIULIO. 
In them 
I find no fault. Original, but lovely ! 
ANTONIO. * 
Not, then, “¢ unmeaning,” “ imp-like,” “ honey- 
sweet’? 


DANISH POETRY. 


* GIULIO. 
So have I to myself, in summer dreams, 
Painted the smiles of angels. 


ANTONIO. 


Thus, O Heaven, 
Have I, too, dreamed ! 


GIULIO. 
And art thou mournful now, 
Because thou hast so nobly triumphed here ? 


ANTONIO. 
Nay,-I am sad, because I have so long 
Myself deceived. 


GIULIO, 
Signor, thy words again 
Become inexplicable. 


ANTONIO, 
Stranger, in truth, 
Thou hast according to mine own heart spoken ; 
And it consoles me that there are on earth 
Yet men, and honorable, wise men, too, 
That in the selfsame path have been deceived. 
And yet I more admire the judgment true, 
Which on my faults has been pronounced. And 
there 
Thou hast not erred ; but, like a genuine friend, 
Hast, in considerate, gentle tones, reproved 
me. — 
Now, truly, such discourse, so full of knowl- 
edge, 
Would inexpressibly rejoice my heart, 
If I had not (ah! had I known it sooner! ) 
Even this day learned too truly, that my labor 
Is worthless all and vain! 


GIULIO. 


Who told you this? 


ANTONIO. 
Even the most gifted artist of our age, — 
Great Michael Angelo. 


ad GIULIO. 


I could have guessed it ; 
This is but like him. Truly now I find 
That broken wheel still whirls within his brain, 


ANTONIO. 

Nay, I had first by levity provoked him. — 

A man who dwells here, —a strange humor- 
ist,— 

By whom too oft I am disturbed, had come 

And told me that the traveller who sat 

At table in his house was but a dauber, 

A rude companion, who had injured him, 

And spoke on all things without aught of know- 
ledge. 

Then I received him, not with that respect 

That he so well deserved. He spoke to me 

Dryly and in a grumbling tone ; to which 

I made him jestingly a careless answer. 

Then he was angry ;— ‘+ Bungler!” ‘“ Mean 
and base! ”’— 


4 


Oe eabionsined arse ee 


salah eT suai tg ot 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 115 


aes alte Si Ba tt aie ta Seatiene caneaeabentog 
| 


Such were to me his epithets. Misled 
By a vain love of splendid coloring, 

He then declared that I would meter gain 
True greatness or true beauty 1 in mine art. 


GIULIO (vehemently). 
Rightly he spoke! Thou wilt not; for thou 
hast 
Already, by the immortal works that fill 
The high Sixtinian chapel, won the wreath 


Of victory ! 


ANTONIO, 
Ah! dear Sir! 


: GIULIO. 
Think’st thou 


That like a blind man I have spoke of Ait ? 

There thou hast erred. ’T is true, I am, indeed, 

No peerless master, — far less Angelo ; 

But yet I am a man, —a Roman too; 

No Cesar, — yet a Julius. I have learned, 

As thou hast done, what Art should be; the 
great 

And far-famed Rafaelle Sanctio was my master, 

And still his deathless spirit hovers o’er me ! 

I, too, may have a voice in such decision ! 


ANTONIO, 
O Heaven! You are, then, Grut1o Romano ? 


GIULIO. 
I am. 


ANTONIO. 
Thou art Romano, the great master, 
And Rafaelle’s favorite ? 


GIULIO. 
That I was. 
ANTONIO, 
And thou 
Say’st I am no pretender? 
GIULIO. 
I do say, 
Since Rafaelle Sanctio’s death, there has not 
lived 


A greater artist in our land than thou, 
Antonio ALLEGRI DA Correcerio ! 


MICHAEL ANGELO, MARIA, AND GIOVANNI. 


GIOVANNI, 
There comes my mother. 
[Maria enters. 
MICHAEL. 
Ay, indeed? How lovely! 
I trace at once the likeness to Marta. 


GIOVANNI. 
Mother, here is a stranger gentleman, — 
He gave me sugar plumbs. — Look here! 


MICHAEL, 


Madonna, 
May I, then, hope forgiveness? 


MARIA, 


Noble Sir, 

I thank you for your kindness. — (To Giovanni.) 
Hast thou thanked 

This gentleman ? 


GIOVANNI, 
I thank you. 


MARIA. 
Nay, what manners ! 


Go, make your bow. 


Say, Noble Sir —— 


MICHAEL. 
I pray you, 
Let him have his own way, nor by forced rules 
Check the pure flow of Nature that directs him. 


MARIA. 
Then you love children, Sir? 


MICHAEL, 
Not always. Yet 


I love your son.—— You live here? 


i MARIA, 
Ay, Sir; — there 


You see our humble cot. 


MICHAEL. 
Antonio 


The painter is your husband ? 


MARIA, 


Ay, dear Sir. 
MICHAEL. 
Is he in real life so amiable, 


As in his works he has appeared ? 
You are a happy wife. 


If so, 


MARIA. 
Signor, his works 


Show but the faint reflection of that sun 
Of excellence that glows within his heart. 


MICHAEL. 
Indeed ? 
‘ MARIA. 
Ay, truly. 
MICHAEL. 


Still, you seem not glad, 

Nor cheerful. Yet an honest, active husband, 
A beauteous wife, and a fine child, — methine 
Here is a paradise at once complete ! 


MARIA. 
Yet something, 
Alas! is wanting. 

MICHAEL. 
What? 

MARIA, 
Prosperity 


And worldly fortune. 


MICHAEL, 
Are not beauty, then, 


And genius, in themselves an ample fortune ? 


DANISH POETRY. 


MARIA, 
In many a flower is hid the gnawing worm 
My husband has been ill, —~ is irritable, 

And each impression moves him far too deeply. 
Hence, even to-day, unlucky chance befell him. 


MICHAEL. 
I know it, Buonarotti has been here, 
And has offended him. 


MARIA, 
Nay, more than this, — 
He has renewed his illness. 


MICHAEL, 
Nay, perchance 


He has but spoke the truth. For Angelo 

Told him he was no painter. And who knows ?— 
He is an artist of experience, 

And may have said the truth. 


MARIA. 
And if from heaven 


An angel had appeared to tell me this, 
I could not have believed him! 


MICHAEL, 


Indeed ? 
Are you so confident ? 


MARIA, 

Nay, Sir. In truth, 

The sum of all my confidence is this, — 

The knowledge, that with my whole heart I 
love 

Antonio. Therefore all that he has done 

Is with that love inseparably joined, 

And therefore, too, his works are dear to me. 


MICHAEL, 
Is this enough? You love, yet know not how 
To ground and to defend that preference ? 


MARIA, 
Let others look for learning to defend 
Their arguments. Enough it is for us 
On pure affection’s impulse to rely. 


MICHAEL. 

Bravo, Madonna! You indeed rejoice me. 
Forgive me, if I tried you thus awhile. 
So should all women think. — But now, for this 
Affair of Michael Angelo ; he bears 
A character capricious, — variable : 
This cannot be denied; yet, trust me still, 
Good in the main. Too oft, indeed, his words 
Are like the roaring of the blinded Cyclops, 
When the fire rages fiercely ; yet can he 
Be tranquil too; and even in one short hour, 
Like the wise camel with her provender, 
Think more than may well serve him for a year. 
The fierce volcano oft is terrible, 
Yet fruitful too; when its worst rage is o’er, 
The peasant cultivates the fields around, 
Whose fruits are thereby nourished and im- 

proved ; 
The fearful gulf itself is decked with flowers 


And wild-wood, and all breathes of life and 
joy. 
MARIA, 
I do believe you. 


MICHAEL, 

Trifles oft give birth 
Even to the most important deeds. ’T is true, 
The mountain may have borne a mouse ;—in 

turn, 
The mouse brings forth a mountain. 
The clumsy trick of a malicious host 
Set Angelo at variance with your husband. 
One word begets another ; for not love 
Alone, but anger, and rash violence too, 
Make blind their victims. 


Even so 


MARIA, 
Sir, you speak most wisely. 


MICHAEL, 
Now listen. — Angelo commanded me 
To visit you; I am his friend, —and such 
Excuse as I have made, he would have offered. 
His ring, too, for a proof of his respect, 
He gives Antonio ; and entreats him still 
To wear it as a pledge of his firm friendship. 
They will yet meet again; Antonio soon 
Will better proof receive of Michael’s kindness, 


If he has influence to advance your fortune. 
[Exit. 


ANTONIO (enters). 
Maria, dearest wife, what has he said ? 


MARIA, 
The stranger gentleman? 


ANTONIO, 
Ay, — Buonarotti. 


MARIA, 
How? Is it possible? Was it himself? 


ANTONIO. 
Ay, ay, — ’t was he, — great Michael Angelo; 
O’er all the world there lives not such another! 


MARIA. 
O happy day! Now, then, rejoice, Antonio! 
He kissed our child, and kindly spoke to me. 
This ring he left for thee ; he honors, loves thee, 
And henceforth will promote our worldly for- 

tune. 

ANTONIO. 

Can this be possible ? Romano, then, 
Was in the right. 


MARIA. 
He loves and honors thee. 


ANTONIO. 
And this fine ring in proof! — Ha! then, Maria, 
He has but cast me down into the dust, 
To be more proudly raised on high. O Heaven! 
Dare I believe such wondrous fate >— But come, 
Let me yet seek this noble friend ; with tears 
Of gratitude embrace him ; and declare 
That we indeed are blest! 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
eA a aera tern hs eS 
MARIA, But of the Flemish school.’’ Flemish? Where 
At last, I, too, lies 
Can say that Buonarotti judges wisely, That country? ’T is unknown to me.— Ha! 
And henceforth blooms for us a PARADISE! there 
[Exeunt. | Are hung large pictu nt 
(As they retire, Baptista crosses the stage, and, over- fruit, Paes ene wheel Ie, Romer 


hearing the last words, says,) 
Then be it mine to bring perfection due, 
For Paradise requires a SERPENT too ! 


ANTONIO IN. THE GALLERY OF COUNT OCTAVIAN. 


ANTONIO, 
Here am I, then, arrived at last! O Heaven! 
What weariness oppresses me ! the way 
Has been so long,— the sun so hot and scorching, 
Here all is fresh and airy. Thus the great 
Enjoy all luxuries ; in cool palaces, 
As if in rocky caverns, they defy 
The summer’s heat. On high the vaulted roof 
Ascends, and pillars cast their shade below; 
While in the vestibule clear fountains play 
With cool, refreshing murmur. Happy they 
Who thus can live! Well, that ere long shall be 
My portion too. How pleasantly one mounts 
On the broad marble steps! How reverently 
These ancient statues greet our entrance here ! 
[Looking into the hall and coming forward. 
This hall indeed is noble ! — How is this ? 
What do I see? Ha! paintings! ’T is, indeed, 
The picture gallery. Holy saints! I stood 
Unconsciously within the sacred temple ! 
Here then, Italia’s artists, hang on high 
Your wondrous works, like scutcheons on the 
tombs 
Of heroes, to commemorate their deeds ! — 
What shall I first contemplate? Woodland 
scenes, — 
Wild beasts of prey, — stern warriors, — or Ma- 
donnas ? 
Mine eye here wanders round, even like a bee 
Amid a thousand flowers! I see too much ! 
My senses all are overpowered! I feel 
The influence of imperial power around me 
And in the temple of mine ancestors 
Could kneel and weep! — Ha! there is a fine 
pecan i 
[Going nearer. 
Nay, I have been deceived ; for all, indeed, 
Are not of equal worth. But what i is there? 
Ay, that, indeed, is pretty! Till this hour, 
I have not seen its equal. An old woman 
Scouring a kettle ; in the corner there 
A cat asleep; with his tobacco-pipe, 
The white-haired boy meanwhile is blowing 
soap-bells. 
I had not thought such things could e’er be 
painted. 
It is indeed a pleasure to behold 
How bright and clean her kitchen looks; and, lo! 
How nobly falls the sunlight through the leaves 
On the clear copper kettle! Is not here 
The painter’s name upon the frame? 
“ Unknown, 


(Reads. ) 


Glasses af wine, and game. Here, too, are dogs, 
And many-colored birds: Ay, that indeed 
Is rarely finished. But no more of them. — 


Ha, ha! There’s life again! Three reverend 
men, 

With anxious looks, are counting gold. And 
here, 


If I mistake not, is our Saviour’s birth ; 
And painted by Mantegna ; —ay, tis so. 
How nobly winds that mountain-path along! 
And then how finely those three kings | are 
grouped 
Before the Virgin and the Child! Another, 
As if to meet in contrast, here is placed ; 
Intended well, but yet how strange! That ox 
Is resting with his snout upon the Virgin ! 
And the Moor grins so laughably, yet kindly! 
The Child, meanwhile, is stretching out his arm 
For toys drawn from that casket. Ha, ha, ha! 
"Tis one of Albert Bee an old German! 
Thus, even bey ond the mountains, there are men 
Who. are not ignorant of Art. Ah, Heaven! 
How beautiful that lady ! ! how divine ! 
Young, blooming, sensitive! How beams that 
eye ! 
How smile those ruby lips! And how that cap 
Of crimson velvet, and the sleeves, become her! 
(Reads.) “¢ By Lionard da Vinci.” Then, in truth, 
It is no wonder. He could paint indeed ! — 
How ’s this? 
A king almost in the same style, —but yet 
It must have been a work of early youth. 
No, this (reading), we find, is ** Holbein.” 
I know not; 
Yet to Leonardo he bears much resemblance, 
But not so noble nor so masterly. — 
Yonder I recognize you well, good friends, 
Our earliest masters. Honest Perugino, 
How far’st thou with thy sameness of green 
tone, 
Thy repetitions, and thy symmetry? 
Thy St. Sebastian too? Thou hast, indeed, 
Thy share of greatness; yet a little more 
Of boldness and invention had been well. — 
There throne the Powers! There, large as life, 
appears 
A reverend man, the holy Job! Ha! this 
Has nobly been conceived, nobly fulfilled ! 
"T is Rafaelle, surely. (Reads.) ‘¢ Fra Barthole- 
mea,” 
Ah! the good monk! Not every priest, in truth, 
Will equal thee !— But how shall I find time 
To view them all? Here, in the background, 
hangs 
A long green curtain. It perchance conceals 
The choicest picture. This I must behold, 
Ere Count Octavian comes. 
[Withdraws the curtain from Rafaelle’= 
St. Cecilia. 


Him 


——— 71 
\ 
\ 

\ 


ey 


LS 


“i 


— 


ee ee 


DANISHOPOETRY. 


What do I see? 
’'T'is the divine Cecilia! There she stands, 
Her hand upon the organ. At her feet 
Lie meaner instruments, confused and broken ; 
But silently, even on the organ too, 
Her fingers rest, as on her ear from heaven 
The inusic of the angelic choir descends ! 
Her fervent looks are fixed on high! Ha! this 
No more is painting, — this is POETRY ! 
Here is not only the great artist shown, 
But the great u1gH-souLeD MAN! The sanctities 
Of poetry by painting are expressed. 
Such, too, were my designs! In my best hours 
For this I labored ! 

[Octavian enters, and Correggio, without salutation 

or ceremony, runs up to him, and says,— 

Now, I pray you, tell me 


This painter’s name. [Pointing to the picture, 


OCTAVIAN (coldly). 


’T is Rafaelle. 


ANTONIO. 
I am, THEN, 
A PAINTER, TOO! 


—— 


SOLILOQUY OF CORREGGIO. 


ANTONIO (having been crowned by Celestina, after he had 
fallen asleep in the gallery). 

Where am T now? — Ha! this dim hall, indeed, 

Is not Elysium !— All was but a dream ! 

Nay, not a vision, surely, — but a bright 

Anticipation of eternal life! 

Methought I stood amid those happy fields, 

More beauteous far than Dante has portrayed 
them, — 

Even in the Muses’ consecrated grove, 

Hard by their temple on tall columns reared, 

Of alabaster white and adamant, 

With proud colossal statues filled, and books, 

And paintings. There around me I beheld 

The illustrious of all times in every art. 

The immortal Phidias with his chisel plied 

On that gigantic form of Hercules, 

The wonder of all ages. Like a fly, 

He sat upon one shoulder ; yet preserved 

Through the gigantic frame proportion just, 

And harmony. Apelles, smiling, dipped 

His pencil in the ruby tints of morn, 

And painted wondrous groups on floating clouds, 

That angels forthwith bore away to heaven. 

Then Palestrina, at an organ placed, 

Had the four winds to aid him, and thus woke 

Music, that spread its tones o’er all the world; 

While by his side Cecilia sat and sung. 

Homer I saw beside the sacred fount ; 

He spoke, and all the poets crowded round him. 

The gifted Rafaelle led me by the hand 

Into that listening circle. Well I knew 

His features, though his shoulders now were 
decked 

With silvery seraph wings. 
circle 

Stepped forth the inspiring Muse, — a matchless 
form, — 


Then from the — 


Pure as the stainless morning dew, —and bright, 
Blooming, and cheerful, as the dew-sprent rose. 
O, never on remembrance will it fade, 
How with her snow-white hand this lovely 
form 

A laurel wreath then placed upon my head !—— 
‘To immortality I thus devote thee!” 
Such were her words. Then suddenly I woke. 
It seems almost ag if I felt the crown 
Still on my brows. 

[Puts his hand to his forehead, and takes off the wreath. 
O Heaven! how can this be ? 
Are there yet miracles on earth? 

[At this moment, Baptista enters with Nicolo ; the lat- 


ter bearing a sack of copper coin. Antonio runs up 
to them for explanation, and says, — 


My friend 


Baptista, who has been here? 


BAPTISTA. 
Ask’st thou me? 


How should I know ? 
price 

Given for thy picture by our noble lord. 

You must receive the sum in copper coin. 

So ’t is most fitting that a nobleman 

Should to a peasant pay his debts. 


Lo! here we bring the 


THOR’S FISHING. 


On the dark bottom of the great salt lake 
Imprisoned lay the giant snake, 
With naught his sullen sleep to break. 


Huge whales disported amorous o’er his neck ; 
Little their sports the worm did reck, 
Nor his dark, vengeful thoughts would check. 


To move his iron fins he hath no power, 
Nor yet to harm the trembling shore, 
With scaly rings he ’s covered o’er. . 


His head he seeks ’mid coral rocks to hide, 
Nor e’er hath man his eye espied, 
Nor could its deadly glare abide. 


His eyelids half in drowsy stupor close, 
But short and troubled his repose, 
As his quick, heavy breathing shows. 


Muscles and crabs, and all the shelly race, 
In spacious banks still crowd for place, 
A grisly beard, around his face. 


When Midgard’s worm his fetters strives to 
break, 

Riseth the sea, the mountains quake ; 

The fiends in Nastrond! merry make. 


Rejoicing flames from Hecla’s cauldron flash, 
Huge molten stones with deafening crash 
Fly out, — its scathed sides fire-streams wash. 


1 The Scandinavian hell. 


The affrighted sons of Askur feel the shock, 
As the worm doth lie and rock, 
And sullen waiteth Ragnarok. 


To his foul craving maw naught e’er came ill ; 
It never he doth cease to fill, 
Nath’ more his hungry pain can still. 


Upwards by chance he turns his sleepy eye, 
And, over him suspended nigh, 
The gory head he doth espy. 


The serpent, taken with his own deceit, 
Suspecting naught the daring cheat, 
Ravenous, gulps down the bait. 

His leathern jaws the barbed steel compress, 
His ponderous head must leave the abyss ; 

|| Dire was Jormungandur’s hiss. 


In giant coils he writhes his length about, 
|| Poisonous streams he speweth out, 
But his struggles help him nought. 


The mighty. Thor knoweth no peer in fight ; 
The loathsome worm, his strength despite, 
Now o’ermatched must yield the fight. 


His grisly head Thor heaveth o’er the tide, 
No mortal eye the sight may bide, 
The scared waves haste i’ th’ sands to hide. 


As when accursed Nastrond yawns and burns, 
His impious throat *gainst heaven he turns, 
And with his tail the ocean spurns. 


The parched sky droops, darkness enwraps the 
sun ; 

Now the matchless strength is shown 

Of the god whom warriors own. 


Around his loins he draws his girdle tight, 
His eye with triumph flashes bright, 
The frail boat splits aneath his weight : 


The frail boat splits, — but on the ocean’s 
ground ; 

Thor again hath footing found ; 

Within his arms the worm is bound. 


Hymir, who in the strife no part had took, 
But like a trembling aspen shook, 
Rouseth him to avert the stroke. 


“In the last night, the Vala hath decreed 
Thor, in Odin’s utmost need, 
To the worm shall bow the head.” 


Thus, in sunk voice, the craven giant spoke, 
Whilst from his belt a knife he took, 
Forged by dwarfs aneath the rock. 


Upon the magic belt straight ’gan to file ; 
| Thor in bitter scorn to smile ; 
Miolner swang in air the while. 


ee Te ET 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


eens oereeeeenineeea eee eee TT 


119 


In the worm’s front full two-score leagues it 
fell, 

From Gimle to the realms of hell 

Echoed Jormungandur’s yell. | 


The ocean yawned; Thor's lightnings rent the 
sky ; 

Through the storm, the great Stin’s eye 

Looked out on the fight from high. 


On its top, in snow-white sheen, 
Heimdal at his post was seen. 


On the charmed belt the dagger hath no power; 
The star of Jétunheim ’gan lour ; 
But now, in Asgard’s evil hour, 


When all his efforts foiled tall Hymir saw, 
Wading to the serpent’s maw, 
On the kedge he ’gan to saw. 


Bifrost * i’ th’ east shone forth in brightest green ; 


The Sun, dismayed, hastened in clouds to hide; 
Heimdal turned his head aside ; 
Thor was humbled in his pride. 


The knife prevails, far down beneath the main 
The serpent, spent with toil and pain, 
To the bottom sank again. 


The giant fled, his head ’mid rocks to save ; 
Fearfully the god did rave, 
With his lightnings tore the wave : 


To madness stung, to think his conquest vain, 
His ire no. longer could contain, 
Dared the worm to rise again. 


His radiant form to its full height he drew, 
And MiolIner through the billows blue 
Swifter than the fire-bolt flew. 


Hoped, yet, the worm had fallen beneath the 
stroke ; 

But the wily child of Loke 

Waits her turn at Ragnarok. 


His hammer lost, back wends the giant-bane, 
Wasted his strength, his prowess vain ; 
And Midlner must with Ran remain. 


THE DWARFS. 


Lox sat and thought, till his dark eyes gleam 
With joy at the deed he ’d done; 

When Sif looked into the crystal stream, 
Her courage was well-nigh gone. 


For never again her soft amber hair 
Shall she braid with her hands of snow ; 


2 The rainbow. 


From the hateful image she turned in despair, 
And hot tears began to flow. 


In a cavern’s mouth, like a crafty fox, 
Loke sat, ’neath the tall pine’s shade, 
When sudden a thundering was heard in the 
rocks, 


And fearfully trembled the glade. 


Then he knew that the noise good boded him 
naught, 
He knew that ’t was Thor who was coming; 
He changed himself straight to a salmon-trout, 
And leaped in a fright in the Glommen. 


But Thor changed, too, to a huge sea-gull, 
And the salmon-trout seized in his beak : 

He cried, “* Thou traitor, I know thee well, 
And dear shalt thou pay thy freak. 


“Thy caitifi’s bones to a meal I'll pound, 
As a mill-stone crusheth the grain.”’ 

When Loke that naught booted his magie found, 
He took straight his own form again. 


«© And what if thou scatter’st my limbs in air?” 
He spake: *¢ Will it mend thy case ? 
Will it gain back for Sif a single hair? 

Thou ‘lt still a bald spouse embrace. 


“ But if now thou “It pardon my heedless joke, — 
For malice, sure, meant I none, — 

_ [ swear to thee here, by root, billow, and rock, 

| By the moss on the Bauta-stone, ! 


“¢ By Mimer’s well, and by Odin’s eye, 
And by Midlner, greatest of all; 

That straight to the secret caves I ’ll hie, 
To the dwarfs, my kinsmen small : 


“And thence for Sif new tresses I ’Il bring 
Of gold, ere the daylight’s gone, 
So that she shall liken a field in spring, 


With its yellow-flowered garment on.” 


| 

| 

Him answered Thor: “Why, thou brazen 
knave, 

To my face to mock me dost dare? 


Thou know’st well that Midlner is now ’neath 
the wave 
With Ran, and wilt still by it swear?” 


‘OQ, a better hammer for thee I'll obtain,” 
And he shook like an aspen-tree, 
“’Fore whose stroke, shield, buckler, and 
greave shall be vain, 
And the giants with terror shall flee ! ”’ 


“‘ Not so,” cried Thor, and his eyes flashed 
fire ; 
‘Thy base treason calls loud for blood ; 
And hither I’m come, with my sworn brother 
Freyr, 
To make thee of ravens the food. 


’ 


1 Stones placed over the tombs of distinguished warriors. 


DANISH POETRY. | 


hair, 
And Freyr of thy heels behind, , 
And thy lustful body to atoms we ‘Il tear, 
And scatter thy limbs to the wind.” 
‘OQ, spare me, Freyr, thou great-souled king!” 
And, weeping, he kissed his feet ; 
‘““O, mercy! and thee I'll a courser bring, 
No match in the wide world shall meet. 


‘© Without whip or spur round the earth you 
shall ride ; 
He ’ll ne’er weary by day nor by night ; 
He shall carry you safe o’er the raging tide, 
And his golden hair furnish you light.” 


Loke promised so well with his glozing tongue, 
That the Aser at length let him go, 

And he sank in the earth, the dark rocks among, 
Near the cold-fountain, ? far below. 


He crept on his belly, as supple as eel, 
The cracks in the hard granite through, 
Till he came where the dwarfs stood hammer. 
ing steel, 
By the light of a furnace blue. 


I trow ’t was a goodly sight to see 
The dwarfs, with their aprons on, 
A-hammering and smelting so busily 
Pure gold from the rough brown stone. 


Rock crystals from sand and hard flint they made, 
Which, tinged with the rosebud’s dye, 

They cast into rubies and carbuncles red, 
And hid them in cracks hard by. 


' 
“¢T ’ll take hold of thine arms and thy coal-black 
They took them fresh violets all dripping with 

dew, — 

Dwarf women had plucked them, the morn,— 
And stained with their juice the clear sapphires | 

blue, 

King Dan in his crown since hath worn. | 
Then, for emeralds, they searched out the bright- 

est green 

Which the young spring meadow wears, 
And dropped round pearls, without flaw or stain, 

From widows’ and maidens’ tears. 


And all round the cavern might plainly be shown 
Where giants had once been at play ; 
For the ground was with heaps of huge muscle- 
shells strewn, 
And strange fish were marked in the clay. 


Here an icthyosaurus stood out from the wall, 
There monsters ne’er told of in story, 

Whilst hard by the Nix in the waterfall 
Sang wildly the days of their glory. 


Here bones of the mammoth and mastodon, 
And serpents with wings and with claws; 


2 Hvergemler. 


a 


The elephant’s tusks from the burning zone 
Are small to the teeth in their jaws. 


When Loke to the dwarfs had his errand made 
known, 
In a trice for the work they were ready ; 
Quoth Dvalin: “O Loptur, it now shall be 
shown 
That dwarfs in their friendship are steady. 


‘We both trace our line from the selfsame 
stock ; 
What you ask shall be furnished with speed, 
For it ne’er shall be said that the sons of the 
« rock 
Turned their backs on a kinsman in need.” 


Then they took them the skin of a large wild- 
boar, 
The largest that they could find, 
And the bellows they blew till the furnace ’gan 
roar 
And the fire flamed on high for the wind. 


And they struck with their sledge-hammers 
stroke on stroke, 
That the sparks from the skin flew on high ; 
But never a word good or bad spake Loke, 
Though foul malice lurked in his eye. 


The Thunderer far distant, with sorrow he 
thought 
On all he ’d engaged to obtain, 
And, as summer-breeze fickle, now anxiously 
sought 
To render the dwarfs’ labor vain. 


Whilst the bellows plied Brokur, and Sindrig 
the hammer, 
And Thror, that the sparks flew on high, 
And the sides of the vaulted cave rang with the 
clamor, 
Loke changed to a huge forest-fly. 


And he sat him, all swelling with venom and 
spite, 
On Brokur, the wrist just below ; 
But the dwarf’s skin was thick, and he recked 
not the bite, 
Nor once ceased the bellows to blow. 


And now, strange to tell, from the roaring fire 
Came the golden-haired Gullinbdrst, 

| To serve as a charger the sun-god Freyr, 

Sure, of all wild-boars this the first. 


They took them pure gold from their secret store, 
The piece ’t was but small in size, 

But ere ’t had been long in the furnace roar, 
"T was a jewel beyond all prize. 


A broad red ring all of wroughten gold; 
As a snake with its tail in its head ; 
And a garland of gems did the rim enfold, 


16 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


on an pa oat maa oy aoe ee a EE SEES INE ULE NRL eek ee OE OAT 


121 


"T was solid and heavy, and wrought with care, 
Thrice it passed through the white flames’ 
glow ; 
A ring to produce, fit for Odin to wear, 
No labor they spared, I trow. 


They worked it and turned it with wondrous 
skill, 
Till they gave it the virtue rare, 
That each thrice third night from its rim there 
fell 
Hight rings, as their parent fair. 


’'T was the same with which Odin sanctified 
God Balder’s and Nanna’s faith ; 

On his gentle bosom was Draupner ? laid, 
When their eyes were closed in death. 


Next they laid on the anvil a steel-bar cold, 
They needed nor fire nor file ; 
But their sledge-hammers, following, like thun- 
der rolled, 
And Sindrig sang runes the while. 


When Loke now marked how the steel gat 
power, 
And how warily out ’t was beat 
("T was to make a new hammer for Auka-Thor), 
He ’d recourse once again to deceit. 


In a trice, of a hornet the semblance he took, 
Whilst in cadence fell blow on blow, 
In the leading dwarf’s forehead his barbed sting 
he stuck, 
That the blood in a stream down did flow. 


Then the dwarf raised his hand to his brow, 
for the smart, 
Ere the iron well out was beat, 
And they found that the haft by an inch was 
too short, 
But to alter it then ’t was too late. 


Now a small elf came running with gold on his 
head, 
Which he gave a dwarf-woman to spin, 
Who the metal like flax on her spinning-wheel 
laid, 
Nor tarried her task to begin. 


So she span and span, and the gold thread ran 
Into hair, though Loke thought it a pity ; 
She span, and sang to the sledge-hammer’s clang 

This strange, wild spinning-wheel ditty : 


‘¢ Henceforward her hair shall the tall Sif wear, 
Hanging loose down her white neck behind; 

By no envious braid shall it captive be made, 
But in native grace float in the wind. 


‘¢ No swain shall it view in the clear heaven’s 
blue, 


But his heart in its toils shall be lost; 


3 The name of Odin’s famous ring. 


| Together with rare art laid. 


= 


ee Se gat 


a 


53 


me tee 
ae 


= 
Ts 


ee 
ry 


122 


No goddess, not e’en beauty’s faultless queen,* 
Such long glossy ringlets shall boast. 


“Though they now seem dead, let them touch 
but her head, 
Each hair shall the life-moisture fill ; 
Nor shall malice nor spell henceforward prevail 
Sif’s tresses to work aught of ill.” 


His object attained, Loke no longer remained 
"Neath the earth, but straight hied him to 
Thor ; 


Who owned than the hair ne’er, sure, aught | 


more fair 
His eyes had e’er looked on before. 


The boar Freyr bestrode, and away proudly 
rode, 
And Thor took the ringlets and hammer ; 
To Valhalla they hied, where the Aser reside, 
’Mid of tilting and wassail the clamor. 


Ata full, solemn ting,> Thor gave Odin the 
ring, 
And Loke his foul treachery pardoned ; 
But the pardon was vain, for his crimes soon 
again 
Must do penance the arch-sinner hardened. 


THE BARD. 


O, crEatT was Denmark’s land in time of old! 
Wide to the South her branch of glory spread ; 

Fierce to the battle rushed her heroes bold, 
Eager to join the revels of the dead : 

While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold 
Round her returning warrior’s vesture red 

Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired, 

When to the breast of love, exhausted, he re- 

tired. 


Nor bore they only to the field of death 

‘The bossy buckler and the spear of fire ; 
The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath, 

His bold heart quivering as he swept the wire, 
And poured his notes, amidst the ensanguined 

heath, 

While panting thousands kindled at his lyre: 
Then shone the eye with greater fury fired, 
Then clashed the glittering mail, and the proud 

foe retired. 


And when the memorable day was past, 
And Thor triumphant on his people smiled, 
The actions died not with the day they graced ; 
The bard embalmed them in his descant wild, 
And their hymned names, through ages unef- 
. faced, 
The weary hours of future Danes beguiled: 
When even their snowy bones had mouldered 
long, 


On the high column lived the imperishable song. 


4 Freya. 5 Public meeting. 


DANISH POETRY. 


And the impetuous harp resounded high 
With feats of hardiment done far and wide, 
While the bard soothed with festive minstrelsy 
The chiefs, reposing after battle-tide : 
Nor would stern themes alone his hand employ ; 
He sang the virgin’s sweetly tempered pride, 
And hoary eld, and woman’s gentle cheer, 
And Denmark’s manly hearts, to love and 
friendship dear. 


eee 


LINES ON LEAVING ITALY. 


Oncr more among the old gigantic hills 
With vapors clouded o’er ; 

The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, 
The rocks ascend before. 


They beckon me, the giants, from afar, 
They wing my footsteps on; 

Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 
Their cuirasses of stone. 


My heart beats high, my breath comes freer 
forth, — 
Why should my heart be sore? 
I hear the eagle and the vulture’s ery, 
The nightingale’s no more. 


Where is the laurel, where the myrtle’s blos- 
som? 
Bleak is the path around: . 
Where from the thicket comes the ringdove’s 
cooing ? 
Hoarse is the torrent’s sound. 


Yet should I ‘grieve, when from my loaded 
bosom 
A weight appears to flow? 
Methinks the Muses come to call me home 
From yonder rocks of snow. 


I know not how, — but in yon land of roses 
9 Py, 
My heart was heavy still 
5 Dl Meats: 
I startled at the warbling nightingale 
2 e os) tao} ? 
The zephyr on the hill. 


They said, the stars shone with a softer gleam, — 
It seemed not so to me ; 

In vain a scene of beauty beamed around, 
My thoughts were o’er the sea. 


eee 


THE MORNING WALK. 


To the beech-grove with so sweet an air 
It beckoned me. 

O earth! that never the cruel ploughshare 
Had furrowed thee ! 

In their dark shelter the flowerets grew, 
Bright to the eye, 

And smiled by my foot on the cloudlets blue 
Which decked the sky. 


O lovely field, and forest fair, 
And meads grass-clad ! 

Her bride-bed Freya everywhere 
Enamelled had. 

The corn-flowers rose in azure band ° 
From earthy cell ; 

Naught else could I do, but stop and stand 

And greet them well. 


? 


‘¢ Welcome on earth’s green breast again, 
Ye flowerets dear ! 

In spring how charming ’mid the grain 
Your heads ye rear ! 

Like stars ’midst lightning’s yellow ray 
Ye shine, red, blue: 

, how your summer aspect gay 

Delights my view!” 


“QO poet! poet! silence keep, — 
God help thy case! 

Our owner holds us sadly cheap, 
And scorns our race. 

Each time he sees, he calls us scum, 
Or worthless tares, 

Hell-weeds, that. but to vex him come 
"Midst his corn-ears.”’ 


° ° . . 


‘¢O wretched mortals !— O wretched man! — 


O wretched crowd ! — 

No pleasures | ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan, 
In life’s lone road, — 
Whose eyes are blind 6 the 

Of the works of God, 
And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate 
To joy’s abode. 


glories great 


‘¢ Come, flowers! for 
Come, graceful elf! 

And ar gaara my lute in sympathy strong 
Now wind thyself; 

And quake as if moved by Zephyr’s wing, 
"Neath the clang of the chord, 

And a morning song cavith glee we ’ll sing 


To our Maker nik Tae ? 


——— ae 


BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN. 


Bernuarp Severin InGemann was born in 
1789, in the island of Falster. He has written 
patriotic songs, an epic poem called “The Black 
Knights,” an allegoric poem in nine cantos, 
and several tragedies, the best known of which 
are’ *¢ Masaniello’’ and “ Blanca.’’ He is also 
a voluminous prose-writer, having published a 
series of historical romances, in the manner 
of Walter Scott, illustrating the medieval his- 
tory of Denmark. One of his best novels, 
*¢ Waldemar,” was skilfully and elegantly trans- 
lated into English, by Miss J. F. Chapman, and 
published in London in 1841. Since then, 
another, “‘ King Eric and the Outlaws,” has ap- 
peared from the same able pen. His preface 
to “Prince Otto of Denmark,” which accom- 


INGEMANN. 


we to each other belong ; 


Two monarchs are battling there 
And Danish victories Danes o’erwhelm. 

On Slangerup lea, and on Thorstrup hill, 
Two summers, the ravens have 
And on Viborg plain, 


Loud screaming 


East Zealand is but a robber’s den, 


123 


panies the translation of “ Waldemar,” is an 
interesting exposition of the principles accord- 
ing to which his works are composed. His 
poem of “ Waldemar the Great and his Men ”’ 
goes back for its subject to the middle of the 
twelfth century. The two. kings, Swend of 
J mB) 
Zealand, and Knud Magnusson of Jutland, be- || 
tween whom Denmark was divided, “ were at 
war with each other, and at the s same time con- 
stantly engaged, Swend particularly, in defend- 
ing the coasts against the piratical hostilities of 
the heathen Vends. Prince Magnus, the father 
of King Knud, had murdered Duke Knud La- 
vard of the Skioldung race, from whence the 
kings of Denmark were usually, not to say he- 
reditarily, elected; and the young Duke Walde- 
mar, posthumous son of the murdered Knud, 
ranked with all his personal friends and adhe- 
rents amongst the supporters of King Swend, 
although the sovereign of Zealand was in every 
respect the worse of the rivals. The poem 
opens with the arrival in Denmark of Walde- 
mar’s friend Axel Hwide, recalled from his 
studies in more civilized lands by the tidings of || 
domestic and foreign war.” * 


PROGRESS OF AXEL HWIDE. 


+ 


*T 1s Epiphany night, and echoes a sound 

In Haraldsted wood from the hard frozen ground. 

Loud snort three steeds in the wintry blast, 

While under their hoof-dint the snow crackles 
fast. 

On his neighing charger, with shield and sword, 

Is cian tadaa a valiant Sad lofty lord; 

A clerk and a squire his steps attend, 

And their course towards Roskild the travellers 
bend : 


But distant is Denmark’s morning ! 


Silent the leader of the band 
Rides, sorrowing, through his native land. | 
Skjalm Hwide’s peankignes bold and true, 
No more his studies shall pursue 
In foreign university ; 
Of wit and lore the guerdon high 
No longer can he proudly gain ; 
Needs must be home the loyal Dane: 
For distant is Denmark’s morning ! 


A learned man Sir Axel. was thought; | 

But he dropped his book, and his sword he jj 
caught, 

When tidings arrived from Denmark’s strand 

That the wolves of discord devoured the land. 

for the realm, 


over belt, over bay, 


on Danish dead they prey : 


65) 


eaten their fill; | 
| 
| 
! 


t 
| 
Tee 
| 


* Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XXI., p. 133. 


124 


Vends are lurking in forest and glen ; 

Women and men are the Vikings’ prey, 

Dragged thence to slavery far away. 

King Knud to his aid summons Saxon men; — 

In Roskild King Swend is arming again ; 

And proudly, amidst his Zealand hosts, 

Of Asbiorn Snare! and Duke Waldemar boasts. 

Thither his banner bears Axel Hwide, 

His two-handed sword belted fast at his side ; 

On his breast the cuirass of steel shines bright, 

And his gray Danish steed bears him glad for 
the fight. 

His ermined cloak falls wide and low, 

His batile-axe hangs at his saddle-bow, 

The golden spurs ou his buff boots ring, 

On his shield the golden hart seems to spring. 

As king he shows, and all who meet 

Sir Axel reverently greet. 

But they who beneath the helm of gold 

Might in his eyes his soul behold, 

The tranquil inward energy 

Holding with Heaven communion high, 

Had deemed in princely warrior’s pride 

They saw the church’s champion ride, 

Seeking, amidst the wars of kings, 

But the pure peace religion brings. 


By Axel’s side in thoughtful guise, 
Bent o’er the saddle-bow, 

Mute rides his penman, o’er his eyes 
His clerkly hood drawn low. 

That penman’s sunk and sallow cheek, 
Seen in the pale moonlight, 

The scholar’s lamp-lt toil may speak 
Through many a winter’s night. 
Well versed was he in lettered lore, 

Far Jess in chivalry ; 
His horse’s side, like mounted boor, 
With heel belabors he. 


Stranger shows the henchman good, 
On his bead a seal-skin hood ; 
Old Arnold, to his lord endeared, 
With bear-skin cloak and shaggy beard, 
With club, with dagger on his thigh, 
And flag on lance-point waving high, 
Muscular and short and stark, 
Follows knight and lettered clerk. 
Legends he of former days 
Knows, and loves to chant the lays 
Sung by Skalds long dead. 
Learning he but ill abides, 
Dust of cloistered lore derides, 
Shakes at schools his head. 
But the seer’s sad gift has he: 
Deep as the mysterious sea 
Oft the old man’s spirit swells; 
Then upon his vision loom 
Dark the sinner’s threatening doom, 
Woe that in the future dwells. 
Warnings dread his accents tell, 
As torrent roars from Northland-fell. 


1 The twin brother of Axel Hwide. 


DANISH POETRY. 


EXTRACT FROM MASANIELLO. 


MASANIELLO, MAD, IN THE CHURCH-YARD. 
[The church-yard of St. Maria del Carmino.—An open 
grave, and a skeleton on the side of it. — Moonlight.] 
MASANIELLO (alone). 

DARKER it grows at every step I take ; 


Soon, then, must it be wholly night.— So long 
The deepening clouds have hung around my 
brow, 


Scarce can I recollect how looked of yore 

The smiling face of day! Yet unto light 

Through darkness must we pass,—’t is but 
transition ! — 

Perhaps, perhaps But dreadful is that hour ! 

W ould it were past ! — (Looking back.) I am not 
here alone! 

Still follow me, tried countrymen and friends ! 

Our march is through a darksome country here,— 


But light ere long will dawn.— Ha! now look 
there! [With gladness, on perceiving the grave. 


Look, and rejoice! We had gone far astray : 
But here, at last, a friendly port awaits us, — 
An inn of rest. I was already tired, 
And sought for shelter ; — now I find this hut. 
Truly, ’t is somewhat dusky, low, and narrow ; 
No matter! *T'is enough,— we want no more. 
[Observes the skeleton. 
Ha, ha! here lies the owner of the cottage, 
And soundly sleeps. — Holla! wake up, my 
friend ! — ) 
How worn he looks! How hollow are his 
cheeks ! 
Hu! and how pale, when moonlight gleams 
upon him! 
He has upon our freedom thought so deeply, 
And on the blood which it would cost, that he 
Is turned himself to naked joints and bones. 
[Shakes the skeleton. 
Friend! may I go into thy hut awhile, 
And rest me there? Thou seest that I am 
weary, — 
Yet choose not like thyself to lay me down, 
And bask here in the moonshine.— He is silent.— 
Yet hark!— There was a sound, —a strange 
vibration, 
That touched me like a spirit’s cooling wing! 
Who whispered thus ?— Haply it was the wind ; 
Or was it he who spoke so? He, perchance, 
Has lost his voice too, by long inward strife, 
And whispers thus, even like the night-wind’s 
rustling. [Looks round, surprised. 
Ha, ha! Masaniello, thou ’rt deceived ! 
This is a grave; this man is dead; and here 
Around thee are the realms of death. How 
strangely 
One’s senses are beguiled ! — Hush, hush! 
[Music of the choir from the church, 


Who sings 

In tones so deep and hollow ‘mid the graves ? 
It seems as if night-wandering spirits woke 

A death-song.— Ha! there ’s light, too, in the 


church ; 
I shall go there and pray. Long time has past, 
And I have wandered fearfully ; my heart | 
Is now so heavy, I must pray ! j 


[Exit into the church. 


- 
| 


H 
} 


wad 


|‘ ccmreeeeetsheteetasranesenctenecesenammnsmimemen esate caer eoae oe ee EEF IT IIE TEES NS EIT 


INGEMANN. 


THE ASPEN. 


Waar whispers so strange, at the hour of mid- 
night, 
From ihe aspen’s leaves trembling so wildly? 
Why in the lone wood sings it wt when the 
bright 
Full-moon beams upon it so mildly ? 


It soundeth as ’mid the harp-strings the wind- 
gust, 

Or like sighs of ghosts wandering in sorrow ; 

In the meadow the small flowers hear it, and 
must 

With tears close themselves till the morrow. 


“¢Q, tell me, poor wretch, why thou shiverest 
so, — 
Why the moans of distraction thou pourest ; 
Say, can thy heart harbour repentance and woe ? 
Can sin reach the child of the forest?” 
“Yes,” sighed forth the tremulous voice, — 
‘‘ for thy race 
Has not alone fallen from its station ; 
Not alone art thou seeking for comfort and 
grace, 
Nor alone art thou called to salvation. 


‘TI ve heard, too, the voice, which, with heaven 
reconciled, 
The earth to destruction devoted ; 
But the storm from my happiness hurried me 
wild, 
Though round me joy’s melodies floated. 
*¢ By Kedron I stood, and the bright beaming 
eye 
I viewed of the pitying Power; 
Each tree bowed its head, as the Saviour passed 
by, 
But I deigned not my proud head to lower. 
‘“‘] towered to the cloud, whilst the lilies sang 
sweet, 
And the rose bent its stem in devotion ; 
I strewed not my leaves ’fore the Holy. ‘Onels 
feet, 
Nor bough nor twig set I in motion. 


“‘ Then sounded a sigh from the Saviour’s breast ; 

And I quaked, for that sigh through me dart- 
ed ; 

‘Quake so till I come!’ 


Blest ; 
My repose then for ever Ge parend 


said the voice of the 


“ And now must I tremble by night and by day, 
For me there no moment of ease is; 

I must sigh with regret in such dolorous way, 
Whilst each floweret can smile when it pleases. 


*¢ And tremble shall I till the Last Day arrive, 
And I view the Redeemer returning ; 

My sorrow and punishment long will survive, 
Till the world shall in blazes be burning.” 


125 


So whispers the doomed one at midnight 5 its 
tone 
Is that of ghosts wandering in.sorrow ; 
The small flow ers hear it within the wood lone, 
And with tears close themselves till the mor- 
row. 


DAME MARTHA’S FOUNTAIN. 


Dame Marrua dwelt at Karisegaard, 
So many kind deeds she wrought : 

If the winter were sharp, and the ei man hard, 
Her gate the indigent sought. 


With her hand the hungry she loved to feed, 
To the sick she lent aie aid, 

The prisoner oft from his chains she freed, 
And for souls of sinners she prayed. 


But Denmark’s land was in peril dire : 
The Swede around burnt and slew, 

The castle of Martha they wrapped in fire ; 
To the church the good lady flew. 


She dwelt in the tower both nigh 
There unto her none repaired ; 

"Neath the church-roof sat the dull owl gray, 
And upon the good lady glared. 


t and day, 


And in the Lord’s house she dwelt safe and 
content, 
Till the foes their departure had ta’en ; 
Then back to her castle in ruins she went, 


And bade it be builded again, 


There found the houseless a cover once more, 
And the mouths of the hungry bread ; 

But all in Karise by! wept sore, 
As soon as Dame Martha was dead. 


And when the Dame lay in her coffin and smiled 
So calm with her pallid face, 

there was never so little a child 

But was brought on her to gaze! 


O, 


The bell on the day of the burial tolled, 
And youth and age shed the tear; 
And there was no man so weak and old 

But helped to lift the bier, 


And when they the bier set down for a space, 
And rested upon the church road, 

A fountain sprang forth in that very same place, 
And there to this hour has it flowed. 


God bless for ever the pious soul! 
Her blessings no lips can tell: 
Oft straight have the sick become sound and 
whole, 
Who ’ve drank at Dame Martha’s well. 


The tower yet stands with the gloomy nook, 
Where Dame Martha sat of old; 

Oft comes a stranger thereon to look, 
And with joy hears the story told. 


1 Lv illage. 


Tur Swedish language, like the Danish, is 
a daughter of the Old Norse, or Icelandic, and 
began to assume a separate character at the 
same period. Petersen * divides its history into 
four periods, corresponding very nearly with 
those in the history of the Danish language : 
1. Oldest Swedish, from 1100 till 1250 ; ihe, 
Older Swedish, fiown aoe till 1400; 3. Old 
Swedish, from 1400 till 1527; 4. Modern Swe- 
dish, a 1527 till 1700. 

The Swedish is the most musical of the Scan- 
dinavian languages, its pronunciation being re- 
markably soft and agreeable. In single words 
and phrases it bears much resemblance to the 
English, as, for instance, in the old song, 


** Adam och Eva 

Baka stora lefva ; 

Nar Adam var dod 

Baka Eva mindre brod ’’: f 
which is, in English, 

** Adam and Eve 

Baked great loaves ; 

When Adam was dead 

Baked Eve less bread.?’ 
It is said, also, that a Dalekarlian boy, who 
visited England in the suite of a Swedish am- 
bassador, was able to converse with English 
peasants from the northern parts of the coun- 
try. t , 

The principal dialects of the Swedish are: 
1. The Ostrogothic ; 2. The Vestrogothic ; 3. 
The Smiiland ; 4. The Scanian; 5. The Up- 
land; 6. The Norn d ; 7. The Dalekarlian. § 
The Dalekarlian is subdivided into the three 
dialects of Elfdal, Mora, and Orsa. The Dal- 
karls are the Swedish Highlanders. Inhal iting 
that secluded region wh ich stretches rented 
from the Sian Lake to the Alps of Norway, 
they have preserved comparatively unchanged 
the manners, customs, and language of their 
Gothic forefathers. ‘+ Here,” says Serenius, || 
“Care the only remains in Sweden of the ancient 
Gothic stock, whereof the aspiration of the let- 
ters 1 and w teats witness upon their tongues, 
an infallible characteristic of the Mcso- Gothic. 


* Det Danske, Norske, og Svenske Sprogs Historie, af 
H. M. Perersen. 2 vols. Copenhagen: 1829. 12mo. 

+ Sven Utterunp. Dissertatio Philologica de Dialectis 
Ling. Sviogoth. Upsalize: 1756. Pars Tertia, p. 8. 


t Nasman. Historiola Linguze Dalekarlice. _Upsalie: 
1733. p. 17. 

§ Sven Hor. Dialectus Vestrogothica. Stockholm: 1772. 
p. 15. 


|| J. Serenrus’s English and Swedish Dictionary, 4 


Nykoping: 1757. Pref. p, ili. 


Anglo-Saxon, and Icelandic.”’ In another place, 
speaking of the guttural or aspirated /, he says: 
‘¢ Germans and Danes cannot pronounce it, no 
more than the aspirated w; for which reason 
this was a fatal letter three hundred years ago 
in these emcaen’ when Engelbrect, a born Dal- 
karl, set-it up for a shibboleth, and whoever 
could not say Hividd vest 2 kornaulff? was tak- 
en for a foreigner, because he could not aspi- 
rate the w, nor utter the guttural J.”* It is 
even asserted, that, with their ancient customs 
and language, the Dalkarls long preserved the 
use of the old Runic alphabet; alt from 
feelings of religious superstition, it was prohib- 
ited by Olaf Shatkonung at the beginning of the 
eleventh century, and discontinued i in all other 
parts of Sweden. This is mentioned on the au- 
thority of Nisman, who wrote in the first half 
of the last century. t 

Hammarsk6ld, in his ‘History of Swedish 
Literature,’’{ divides the subject into six epochs: 
1. The Ancient Catholic period, from the earli- 
est times to the Reformation ; 2. The Lutheran 
period, from 1520 to 1640; 3. The Stjern- 
hjelmian period, from 1640 to 1730; 4. The 
Dalinian period, from 1730 to 1778; 5. The 
Kellgrenian period, from 1778 to 1795; 6. 
The Leopoldian period, from 1795 to. 1810. 
These titles, it will be perceived, are taken 
chiefly from distinguished writers who gave a 
character to the literature of their times. In 
the following sketch of Swedish poetry the 
same divisions will be preserved. 

I. The Ancient Catholic period. To this 
period belong the translations of some of the 
old romances of King Arthur and Charle- 
magne, known under the title of “ Drottning 
Euphemias Visor’’ (Songs of the Queen Eu- 
phemia), the translations having been made by 
her direction. Here, too, we find that character- 
istic specimen of monkish lore, “The Soul’s 
Complaint of the Body,” translated from the 


hough, 


Latin. § More important documents of these 
* Ibid. p. ii. 
+ Nasman. Historiola Lingue Dalekarlice. 4to. Up- 


salice: 1733. vp. 30. 

For a further account of the Swedish,!Danish, and Ice- 
landic, see Boswortn’s Dictionary of the Anglo- Saxon 
Language: London, 1838: Preface;—and MeErmincEr’s 
Dictionnaire des Langues Teutogothiques: Frankfort, 1833: 
Introduction. 

t Svenska Vitterheten, Historiskt-Kritiska Antecknin- 
gar, af L. HammarsxK6LD. Andra Upplagen, 6fversedd och 
utgifven af P. A. Sonpan. Stockholm: 1833. 

§ The original of this poem, which is found in some form 
or other in nearly all the languages of Western Europe, and 


which seems to have been so popular during the Middle 


——— 


\ ‘ Denna tan Veret est 


peesietnnedibemnesecetennsocinneniareniceeas esther cee ee en en 


SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


eases 


127 


olden times are the two rhymed chronicles, the 
“Stora Rim-Chronikan” (Chronicon Rythmi- 
cum Majus), and the “ Gamla och Minsta Rim- 
Chronikan,’’ which have lately been republish- 
ed by Fant.* But the most valuable remains 
of these early ages are their popular ballads, 
two collections of which have been given to 
the public in our own day. The first, by Gei- 
jer and Afzelius, contains one hundred ballads; 
and the second, by Arwidsson, a still greater 
number. t 

These ballads bear a strong resemblance to 
the Danish, and many of them are but different 
versions of the same. ‘The king is sitting by 
his broad board,” says Geijer, in his Preface, 
‘and is served by knights and swains, who 
bear round wine and mead. Instead of chairs, 
we find benches covered with cushions, or, as 
they are called in the ballads, mattresses (bel- 
strar, bolsters, long pillows); whence comes 
the expression, ‘sitta pd. bolstrarna bla’ (on the 
blue cushions seated). Princesses and noble 
virgins bear crowns of gold and silver; gold 
rings, precious belts, and gold or silver-clasped 
shoes, are also named as their ornaments. They 
dwell in the highest rooms, separate from the 
men, and their maidens share their chambers 
and their bed. From the high bower-stair see 
they the coming of the stranger-knight, and how 
he in the castle-yard taketh upon him his fine 
cloak, — may be of precious skins, — or discover 
out at sea the approaching v ensal and recognize 
by the flags, which their own hands have broid- 
ered, that a lover draweth nigh. The dress of 
the higher class is adorned with furs of the 

sable and the ia ham and they are distinguished 
‘es wearing scarlet, a general name for any finer 
or more precious cloth (for the ballads call it 
sometimes red and sometimes green or blue), 
as opposed e vadmal (serge, coarse woollens), 
the clothing of the poorer sort. Both men and 
women ale upon the harp, and affect dice and 
tables; song and adventure are a pastime loved 
by all in common; and oceariondlly. the men 
amuse themselves at their leisure with knightly 
exercise in the castle-yard. Betrothals are first 
decided between the families, if every thing 
follows its usual course ; but love often destroys 
this order, and the knight takes his beloved 
upon his saddle-bow, and gallops off with her 
to his bridal home. Cars are spoken of as the 
vehicle of ladies; and from an old Danish bal- 
lad, in which a Danish Hpeines ss who has ar- 


Ages, is, by some writers, attributed to Saint Bernard, anu 
by others to the hermit Philibert. It was translated into 
English by William Crashaw., father of the distinguished 
poet, and published (London, 1616) under the title of ‘‘ The 
Complaint, or Dialogue betwixt the Soul and the Bodie of a 
Damned Man.’’ A few stanzas of it may be found in Honn’s 
** Ancient Mysteries,”’ p. L9L. 

* Scriptores Rerum Svecicarum Medii 
E. M. Fant. lege 181 18, folio. Vol. 1. 

+ Svenska Folk-Visor fran Forntiden, samlade och ut- 


JEvi. Edidit 


gifne af E. G. nin och A. A. Arzetius. 3 vols. Stock- 
holm: 1814-16. Svenska Fornsanger, utgifne af A. J. 
Arwipsson. 8vo. Stockholm: 1834. 2 vols. 


rived in Sweden laments that she must pursue 
her journey on horseback, we see that their use 
did not reach Sweden so early. Violent court- 
ships, club law, and the revenge of blood, &c., 
which, however, could often be atoned by fines 
to the avenger, are common. . We cannot 
help remarking. also, that the popular ballads 
almost constantly relate to high and noble per- 


sons. If kings and knights are not always 
mentioned, still we perpetually hear of sirs, 


ladies, and fair noe ded which, accord- 
ing to old usage, could only be properly em- 
ployed of the gentry. We will not, it is true, 
assert that the old songs have preserved any 

stinction of rank; but in the mean time this 
will prove that their subjects are taken from 
the higher and more illustrious Their 
manners are those chiefly represented, and the 
liveliness of the coloring necessarily excites the 
supposition that they spring from thence. On 
the other side, again, they have been and re- 
main native among the common people as 
if they had been born among them. All this 
leads us back to times when as yet the classes 
of s not assumed any mutually inimi- 
cal contrast to each other, when nobility was 
as yet the living lustre fromm b oright deeds rather 
than from remote Ey Sub and when, there- 
fore, it as yet belonged to the people, and was 
regarded as the national flower and glory. 


classes. 


as 


roa 
t=) 
2 
a 


ociety had 


Such a time we have had; and he only cannot 
discover it who by transplanting into 
history all the aristocratical and demecratical 
party-ideas of a later time. Further, we 
find in the old ballads that there is not only no 
hate of class, also no national hate, among 
the Northern peoples. This explains how it is 
that they are so much in common to the whole 
North this community of 


begins 


but 


sentiment extends 


1] 99% 


, and 
} 


itself even ie the ancient historical songs. 
If. The Lutheran Period, from 1520 to 1640. 


the North 


my 


tion gave the minds of 
and a new ine 
poets drew. their inspiration, was, 
from religious themes. The whole century re- 
sounds with psalms.t From “A Little Song- 
Book to be used in Churches ” (Een liten Song- 
Book til at bruka «1 Kyrkionne),/down to Gy ae 
Jenhjelm’s * Psa ste ter in Rhyme,” and the hymns 
of Gustavus Adolphus, there unbroken 
strain of sacred music. Secular matters, how- 
ever, were not wholly neglected ; for the period 
produced its due proportion of rhymed chron- 
icles, and ends with a translation of the well 
known German poem of “Reynard the Fox” 
(Reyncke Foss). 

To this period belongs also the origin of the 
The oauliont specimen is the 


See 


The Sede 


a new directi 


impulse i0n. 


such as it \ 


is an 


Swedish drama. 


* GeisER’s Swedish Ballads, Vol. I. pp. 39, 41, 42. 
Foreign Quarterly Review for April, 1840. 

t “To count them all,’? says Héemanx in his Psalmo- 
pxographi, ‘‘ would be as impossible as to count the stars 
in heaven or measure the sands on the sea-shore.’? See 
Sveriges Skéna Litteratur, af P. WresELeREN. Lund: 1833, 


Vol. I. p. 143. 


Ree ieee Se 


128 


“Tobie Comedia” of Olaus Petri, published 
in the year 1550. In his Preface, the author 
says, ‘¢ Now they that have a desire unto rhyme 
and such like song, they may read this comedy ; 
but they who havé more desire for simple dis- 
course, they may read the same Tobias-book in 
the Bible.’ The following extract may not be 
unacceptable to the lovers of the drama. 


YOUNG TOBIAS (to the angel). 
Azariah, dear brother, wilt thou here stay ? 
In the water I will wash my feet straightway. 


YOUNG TOBIAS (to the angel). 
Help! help! Azariah, that pray I thee, 
For this great fish will eat up me. 

THE ANGEL. 

Into his gills thou thrust thy hand, 
And drag him with might upon the land; 
Hew him asunder, and do not quake: 
His gall and liver shalt thou take ; 
They are a great medicine, for thy behoof, 
As the time cometh well, when thou shalt have proof. 


TOBIAS. 
Azariah, my brother, now tell unto me, 
What sickness can be healed by this remedie ? 


THE ANGEL. 
The smoke of the heart can spirits put to flight, 
The gall take away every film from the sight. 


TOBIAS. 


Azariah, where shall our lodging be made ? 
For the light of the day beginneth to fade. 


THE ANGEL. 
Here have we many a trusty friend, 
Under whose roof the night we may spend, 
Here dwelleth a good man, he hight Raguel, 
He shall receive us and treat us well. 
He hath a daughter, and Sarah hight she, 
She shall be given thee, thy housewife to be ; 
An only child is this daughter here, 
A dutiful damsel, he holdeth dear. 
TOBIAS. 
Azariah, my brother, I have heard people say 
This maiden hath ved i in a very strange way. 
Seven men as husbands to her have been given; 
They are all of them dead,—they fared ill,—the 
whole seven. 
And now full widely the tidings do run 
That an evil spirit hath them foredone. 
And if I, too, should fall in such a bad way, 
In our house there would be the devil to pay.* 


Besides this prodigious drama, more than 
twenty others of the same period have been 
preserved, the titles of some of which will 
suffice : “Judas Redivivus, a Christian Tragi- 
Comedy,’ by Jakob Rondelitius; “A little 
Spiritual Tragedy about the Three Wise Men,”’ 
by Hans Olsson; “A Merry Comedy of King 
Gustavus,” by Andreas Prytz; ‘“ The Prodigal 
Son,” and “The Acts and Martyrdoms of the 
Apostles,” by Samuel Brask; “‘ Bele Snack, or 
a New Comedy containing various Merry Dis- 
courses and Judgments concerning Marriage 
and Courtship,” by Jakob Chronander ; and the 
four comedies and two “ Merry Tragedies ”’ of 
Johannes Messenius, whose plan was to. turn 
all Swedish history into fifty dramas, as Mas- 


* Tobie Comedia. Stockholm: 1550. 


Re Tee 


SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


carille proposed to put all Roman history into 
madrigals. Into each of his plays he has intro- 
duced the lustig person, the merryman or clown 
of the English comedy, and the gractoso of 
the Spanish. Messenius died in Finland in 
1637, and his tombstone records his fame in the 
following epitaph: 
‘Doctor Johannes Messenius lies here; 
His soul is with God, and his name every where.’? * 

III. The Stjernhjelmian period, from 1640 to 
1730. Georg Sijernhjelm, from whom this 
period takes its name, and in a great measure 
its form and character, was born in 1598. He 
was the son of a Dalekarlian miner; but, in- 
stead of following his father’s occupation, he 
devoted himself to books, and became a learned 
and distinguished man. In 1631, he received 
from the Crown titles of nobility, and estates in 
Livonia, and afterwards held various important 
offices till his death in 1672. He seems to have 
been a jolly as well as a learned man. When the 
High Chancellor Oxenstjerna asked him what 
wine he preferred, he answered, “* Vinum alie- 
num ’’ (other people’s wine), a jest which the 
Chancellor rewarded with a pipe of Rhenish. 
Shortly before his death he requested that his 
epitaph might be : *“‘Viait, dum vizit, letus’”’ (he 
lived merrily, whilst he lived). His principal 
poem is an epic in hexameters, entitled “* Hercu- 
les,” “*in which,” says one of his critics, ‘‘ en- 
dowed with the pure antique spirit and Hesiod’s 
art, he gives to his ethical opinions of God and 
the world, life and death, joy and sorrow, clear, 
plastic precision, artistic form, and poetic life.” 
The poem was so celebrated in its day, that 
Charles the Tenth of Sweden carried it always 
with him, even in his wars. He wrote also sev- 
eral small comic operas, under the title of “ Bal- 
letter,’ and was the first to introduce the sonnet 
into Swedish literature. His influence contin- 
ued long after his death, and his services to the 
language and literature of his native land are 
still held in honorable remembrance. Of his 
immediate followers and imitators nothing need 
be said, save that one of them wrote a collec- 
tion of songs under the title of ‘The Guide- 
board to Virtue,” and another, a poem entitled 
‘¢The Thundering and Warning Moses,” and 
that to most of them may be applied the distich 
which Count Lindsk6ld applied to himself: 

‘‘Ny poetry is poor, 
And is not worth the name.’ 

Some eighty names, mostly unknown to 
fame, complete the catalogue of this long pe- 
riod. I shall mention only Gustaf Ros ebhewe) 
author of ‘* Wenerid,’’ a series of a hundred 
sonnets to a lady, whom he designates by that 
name ;—-Haquin Spegel, author of ‘ God’s 
Work and Rest,’’ a translation or paraphrase of 
Arrebo’s ‘* Hexaémeron”’ (which itself is but 
a Danish version of Du Bartas’s Sancte Sep- 
maine) ;— Peter Lagerlof, author of a quaint 


* Notice sur la Littérature et les Beaux Arts en Suéde, 
par MarianngE D’EHRENSTROM. Stockholm: 


Qo 


826. 8yo. 


SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 129 


old love-song,* which was very popular and 
often imitated, and which, had it been written 
in English, would have held a conspicuous place 
in the “ Paradise of Daintie Devices ”’ ; — and 
Gunno Dahlstjerna, who translated Guarini’s 
*¢ Pastor Fido,’ and was the first to introduce 
the ottava rima into Swedish poetry. In fine, 
this was not a poetic age. “‘ People in general,”’ 
says Hammarskold,t ‘looked upon poetry as 
little more than a juggler’s tricks, which it was 
well enough to have'on holyday occasions, by 
way of show; and upon the poet himself asa 
merry-andrew, who should always hold him- 
self ready to amuse the respected public. Spe- 
gel, and some others, by treating of spiritual 
themes, raised themselves above this pickle- 
herring circle; their poems were esteemed for 
the sake of the subject only, and were hardly 
looked upon as poetry, under which name peo- 
ple generally understood occasional verses. 
The so-called poets, likewise, labored zealously 
to support this opinion, and . justify that view 
of Art which considers it as a servant for the 
menial offices of every-day life. If a: maiden 
were to be won, she was wooed in limping 
verses (Kapp-och- Krycke -vers, cane and Be 
verses), and when the wedding came, the Hpi- 
thalamium could not be omitte d. And so they 
rhymed at baptisms and burials, on birth-days 
and ‘saints-days, at promotions and ee 
ces; nay, one could not even eat a fish’s live 
without celebrating it with a song. To be rea- 
dy with wares for all these oft recurring de- 
mands, the rhymester was forced to make his 
labor as light as possible, to choose the easiest 
form of versification, and to avail himself of all 
kinds of shifts and short cuts, which the muti- 
lation of words, provincialisms, and far-fetched 
metaphors could offer him. The rhyme, though 
it were none of the best, the rhyme was his 
highest end and aim.” 

IV. The Dalinian period, from 1730 to 1778. 
Olof von Dalin, who gives name to this 
period in the literary history of his country, 
was born in 1708, and died in 1763. He oc- 
cupied several important stations at court, and, 
among others, those of Chancellor and Royal 
Historiographer. He’ was first known to the 
literary world ‘by the Bye oe of a weekly 
journal, after the manner of Addison’s “ Spec- 
tator,” entitled “Den Svenska Argus’”’ (The 
Swe dish Argus). It commenced its career in 
1732, when Dalin was but twenty-four years 
of age, and soon awakened ge eneral attention 
by the beauty of its criticisms, tales, and essays, 
and the lively colors in hich it ‘painted the 
changing features of the times. Among his 
principal writings 


his 


are to be numbered a heroie 
poem in four cantos, entitled “* Svenska Frihe- 
ten” (The Freedom of Sweden), the tragedy 
of “¢ Brynilda,”’ one or two comedies, and nu- 
merous fables, songs, and misce Haneous poems. 


* HAMMARSKUGLD, p. 126. 
+ Ibid. p. 190. 


His writings are of a more elevated tone and 
character pits most of those which preceded 
them, and to him belongs the merit of having 
raised Swedish poetry from the low state of 
degradation into which it had fallen. 

This period, though less than half a century 
in duration, added more than a hundred names 
to the literary history of Sweden. Of these 
the most distinguished are Olof Celsius, author 
of “‘ Gustaf Wasa,”’ a heroic poem in seven 
cantos ; — Erik Sk joldebrand, author of ‘* The 
Gustaviade,”’ a ee poem in twelve cantos 
and of coy eral tragedies ; — Jal <ob Wallenberg, 
author of a comic book of travels, entitled 
‘Min Son pa Galejan’’ (My Son in the Gal- 
ley), —a title taken from Moliére’s “ Que diable 
allart-ul faire dans cette galére!”’ —and “ Su- 
sanna,’’ a drama in five acts ;— Count Gustaf 
Philip Creutz, author of “ Atis and Camilla,” 
a pastoral epic in five cantos ; — Count Gustaf 
Fredrik Gyllenborg, an intimate friend of 
Creutz, and author of “ Taget 6fver Balt” (The 
Passage of the Belt), a heroic poem in twelve 
cantos ; — Olof Rudbeck, author of two comic 
epics entitled ‘ Borasiade’’ and ‘+ Neri’ 
and Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht, a poetess 
whose singular character and peculiar influence 
upon the literature of the time deserve a more 
extended notice. She was born in Stockholm 
in 1718, and was remarkable if her childhood 
for her love of reading and her lively fancy in 
At the age of sixteen, 


? 


the invention of stories. 
yielding to her father’s dying request, she was 
betrothed, against her own inclination, to a 
mechanician of the name of Tideman, whose 
deformed person seems to have inspired her 
with disgust, and whose death, three years after- 
wards, left her at liberty to Rano a bridegroom 
more to the taste of a young and romantic 
woman. She soon afterwards availed herself 
of this liberty, and fell in love with a young 
clergyman named Jacob Fabricius ; though va- 
rlous untoward circumstances postponed their 
marriage for four long years. marriage 
they removed to Carlskrona, where, at the end 
of seven months, her fut yand died. Over- 
whelmed with sorrow, she retired to a cottage 
in Sodermanland, hung her chamber in black, 
and adorned it with gloomy pictures, and, re- 
signing herself to solitude and affliction, poured 
forth fer feelings to her harp in lamentations 
and elegies, which she afterwa published 
under the title of ‘“‘The Sorrowing Turtle- 
dove (Den Sdrjande Turturdufean). This 
drew upon her the eyes of all Sweden. This 
notoriety, together with frequent attacks of ill- 
ness, induced her to leave her solitude and take 
up her residence in Stockholm, where her fame 
was increased by an essay on ie “¢ Defence of 
Poetry,” a poem in five cantos entitled ‘“ Swe- 
den Delivered,’’ and a kind of poetic diary 
which she called ‘Gentle Reveries of a 
Shepherdess in the North.” Her talents and 
attractions soon drew around her a circle of 


friends, such as the Counts of Creutz and Gyl- 


After 


irds 


| 
{ 
= 


Ul 


{ 


iF 
| 
| 


130 


lenborg, and others of like distinction, in con- 
junction with whom she established a literary 
society, known by the name of Utile Dulct. For 
ten years she continued to be the central point 
of this society, whose literary annals were en- 
riched by the productions of her pen; but, un- 
fortunately for her peace, among the members 
of the Utile Dulci was a young man by the 
name of Fischerstrém, for whom she conceiv- 
ed a violent and Paani passion, which does 
not seem to have been returned with equal ar- 
dor. The faithless young lover deserted her, 
and, although she had now reached the ma- 
dure age of ‘forty- -five, urged to despair by love, 
jealousy, and wounded pride, like another $ Sap- 
pho she threw herself into the sea. She was 
taken from the water before life was extinct, 
but died three days afterwards, the martyr or 
an ill regulated mind. She was at once the 
founder, “and the victim, of the sentimental 
school in Sweden. Fischerstrom made all the 
atonement in his power, by composing an elegy 
upon her death, and publishing a selection from 
her writings. 

It may “be added, in conclusion, that this 
period is pnb for the establishment of 
the Swedish Academy of Belles-lettres, under 
Queen Louisa Ulrika, and of several literary 
societies in imitation of Fru Nordenflycht’s 
Utile Dulci; for a new impulse given to the 
drama; and for the appearance of numerous 
literary pericdicals, of which more than twenty 
were published between the years 1734 and 
1774. 

V. The Kellgrenian period, from 1778 to 
1795. Johan Henrik Kellgren, who gives his 
name to this period, holds a distinguished place 
in the literary annals of his native land; a 
place he well deserves for a life devoted to the 
cause of letters. After completing his studies 
at the University of Abo, he became editor of 
a literary journal in Stockholms and, by his 
Writings, soon attracted the attention of King 
Gustavus the Third, who gave him a secretari- 
ship and a pension, ‘and made him member of 
the Swedish Academy, which had now been 
reéstablished on a more permanent foundation. 
He died at the age of forty-five. His principal 
works are his lyrical dramas. The most cele- 
brated of these is “‘ Gustavus Vasa,” the plan of 
which was suggested to him by the king. He 
also left behind him many odes, satires, and 
songs. Of his own powers he seems to have 
Seanad avery modest opinion, and claims 
distinction only for his love of letters. Writing 
to one of his friends a short time before his 
death, he says of himself, as if anticipating the 
judgment of posterity : ‘There was in our lit- 
erary world an obscure individual, whose tal- 
ents were but small, who had not even what 
is called esprit, and the greater part of whose 
writings were without merit, and of no consid- 
eration; but this man possessed one quality in 
a higher degree, perhaps, than any of his con- 
temporaries ; he felt for the honor and progress 


SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


in Sweden a devotion and an 
enthusiasm which attended him constantly in 
his painful career, and were his ruling passion 
at the moment when he traced these lines.”’ 
But the most famous poet of this period is 


of literature 


Carl Michel Bellman, the Anacreon of Swe- 
den, as Gustavus the Third called him. He is 
the most popular song-writer of the country, 
the bard of the populace. His genius runs riot 
in scenes in taverns and ale- 
houses, and the society of his beloved Ulla Win- 
blad, and of such vagabonds and boon compan- 
ions as Christian Wingmark, Mollberg, and Mo- 
ritz, true and life-like sketches of the Swedish 
swash-bucklers of the times of Gustavus the 
Third. Bellman died in 1795, and in*1829 a 
colossal bust in bronze, by Bystrom, was raised 
to his memory in the park of Stockholm, — 
the poet’s favorite resort during his life- -time, 
where, stretched on the grass beneath the trees, 
he played with the children, or composed his 
songs. The artist has been but too faithful 
in the delineation of the poet; for the huge 
bust literally leers from its pedestal, with bloat- 
ed cheeks and sleepy eyes. In midsummer it 
is crowned with flowers, and a convivial society 
assembles on the little hillock where it stands, 
and sings some of Bellman’s favorite songs. 
His principal works are “The Temple of Bac- 
chus,’’ ‘“‘Fredman’s Epistles,’ and “ Fredman’s 
Songs.” He also wrote some sacred songs, as 
if, ike a new Belshazzar, he would grace ‘his 
revels with the holy vessels of the temple. 

Of the eighty remaining poets of this period 
I shall name but few ; for to most of them may 
be applied the words which Leopold used 
frequently. to repeat to Gustaf von Paykull: 
‘¢ Thou art one of the best of the middling poets 
of Sweden.’ The most worthy of mention are 
Johan Gabriel Oxenstjerna, author of “ The 
Harvests,” and ‘“ The Hours of the Day,” and 
translator of Milton’s “‘ Paradise Lost ’’; — Gud- 
mund Géran Adlerbeth, author of several trag- 
edies, and translator of Ovid, Virgil, and Hor- 
ace ;—— Bengt Linders, author of “The Last 
Judgment,” “The Messiah in Gethsemane,” 
and “ The Destruction of Jerusalem ’’; —Thom- 
as Thorild, author of “‘ The Passions,” a poem 
of six cantos in hexameters; —and Anna Maria 
Lenngren, who threw somewhat into the shade 
the fame of Fru Nordenflycht, and acquired con- 
siderable reputation by her satirical and humor- 
ous poems, among which may be mentioned 
‘‘My Late Husband,” and “ A Few Words to 
my Daughter, supposing I had one.” 

The reign of Gustavus the Third was a kind 
of Stécle de Louis XIV. in Sweden. “ Both 
Kings,”’ says a writer in the Foreign Review, 
“‘ stamped their personal character on that of 
the times in which they lived; —both were 
alike vain, ambitious, haughty, and luxurious ; 
prompted to great exertions by national feeling 
and love of glory, both were generous, but un- 
principled; amiable, but of fatal influence on 
the morals of their country ; and, finally, both 


A A A A Ak Nl SN LA TS Aeon 


Se Nh NARS a Nt CT ct VRE Sir lb cn rian aonams mR nushrtasts-asSa nr eabesmcense 


SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 32 


a Ce ns ged Sa ce 


were equally zealous patrons and promoters of 
the arts and sciences, thus contributing to a new 
era in the literary history of the people whom 
they governed. In this last respect, however, 
Gustavus had the advantage, he himself being 
a productive laborer in the field of literature ; 
and, though with smaller means than those pos- 
sessed by the rich and powerful King of France, 
he effected a comparatively greater revolution 
in the taste and culture of his time. Gustavus 
could not only reward literary merit, but he 
could appreciate it rightly ; and, whatever faults 
the historian may have cause to find with the 
general character of this monarch, it would be 
an injustice to deny, that, more than any prince 
mentioned in history, he sought and cultivated 
the acquaintance of enlightened men, and, from 
the recesses of obscurity, led genius forth into 
the light, even within the encircling splendor 
of the throne. He made it his pride to nurture 
the germs of talent, which must, probably, have 
been stifled, but for such fostering and paternal 
care. Amongst those whom he favored with 
his personal esteem and friendship, we may 
particularly mention Bellman,— a poetical gen- 
ius of so extraordinary a kind, that we know of 
none in the history of any nation to whom he 
can be compared, — and Kellgren, whose works 
form the subject of our present consideration. 
Even the adherents of the Romantic school 
in Sweden, which has waged unceasing war 
against the French school patronized by Gusta- 
vus, admit the claims of Kellgren‘as an origin- 
al and talented writer ; and we think, that, with- 
out overrating his merits, he may be pronounced 
a distinguished ornament of the classical litera- 
ture of his country.” 

VI. The Leopoldian period, from 1795 to 
1810. The poet who gives his name to this 
period is Carl Gustaf af Leopold, who, from a 
literary journalist, rose to the dignity of Com- 
mander of the Order of the Polar Star and 
Secretary of State. He has been called the 
Voltaire of Sweden, and presents the singular 
phenomenon of an author who is more praised 
than read, and more read by his enemies than 
by his friends. One of his most ardent admir- 
ers exclaims: *¢ His genius soars into the ce- 
lestial regions, as the lordly eagle darts upwards 
towards the sun. Nothing is so beautiful as the 
talent of Leopold; it is the ideal of perfection. 
One should have heard him, entirely deprived 
of sight, repeat his poem upon the statue of 
Charles the Thirteenth, in order to conceive 
all the fire of his imagination, and all his resem- 
blance to Homer, Milton, and Délille.’* On 
the other hand, one of his severest critics says : 
‘¢ Leopold has written a poem on Empty Noth- 
img, and he was right in doing so, for that is all 
which we find in the greater part of his rhymed 
and unrhymed productions. The fate which 


* EHRENSTROM. Notices, p. 74. 


awaits him hereafter as an author it is not diffi- 
cult to foresee, indeed, it has already begun to 
declare itself; in truth, he is——it can no longer 
be denied — already for the most part forgot- 
ten,” * 

Leopold’s most celebrated works are his two 
tragedies, “ Virginia,” and “ Odin, or the Emi- 
gration of the Gods.”’ . At the first representa- 
tion of Odin in 1790, the King, Gustavus the 
Third, wrote Leopold the following note: “ The 
author of ‘Siri Brahe’ begs of the author of 
‘Odin’ a pit ticket; it is the only place he 
dares toask.’’ His majesty sent him, at the same 
time, a laurel branch which he had brought from 
the tomb of Virgil, fastened with a large dia- 
mond. He is the author, also, of sundry odes, 
satires, and tales. 

But the most distinguished poets of this peri- 
od are Franzén, Wallin, and Tegnér, all, of 
them bishops. Frans Michel Franzén was 
born in Finland in 1772. His best known _ po- 
etic labors are the fragments of an epic enti- 
tled “ Gustavus Adolphus in Germany,” three 
cantos of a poem, to be completed in twenty, on 
“The Meeting at Alvastra’’ (the meeting of 
Gustavus Wasa with his bride Margaret of Ley- 
onhuvud), and his lyric poems, which are mark- 
ed with great beauty and a kind of apostolic ten- 
derness. Tegnér, in his poem of ‘Axel,’” com- 
pares the song of the nightingale to one of his 
songs : 

‘From the oak-trees sang the nightingale ; 
The song resounded through the vale, 


As tender and as pure a strain, 
As some sweet poem of Franzén.’’ 


Johan Olof Wallin was born in Dalekarlia in 
1779. Asa pulpit orator, his fame is great. As 
a poet, he is known chiefly by the beauty of his 
psalms, and through them has won the name of 
the David of the North. In “ The Children of 
the Lord’s Supper,’ Tegnér takes occasion to 
laud his psalms : — 

** Anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin, of David’s harp in the North-land, 
Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its powerful 


pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.” 


Of Tegnér and a few others I shall speak 
more at length hereafter; and for the continua- 
tion of this sketch of Swedish Poetry the read- 
er is referred to the “ Bibliographisk Ofversigt 
ofver Svenska Vitterheten,” 1810-1832; af P. 
A. Sondén. This is the sequel to Hammar- 
skold’s work, and is published in the same vol- 
ume. In conclusion, I have only to regret that 
the extracts which follow are so few, and from 
so few authors; and in particular that I have 
been able to find no English translations from 
Nicander, one of the most distinguished of the 
younger Swedish poets; nor from Ling, one of 
the most voluminous. 


* HAMMARSKGLD, p. 467. 


¢ 


* 


ness 


a 


OL orgy a 


eee 


THE MOUNTAIN-TAKEN MAID. 


AnD now to early matin-song the maiden would 
away ; 
(The hour goes heavy by ; ) 
So took she that dark path where the lofty 
mountain lay. 
(Ah! well sorrow’s burden know I!) 


On the mountain-door she gently tapped, and 
small her fingers are : 
(The hour goes heavy by: ) 
“Rise up, thou King of the Mountain, and 
lock and bolt unbar! ” 
(Ah! well sorrow’s burden know I!) 


The mountain-king rose up, and quick drew 
back both bolt and bar ; 

To his silk bed blue then bore he the bride that 
came so far. 


And thus, for eight long years, I ween, she lived 
i th’ mountain there ; 

And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a 
daughter fair. 


The maiden ’fore the mountain-king now stands 
with looks of woe : — 

“ Would God, that straight I home to mother 
dear could go!” 


“And home to thy mother dear thou well 
enough canst go; 
But, mind! I warn thee name not the seven 


39 


young bairns we owe! 


Now when at last she cometh to where her 

‘ home-halls be, 

Outside to meet her standing her tender mother 
see ! 


“And where so long, so long a time, dear 
daughter, hast thou been? 

Thou ’st dwelled, I fear me, yonder, in the rose- 
decked hill so green.”’ 


“No! never was my dwelling in the rose- 
decked hill so green ; . 

This long, long time I yonder with the moun- 
tain-king have been ! 


“ And thus, for eight long years, I ween, I ’ve 
lived i’ th’ mountain there ; 

And sons full seven I ’ve borne him, and eke a 
daughter fair.” 


BAZ LADS. 


With hasty steps the mountain-king now treads 
within the door : — 

‘© Why stand’st thou here, about me such evil 
speaking o’er?”’ 


“« Nay, surely naught of evil I lay now at thy 
door ; 

But all the good thou ’st shown me I now am 
speaking o’er.”’ 


Her lily cheek then struck he, her cheek so 
pale and wan, 

So that o’er her slim-laced kirtle the gushing 
blood it ran. 


se A-packing, mistress, get thee; and that, I pray, 
right fast ! 

This view of thy mother’s gate here, I swear 
it is thy last !”’ 


‘Farewell, dear father! and farewell, my tender 
mother too! 

Farewell, my sister dear! and dear brother, 
farewell to you! 


‘Farewell, thou lofty heaven! and the fresh 
green earth, farewell ! 

Now wend I to the mountain, where the moun- 
tain-king doth dwell.” 


So forth they rode, right through the wood, all 
black, and long, and wild ; 

Right bitter were her tears,— but the mountain- 
king he smiled. 


And now they six times journey the gloomy 
mountain round ; 

Then flew the door wide open, and in they 
quickly bound. 


A chair her little daughter reached, with gold 
it redly shone : — 

“¢ O, rest thee, my poor mother, so sad and woe- 
begone !” 


‘Come haste thee with the mead-glasses ; hith- 
er, quick, I say ! 

Thereout now will I drink my too weary life 
away!” 


And scarce from out the mead-glass bright her 
first draught doth she take ; 
(The hour goes heavy by ;) 
Her eyes were sudden closed, and her weary 
heart it brake ! 
(Ah! well sorrow’s burden know I!) 


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BALLADS. 
~ STR sun cm itcacpem sacs pc a a ee 


HILLEBRAND. 


Hittesranp served in the king’s halls so gay: 
(In the grove there :) 
For fifteen round years, I wis, he ’d serve there 
night and day. 
(For her that in his youth he had betrothed 
there.) 


Not so much served he for silver and goud ; 
(In the grove there ;) 
"T was the fair Ladie Gulleborg so dearly he 
loved. 
(For her that in his youth he had betrothed 
there.) 


Not so much served he for pay or for place ; 
"T was that fair Ladie Gulleborg she smiled 
with such sweet grace. 


‘¢ And hear, Ladie Gulleborg, listen to my love! 
Hence to lands far off, dear, say, wilt thou with 
me rove ?”’ 


‘Ah! willing with thee would I haste far away, 
Were ’t not, love, for so many who watch me 
night and day. 


‘For me watches father, and mother also ; 
For me watches sister, and brother, too, I know. 


‘‘For me watch my friends, and me Closely 
watch my kin; 

But most that young knight watcheth me to 
whom I pledged have bin.” 


“© A dress of fine scarlet I ’ll cut for thee, my 
dear ! 


He then can never know thee by thy rosy 


cheeks clear. 


‘And rings will I change on thy fingers so 
small ; 
Then never thereby can he know thee at all.” 


Hillebrand his palfrey gray saddled right soon, 
And lightly Ladie Gulleborg he lifted there 


aboon. 


A way so they rode o’er thirty miles’ long wood ; 
When, see! to meet them cometh a knight so 
stout and good. 


*¢ And whence, friend, hast thou taken that fair 
young page with thee? 

Full badly in his saddle he sits, as ’t seems to 
meé.7 

“ But yestern I took him from ’s mother so 
kind ; 

Thereat how many tears, alas! 
cheeks fast wind!” 


adown her 


‘Methinks that once more I that rose-cheek 
should ken ; 

But his cloak of such fine scarlet I cannot tell 
again. 


133 


‘“¢ Farewell, now, farewell! and a thousand times 
good night ! 

Salute the Ladie Gulleborg with a thousand 
times good night!” 


But when they had ridden so little a while, 
The maiden it listeth to rest her awhile. 


“And Hillebrand, Hillebrand, not now slum- 
ber here ; 

My father’s seven trumpets I hear loud-pealing 
clear. 


‘« My father’s gray palfrey again now I know, 
’T is fifteen long years since through the wood- 
land it did go.”’ 


‘© And when ’mid the battle Ivide against the 
foe, 

Then, dearest Ladie Gulleborg, name not my 
name to woe. 


*¢ And when ’mid the battle, as hottest it be, 
Ah! dearest Ladie Gulleborg, my horse thou ’It 
hold for me!” 


‘¢My mother she taught me to broider silk and 
gold, 

But never yet I ’ve learned me in battle horse 
to hold.’’ 


The first charge he rode, when together they 
flew, 
So slew he her brother and many a man thereto. 


The next charge he rode, when together they 
flew, 
So slew he her father and many a knight thereto. 


“And Hillebrand, Hillebrand, still now thy 
fierce brand ; 

That death, ah! my good father deserved not 
at thy hand.” 


Scarce had fair Gulleborg these words uttered 
o’er, 

When seven bloody wounds had Sir Hillebrand 
gashed sore. 


“And wilt thou, now, follow to thy tender 
mother’s home, 

Or with thy death-sick childe still onward wilt 
thou roam ?”’ 


“And indeed I will not follow to my tender 
mother’s home, 

But sure with my death-sick childe still onward 
will I roam.”’ 


Through dark woods thus rode they, for many 
a weary mile ; 


And not one single word spoke Hillebrand the . 


while. 


‘Ts Hillebrand awear’d, or sits care on his brow? 
For not one single word he speaketh to me 


now !”’ 
Wi 


134 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


«¢ Nor wearied I am, nor sits care on my brow; | So straight to the Grove of Roses the knight 


But fast down from my heart my blood it drip- 
peth now!” 


And onward rode Hillebrand to his dearest 
father’s lands ; 
there by the hall to meet him his tender 
mother stands. 


Amy 


‘¢ And hear now, how is’t with thee, Hillebrand, 
sweet knight mine? 

For fast the red blood drippeth from off thy 
mantle fine.’ 


“My palfrey he stumbled, and quickly from 
my seat 
I fell, and right hardly an apple-bough did greet. 


«¢ My horse lead, dear brother, to the meadow 
close by ; 

And a bed, my dearest mother, make up where 
I may lie. 


“And curl now so gayly my hair-locks, sister 
dear! 
And haste thee, father dearest, to get my burial 


'? 


bier! 


“Ah! Hillebrand, Hillebrand, speak my love 


not so! 
On Thursday right merrily to the wedding we 
will go!” 


“ Down in the grave’s house of darkness shall 
we wed; 

Thy Hillebrand lives no longer, when night’s 
last star is sped.” 


And when as night was sped, and the dawn 
beamed out to day, 
So bare they three corpses from Hillebrand’s 


home away ; P 


The one it was Sir Hillebrand, the other his 
maid, death’s bride, 
(In the grove there,) 
The third it was his mother, of a broken heart 
she died ! 
(For her that in his youth he had betrothed 
there !) 


———— 


THE DANCE IN THE GROVE OF 
ROSES. 


’T was all upon an evening, when the rime it 
falleth slow, 
That a swain, on good gray palfrey, across the 
meads would go. — 
Ye ’ll bide me true! 


His saddle it was of silver, his bridle it was of 
gold; 
Himself rides there, so full of grace and virtues 
all untold. — 
Ye ’Il bide me true! 


he speeds along, 
Where a merrie dance he findeth, fair dames 
and maids among. — 
Ye ’ll bide me true! 


His horse-right soon he bindeth where the lily 
blooms so fair, 
And much his heart rejoiceth that he now was 
comen there. — 
Ye ’Jl bide me true! 


«© Again we JI meet, again we'll greet, when 
middest summer ’s here, 
When the laughing days draw out so lon 
the nights are mild and clear. — 
Ye ’ll bide me true! 


g, and 


«¢ Again we ’Il meet, again we ‘Il greet, on mid- 
dest summer’s day, 
When the lark it carols hghtly, and the cuckoo 
cooes away. — 
Ye ’Il bide me true! 


“© Again we’ll meet, again we ’ll greet, on the 
freshly- flowering lea, 
Where the rose so bright, and the lily white, 
our sweet, soft couch shall be. — 
Ye ‘ll bide me true! ”’ 


ee 


THE MAIDEN THAT WAS SOLD. 


‘¢ My father and my mother they need have 
suffered sore ; — : 
And then, for a little bit of bread, they sold 
me from their door, 
Away into the heathen land so dreadful!” 


And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
quickly will depart, 
While her hands the pretty virgin wrings til! 
the blood thereout doth start : — 
‘¢God help that may who afar shall stray to 
the heathen land so dreadful! ”’ 


‘© Ah! war-man dear, ye ’ll bide now here, 
one moment more ye Il stay ! 
For I see my father coming from yon grove 
that blooms so gay : 
I know he loves me so, — 
With his oxen he will ransom.me and will 
not Jet me go: : 
So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful ! ”’ _ 
sc My oxen, — indeed, now, I have but only 
twain ; 
The one I straight shall use, the other may 
remain: 
Thou scapest not to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful !”’ 


And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
quickly will depart, 
While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
the blood thereout doth start ; — 
*¢ God help that may who afar shall stray to the 
heathen land so dreadful ! ”’ 


*¢ Ah! war-man dear, ye ’Il bide now here, 
one moment more ye ’ll stay! 

For I see my mother coming from yon grove 
that blooms so gay: 

I know she loves me so, — 

With her gold chests she will ransom me, 

and will not let me go! 
So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful!” 


*“¢ My gold chests, — indeed, now, I have but 
only twain ; 
The one I straight shall use, and the other 
may remain : 
Thou canst not scape to wander far to the hea- 
then land so dreadful !”’ 


And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
quickly will depart, 
While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
the blood thereout doth start : — 
“God help that may who afar shall stray to 
the heathen land so dreadful ! ” 


“© Ah! war-man dear, ye ’ll bide now here, 
one moment more yell stay ! 

For I see my sister coming from yon grove 
that blossoms so gay: 

I know she loves me so, — 

With her gold crowns she will ransom me, 

and will not let me go! 
So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful !”’ 


*¢ My gold crowns, — indeed, now, I have but 
only twain ; 
The one I straight shall use, and the other 
may remain : 
Thou scapest not to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful ! ” 


And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
quickly will depart, 
While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
the blood thereout doth start : — 
“ God help that may who afar shall stray to 
the heathen land so dreadful! ” 


* Ah! war-man dear, yell bide now here, 
one moment more ye ’Il stay ! 
For I see my brother coming from yon grove 
that blooms so gay : 
With his foal-steeds he will ransom me, and 
will not let me go! 
So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful ! ”’ 


‘* My foal-steeds, — indeed, now, I have but 
only twain ; 


Veo 
BALLADS. 
SS SSS SSIS STS TSE BOSSES SPST Te TNR ee eo ee EL 


oe 
135 


The one I straight shall use, and the other 
may remain : 
Thou scapest not to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful ! ” 


And the war-man his oar grasps tight, and 
quickly will depart, 
While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
the blood thereout doth start ; — 
‘Ah! woe’s that may who afar must stray to 
the heathen land so dreadful ! ” 


“Ah! war-man dear, ye Il bide now here, 
one moment more ye ’JI stay ! 
For I see my sweetheart coming from yon 
grove that blooms so gay 
With his gold rings he will ransom me and 
will not let me go! 
So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful ! ”’ 


Gay ¢ 
hao Seber 


“‘ My gold rings, —indeed, now, I have but 
ten and twain ; 
With six I straight will ransom thee, thyself 
the rest shall gain : 
So scapest thou to wander far to the heathen 
land so dreadful !”’ | 


—— so 


THE LITTLE SEAMAN. 


In her lofty bower a virgin sat 
On skins, embroidering gold, 
When there came a little seaman by, 
And would the maid behold. — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away ! 


“¢ And hear now, little seaman, 
Hear what I say to thee: 
An’ hast thou any mind this hour 
To play gold dice with me ?’’ — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


‘* But how and can I play now 
The golden dice with thee ? 
For no red shining gold I have 
That I can stake ’gainst thee.’”? — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


‘And surely thou canst stake thy jacket, 
Canst stake thy jacket gray ; 
While there against myself will stake 
My own fair gold rings twa.’ — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


So then the first gold die, I wot, 
On table-board did run; 
And the little seaman lost his stake, 
And the pretty maiden won. — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


| 
| 
| 


136 


*« And hear now, little seaman, 
Hear what I say to thee: 
An’ hast thou any mind this hour 
To play gold dice with me?” — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away ! 


‘¢ But how and can I play now 
The golden dice with thee? 
For no red shining gold I have 
That I can stake ’gainst thee.” — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


“Thou surely this old hat canst stake, 
Canst stake thy hat so gray ; 
And I will stake my bright gold crown,— 
Come, take it, if ye may.” — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


And so the second die of gold 
On table-board did run ; 
And the little seaman lost his stake, 
While the pretty maiden won. — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away ! 


¢¢ And hear now, little seaman, 
Hear what I say to thee: 
An’ hast thou any mind this hour 
To play gold dice with me ? ”? — 
But with golden dice they play ved, they played 
away ! 


‘¢ But how and can I play now 
The golden dice with thee ? 
For no red shining gold I have 
' That I can stake ’gainst thee.’’ — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


“Then stake each of thy stockings, 
And each silver-buckled shoe ; 
And I will stake mine honor, 
And eke my troth thereto.” 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


And so the third gold die, I wot, 
On table-board did run ; 
And the pretty maiden lost her stake, 
While the little seaman won. — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


«¢ Come, hear now, little seaman! 
Haste far away from me ; 
And a ship that stems the briny flood 
I that will give to thee.’’ — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
‘away ! 


*¢ A ship that stems the briny flood 
I'l] get, if ’t can be done ; 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


But that young virgin have I will, 
Whom with gold dice I won.” 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away ! 


*¢ Come, hear now, little seaman! 
Haste far away from me ; 
And a shirt so fine, with seams of silk, 
I that will give to thee.” — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away ! 


«¢ A shirt so fine, with seams of silk, 
I'll get, if ’t can be done ; 
But that young virgin have I will, 
Whom with gold dice I won.”’ — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


‘¢ Nay, hear now, little seaman! 
Haste far away from me ; 
And the half of this my kingdom 
_ I that will give to thee.” 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


“The half of this thy kingdom 
T ll get, if’t can be done ; 
But that young virgin have I will, 
Whom with gold dice I won.” 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away. ! 


And the virgin in her chamber goes, 
And parts her flowing hair : 
*¢ Ah, me! poor maid, I soon, alas! 
The marriage-crown must bear.’? — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 
away ! 


The seaman treads the floor along, 
And with his sword he played, — 
*¢ As good a match as e’er thou ’rt worth 
Thou gettest, little maid ! — 
But with golden dice they played, they played 


away ! 


‘¢ For I, God wot, no seaman am, 
Although ye thinken so: 
The best king’s son I am, instead, 
That in Engelande can go.’ 
But with golden ae they played, they sara 
away ! 


——e— 


SIR CARL, 
OR THE CLOISTER ROBBED. 


Sir Cart he in to his foster-mother went, 
And much her rede he prayed: — 
*‘ Say how from that cloister | may win 
My own, my dearest maid.” — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


“Lay thee down as sick, lay thee down as 
dead, 
On thy bier all straight be laid; 
So then thou canst from that cloister win 
Thy own, thy dearest maid! ’? — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And in the little pages came, 
And clad in garments blue: 
‘An’ please ye, fair virgin, i’ th’ chapel to go, 
Sir Carl on’s bier to view??? — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And in the little pages came, 
All clad in garments red: 
‘An’ please ye, fair virgin, i’ th’ chapel to 
wend, 
And see how Sir Carl lies dead?’ — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And in the little pages came, 
All clad in garments white : 
‘An’ please ye, fair virgin, i’ th’ chapel to 
tread, 
Where Sir Carl lies in state so bright ? ”— 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And the may she in to her foster-mother went, 
And much ’gan her rede to speer: 
‘Ah! may I but into the chapel go, 
Sir Carl there to see on his bier? ’? — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


“ Nay, sure I'll give thee now no rede, 
Nor yet deny I thee: 
But if to the chapel to-night thou goest, 
Sir Carl decéiveth thee ! ’? — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And the virgin trod within the door, 
Sun-like she shone so mild ; 
But Sir Carl’s false heart within his breast 
It lay on the bier and smiled ! — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And the virgin up to his head she stepped, 
‘But his fair locks she ne’er sees move: 
“© Ah, me! while here on earth thou liv’dst 
Thou dearly didst me love!’ — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


? 


And the virgin down to his feet she went, 
And lifts the linen white : 
‘Ah, me! while here on earth thou liv’dst, 
Thou wert my heart’s delight |’? — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And the virgin then to the door she went, 
And good night bade her sisters last ; 
But Sir Carl, who upon his bier was laid, 
He sprang up and held her fast ! — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


¢ Now carry out my bier again, 
Come pour the mead and wine; 
18 


BALLADS, 


For to-morrow shall my wedding stand 
With this sweetheart dear of mine!’ — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And the cloister-nuns, the cloister-nuns, 
They read within their book : 
‘Some angel, sure, it was from heaven, 
# Who hence our sister took !’”? — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


And the cloister-nuns, the cloister-nuns, 
They sung each separatelie : 
**O Christ! that such an angel came, 
And took both me and thee!’ — 
But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 


—_¢—— 


ROSEGROVE-SIDE. 


I was a fair young swain one day, 
And had to the court to ride ; 
I set me out at the evening hour, 
And listed to sleep on the Rosegrove-side.— 
Since I had seen them first! 


I laid me under a linden green, 
/ Sea q 
My eyes they sunk to sleep ; 
There came two maidens tripping along, 
They fain with me would speak, — 
Since I had seen them first! 


The one she patted me on my cheek, 
The other she whispered in my ear: 
*‘ Rise up, rise up, thou fair young swain, 
If of love thou list to hear !’? — 
Since I had seen them first ! 


And forth they led a maiden fair, 

And hair like gold had she x 
‘Rise up, rise up, thou fair young swain, 
$99 


If thou lovest joy and glee! 
Since I had seen them first ! 


The third began a song to sing, 
With right good will she begun ; 
The striving stream stood still thereby, 
That before was wont to run. — 
Since I had seen them first ! 


The striving stream stood still thereby, 
That before was wont to run; 
And all the hinds with hair so brown 
Forgot which way to turn. — 
Since I had seen them first! 


I got me up from off the ground, 
And on my sword did lean ; 
The maiden elves danced out and in, 
All elvish in look, in mien. — 
Since I had seen them first! 


Had it not then my good luck been, 
That the cock had clapped his wing, 

I should have slept in the hill that night, 
With the elves in their dwelling. — 


Since I had seen them first ! 
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SIR OLOF’S BRIDAL. 


Srr Ovor rode out at the break of day ; 
There he came to an elf-dance gay. 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove! 

* 

The elf-father his white hand outstretched he : 
«Come, come, Sir Olof, and dance with me!” 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove ! 


«© Naught can I dance, and naught I may ; 
To-morrow is my bridal day.” 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove! 


The elf-mother her white hand outstretched 
she : ‘ 
*¢ Come, come, Sir Olof, and dance with me 
The dance it goes well, 
So well in the grove! 


17 


«¢ Naught can I dance, and naught I may ; 
To-morrow is my bridal day.” 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove! 


The elf-sister her white hand outstretched she: 
«¢ Come, come, Sir Olof, and dance with me!” 
The dance it goes well, 
So well in the grove ! 


‘¢ Naught can I dance, and naught I may ; 
To-morrow is my bridal day.” 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove ! 

~s 

And the bride she spoke to her bridemaids so : 
“ What may it mean,that the bells do go?” 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove ! 


“It is the custom on this our isle, 
Each young swain ringeth home his bride. — 
The dance it goes well, 
. So well in the grove! 


‘¢ And the truth from thee we no longer conceal ; 
Sir Olof is dead and lies on his bier.”’ 

The dance it goes well, 

So well in the grove! 


Next morning, when uprose the day, 
In Sir Olof’s house three corpses lay. 
The dance it goes well, 
So well in the grove ! 


They were Sir Olof and his bride, 
And his mother who of sorrow died ! 
The dance it goes well, 


| So well in the grove ! 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


DUKE MAGNUS. 


Duxe Maenvs looked out from his castle-win- 
dow, 
How the stream so rapidly ran; 
There he saw how there sat on the foaming 
stream ‘ 
A fair and lovely woman : 
‘© Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth 
thee to me, 
I pray thee now so freely ; 
O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes! 


“¢ And I will give thee a travelling ship, 
The best that knight e’er did guide, 
That sails on the water, and sails on the land, 
And through the fields so wide. 
Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
to me, 
I pray thee now so freely ; 
O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes!” 


‘¢ T have mot yet come to quiet and rest; 
How should I betroth me to thee ? 
I serve my king and my country, 
But to woman I’ve not yet matched me.” 
‘Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth 
thee to me, : 
I pray thee now so freely ; 
O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes! 


‘¢ And I will give thee a steed so gray, 
The best that knight e’er did ride, 
That goes on the water, and goes on the land, 
And through the woods so wide. 
Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
to me, 2 
I pray thee now so freely ; 
O, say me not.nay, but yes, say yes !”’ 


‘¢T am a king’s son so good, 

How can I let thee win me? 

Thou dwell’st not on land, but on the flood, 

Which would never with me agree.” 

‘Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth | 
thee to me, 

I pray thee now so freely ; : 


O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes! 


‘¢ And I will give thee so much gold, 
As much as can ever be found ; 
And stones and pearls by the handful, 
And all from the sea’s deep ground. 
Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
to me, | 
I pray thee now so freely, 
O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes!” 


‘¢ OQ, fain 1 would betroth me to thee, 
Wert thou of Christian kind ; 
But thou art only a vile sea-sprite ; 
My love thou never canst win.”’ 
“Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth 
thee to me, 
I pray thee now so freely ; 
0; say me not nay, but yes, say yes! 


baie 


“Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, bethink thee 
well, 
Speak not to me so scornfully ! 
For, if thou wilt not betroth thee to me, 
Then crazed shalt thou for ever be ! 
Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
to me, 
I pray thee now so freely ; 
O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes!” 


—_—)--— 


THE POWER OF THE HARP. 


Lirtte Christin she weeps in her bower all 
day ; 
Sir Peter he sports in the yard at play. 
“¢ My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


“Ts it saddle or steed that grieveth thee ? 
Or grieveth that thou ‘rt betrothed to me ? 
My heart's own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve?” 


‘¢ Not saddle nor steed is ’t that grieveth me; 
Nor grieveth that I’m betrothed to thee. — 
My heart’s own dear ! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


‘Far more I grieve for my fair yellow hair, 
That the deep blue waves shall dye it to-day. — 
My heart’s own dear ! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


‘¢ Far more I grieve for Ringfalla’s waves, 
Where both my sisters have found their 
graves ! — 
My heart’s own dear ! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


“When a child, it was foretold to me, 
My bridal day should prove heavy to me.” 
“My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


“¢ T will bid thy horse to have round shoes, 
He shall not stumble on four gold shoes. — 
My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve? 


‘Twelve of my courtiers before thee shall ride, 
And twelve of my courtiers on either side.” 
My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


But when they Ringfalla forest came near, 
There sported with gilded horns a deer. 
My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


And the courtiers to hunt the deer are gone ; 
Little Christin she must go onward alone. 
My heart’s own dear ! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


BALLADS. 


And when over Ringfalla bridge she goes, 


There stumbled her steed on his four gold shoes: 


My heart’s own dear ! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


On four gold shoes and gold nails all: 
The maid in the rushing stream did fall. 
My heart’ own dear ! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve? 


Sir Peter he spoke to his footpage so: 

*¢ Now swiftly for my golden harp go!” 
My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou. grieve ? 


The first stroke on the gold harp he gave, 


The foul ugly sprite sat and laughed on the wave. 


My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve? 


Once more the gold harp gave a sound ; 


he foul ugly sprite sat and wept on the ground. 


My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


The third stroke on the gold harp rang ; 


Little Christin reached out her snow-white arm. 


My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


He played the bark from off the high trees, 
He played little Christin upon his knees. 
My heart’s own dear ! 
_Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


And the sprite himself came out of the flood, 
On each of his arms a maiden proud. 
My heart’s own dear! 
Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 


& 


—— oe 


LITTLE KARIN’S DEATH. 


Tur little Karin served 
Within the young king’s hall ; 
She glistened like a star, 
Among the maidens all. 


She glistened like a star, 
Of all the fairest maid ; 
And to the little Karin, 
One day, the young king said: 


*¢ And hear thou, little Karin, 
O, say, wilt thou be mine? 

Gray steed and golden saddle 
Shall, if thou wilt, be thine “ 


“< Gray steed and golden saddle 
Would not with me agree ; 
Give them to thy young queen, 

And leave my honor to me!” 


“¢ And hear thou, little Karin, 
O, say, wilt thou be mine? 

My brightest golden crown 
Shall, if thou wilt, be thine.” 


ips Baasescalncekoae 


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idicennniaiestioeenaenaeeacemedeeeaedioematiaeaaaenzamtomemaads sr is a nt eee et a | 


140 . SW. ED Seen ax, yx 


“Thy brightest golden crown 
Would not with me agree ; 

Give it to thy young queen, 
And leave my honor tage te 


«¢ And hear thou, little Karin, 
O, say, wilt thou be mine? 

One half of all my kiggdom 
Shall, if thou wilt, be thine.” 


* One half of all thy kingdom 
Would not with me agree ; 

Give it to thy young queen, 
And leave my honor to me!” 


‘¢ And hear thou, little Karin, 
Wilt thou not yield to me? 
A cask with spikes all studded 

Shall then thy dwelling be.” 


“If a cask with spikes all studded 
Shall then my dwelling be, 

God’s holy angels know full well 
That without guilt I be!” 


They put the little Karin 
In the spiked tun within ; 

And then the king’s young servants 
They rolled her in a ring. 


And from the high high heaven 

Two snow-white doves there came ; 
They took the little Karin, 

And, lo! they three became. 


And from the deep deep hell 
Two coal-black ravens came ; 

They took the wicked king, 
And, lo! they three became. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


JOHAN HENRIK KELLGREN. 


Turis distinguished poet was born in the 
parish of Floby, West Gothland, in 1751. In 
1772 be took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at 
the University of Abo, and in 1774 became a 
Magister Docens. Three years afterwards he 
removed to Stockholm as private tutor in a 
nobleman’s family, and in 1778, in connexion 
with his friend Carl Lenngren, established there 
a weekly literary journal, under the title of 
“Stockholms Posten,’’ which exercised consid- 
erable influence on Swedish literature. Kell- 
gren soon became a courtier and a favorite with 
the king, who suggested to him the plan of his 
three principal dramatic pieces, ‘¢ Gustaf Wasa,”’ 
“ Christine,” ‘¢ Gustaf Adolf und Ebba Brahe.” 
His reputation rests chiefly upon his satires 
and upon his lyrical poems. He died in 1795, 
and his friends showed the esteem in which 
they held his memory by a medal, on one side 
of which was the poet’s head, and on the re- 
verse the inscription: “* Poete, Philosopho, Civi, 
Amico, Lugentes Amici.”” For a further notice 
of Kellgren and his times see p. 130. 


THE NEW CREATION. 


Tuov who didst heavenly forms portray 
Of bliss and beauty’s charm to me, 

I saw thee once, — and from that day 
Thee only in the world I see! 


Dead to my view did Nature lie, 
And to my feelings deeply dead ; 
Then came a breathing from on high, 
And light and life around were spread. 


AE SEE TRS TE 


And the light came and kindled life, 
A soul pervaded every part; 

With feeling’s features all was rife, 
And voices sounding to my heart. 


Through space new spheres celestial broke, 
And earth fresh robes of verdure found ; 
Genius and Cultivation woke, 
And Beauty rose and smiled around. 


Then felt my soul her heavenly birth, 
Her godly offspring from on high ; 

And saw those wonders of the earth, 
Yet unrevealed to Wisdom’s eye. 


Not only splendor, motion, space, 
And glorious majesty and might ; 
Not only depth in vales to trace, 
And in the rocks their towering height: 


But more my ravished senses found : — 
The lofty spheres’ sweet harmony ; 

Heard angel-harps from hills resound, 
From darksome gulfs, the demons’ cry. 


On fields the smile of Peace was bright, 
Fear skulked along the shadowy vale ; 

The groves were whispering of Delight, 
The forests breathing sighs of Wail. 


And Wrath was in the billowy sea, 
And Tenderness in cooling streams; 
And in the sunlight, Majesty, 
And Bashfulness in Dian’s beams. 


To point the lightning Hatred sped, 

And Courage quelled the raging storm ; 
The cedar reared its lofty head, 

The flower unclosed its beauteous form. 


KELLGREN, 


O living sense of all things dear ! 
O Genius, Feeling’s mystery ! 

Who comprehends ‘thee, Beauty, here ? 
He who can love, and only he. ' 


When painting Nature to my gaze 
In heavens of bliss that brightly roll, 
For me what art thou? Broken rays 
Of Hilma’s image in my soul. 


"T is she, within my soul, who, fair, 
Stamps bliss on all the things that be, 

And earth is one wide temple, where 
She is the adored divinity. 


Thou, who didst heavenly forms portray 
Of bliss and beauty’s charm to me, 

I saw thee once, — and from that day 
Thee only in the world I see! 


All things thy borrowed features bear, 
O, still the same, yet ever new ! 
Thy waist, the lily’s waist so fair, 
And thine her fresh and lovely hue! 


Thy glance is mixed with day-beams bright, 
Thy voice with Philomel’s sweet song, 

Thy breath with roses’ balm, and light, 
Like thee, the zephyr glides along. 


Nay, more, — thou lend’st a charm to gloom 
Filling the deep abyss with rays, 

And clothing wastes in flowery bloom, 
And gladdening dust of former days. 


? 


And if perchance the enraptured mind 
With eager, anxious search should stray 
Through earth and heaven, that it may find 


The Author of this blissful clay ; 


Demanding in some form to view 
Him, the All-bounteous and Divine, 

To whom our loftiest praise is due, — 
His form reveals itself in thine ! 


In cities, courts, and kingly halls, 
"Mong thousands, I behold but thee ; 

When entering humbler cottage walls, 
I find thee there awaiting me. 


To Wisdom’s depths I turned in vain, 
Borne onward by thy thought divine ; 

I strove to wake the Heroic strain, — 
My harp would breathe no name but thine ! 


To Fame’s proud summit I would soar, 
But wandered in thy footsteps’ trace ; 

I wished for Fortune’s worshipped store, 
And found it all in thy embrace ! 


Thou, who didst heavenly forms portray 
Of bliss and beauty’s charm to me, 

I saw thee once, —and from that day 
Thee only in the world I see! 


What though, from thee now torn away, 
Thy thought alone remains to me? 
Still in thy track must memory stray, — 

Thee only in the world I see ! 


° 
THE FOES OF LIGHT. 


Onx eve last winter, —let me see, — 
It was, if rightly I remember, 
About the 20th of December ; 

Yes, Reader, — yes, it so must be, 


For winter’s solstice had set in, 


And Phoebus — he, the ruler bright, 
Who governs poets and the light 
(This latter shines, the former rhyme, 
More dimly in the Northern clime) — 
At three o’clock would seek the deep 
For nineteen hours’ unbroken sleep, — 
Lucidor on such eve went forth 
To join the club upon the North. 
club ? — political ? — Herein 

No trace the manuscript doth sho 
And nothing boots it now to know. 


? 


Enough, — he went, — the club he found, —- 


Entered, sat down, and looked around ; 
But very little met his sight, 
For yet they had not ordered light ; 
And heaven’s all-glorious President 
To rest had long since stole away, 
While dim his pale Vice-regent went 
Declining on her cloudy way. 
Though thus in darkness, soon he knew 
The senseless crowd, who kept a pother 
With wondrous heat (as still they do 
Whene’er they can’t conceive each other) 
About the form the chamber bore, — 
The color of the chairs, — and more. 


At length they one and all bethought 
Themselves how dull, how worse than naught, 
It was to prate of form and hue, 

While blindness bandaged thus their view 
(For to be blind, and not to see, 

The selfsame thing appeared to be) ; 

So various voices mingling cry, 

* Light! light!” 


Light came, — and then the eye 
Was glad; for who doth not delight 
To see distinctly black from white ? 
Yet here and there a friend of gloom 
Gave light and lamps — you know to whom: 
And now of these there ’s more to come. 


A blear-eyed man was first to bawl 
Against the light; yet this must call, 
Not wonder, pity from each heart: 
For how should he enjoy the ray, 
When even the smallest gleam of day 
Falls on his view with deadly smart ? 


Like him, in evil plight much pained, 
An old and nervous man complained : — 


\ 


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pa hate et ee 


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soe 


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a 
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—- 


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142 


Nee ee ee anetads és r =e = > ee ee ee ee a eeeeeeaartesuanennanecnnaeepmmn=nemnamesenenamanenematmn ne manameenteimmmareananniian 


‘By Heaven!” he cried, ‘this cruel glare 
Of light is more than I can bear.” 

Nor should Ats murmur much amaze: 

The poor old man had all his days \ 
Groped out his path through darksome ways; 
But to learn to walk and see 

Are both of like necessity, 

And custom gives us facuMy. 


A drowsy man, with startled stare, 
Amazed, leaped high from off his chair ; 
His name was Dulness. — Ever deep 
Both soul and body he would steep, 
By day and night, in ceaseless sleep. 
One well may fancy what a doom 
For him to be deprived of gloom. 
Now all behold his laziness, 

The senseless swine can do no less 
Than blush to be discovered, making 
The only drone amongst the waking. 


The Enthusiast cries: ‘* Most sweet to me 
The hour when twilight’s veil is drawn ; 
O blissful twilight! Rapture’s dawn! 

O darkness mild and soft to see ! 
While thou dost all in charms array, 
What is ’t to me, if thou betray ? 
In thee may Fancy, fearless, stray, 
Released from Reason’s rigid thrall, 
In joyful chaos mingling all ! 
Through thee, the shadow substance shows, 
Through thee, the earth empeopled grows, 
Gods, giants, wizards, sprites appear ! 
Just now I caught a shadow here 
From Swedenborg’s enchanted sphere. 
But light —a cursed trick !— now beams, 
Consuming all my blissful dreams. 


“A cursed trick !’’ — This cry, too, rose 

Loud from behind the corner screen, 

From one whose thriving trade had been 
In legerdemain and raree-shows : — 

*¢' The Swedish public soon will see 

My art’s long hidden mystery ; 

In twilight all went on divinely, 

I tricked their eyes and purses finely ; 

But now they ’ve brought this devilish light, 
Farewell to witchcraft every way ; 

Farewell to magic, — black and white ! ”’ 
So said my lord, and sneaked away. 


Soon as this last lament was o’er, 

The selfsame exit — through the door — 
Was taken by a worthy spark, 
Who — honest else, we may remark — 
Had lately, wandering in the dark, 
Mistook — by accident alone — 

His neighbour’s pocket for his own. 


A member,of the king’s police, 

Who loved his knowledge to increase 
(In vulgar parlance called a spy), 
Now sought the chimney skulkingly. 
"T is hard to listen in the light: 
Partly for its still flickering glare, 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


And partly, that, when forced to beat 
A swift and unforeseen retreat, 
"T will sometimes with the listener fare 
That he must be content to spare 
An arm or leg, and leave it there. 


With hump before and hump behind, 
' A cripple had for hours depicted 
How dear he was to womankind 
(In darkness none could contradict it), 
And countless blisses called to mind ; 
But light appeared, and who looked down, 
If not this miserable clown ? 
For not a more revolting creature 
Ever yet was seen in nature. 


A speaker rose, and said: **”T’ were vain, 
Now that the thing has gone so far, 

To strive light’s progress to restrain ; 
Then leave all matters as they are, 

So that we can but keep the rays 

From spreading to the public gaze. 

And to avert this awful scourge 

From our dear country, let me urge 

"T’ were best to leave the light to me 

An undisturbed monopoly.” 


“© Well said !”’ another answered straight, 
‘¢ Farewell to ministerial state, 

To court, to customs, honor, birth, 
And all we value most on earth, 

If we allow the light to fall 

In common for the eyes of all! 

But, now, as Government alone 
Has power to say how every one 
May innocently hear and see, 

And eat and drink, it seems to me, 
For my part, —and by this is meant 
My portion of the public rent, — 
That we had better fix the light 
The Crown’s hereditary right.” 


Of those assembled in the room, 
Whom shame constrained, in hate’s despite, 
To hide the rage they felt at light, 

Mine host and each assistant groom 
Were found: for guests could now behold 
What drugs were given for their gold. 
The miracle, admired of yore, 

Of turning water into wine, 

Is now a trick, and nothing more, 

Which, as all may well divine, - 
Will hardly cheat the taste and sight 
Of sober folks, except at night. 


‘“‘O sin and shame,” the Parson cries, 
“To jest with Heaven’s providing care! 
Think that a child of dust should dare 

At eve, when darkness veils the skies, 

To strike a light and use his eyes! 
Then vainly God prescribes the sun 
His rising and his going down, 

In order that the humankind 
May needful warmth and radiance find, 


A Ali AAR UR OA ees Ninth A A ar 


KELLGREN. us | 
Sacer RTA CS a a a Ne NEF PTD eee 


Now man creates a warmth by fires, Lashes, by which the over-bold 
And with his tallow-light aspires And negligent may be controlled; 

To ape the blessed beams of day ! And engines, to allay the ire 
Soon Nature will not have a nook, Of the most infuriate fire.” 


No soundless depths, nor darksome caves, 
Impervious to his searching look ; 
His skill can curb the winds and waves, 
Nay, — more tremendous still to say, — 
He dares, when clouds are torn asunder, 
To save his body from the thunder!”’ 


He ceased ; — a general bravo cry, — 
A loud and general applause, 
Save from. the priest and company, 
Who took their party prudently, 
And mumbled curses ’twixt their jaws. 


What happened on the Southern side, — 
How quenched they there the flame so feared, 
Or what new palace there was reared 

Above the former’s fallen pride, — 

Of this we ’ll sing in future lays, 
Should Heaven vouchsafe us length of days. 


The assembly here in laughter burst. 
The priest, preparing to depart, 
His brethren most devoutly cursed 
To pest and death with all his heart ; 
When suddenly was heard a sound 
Of trumpets, drums, and bells around, 
And soon a cry in every mouth 
Of ‘Fire is raging in the South!” 


The part, the street, the house are named, FOLLY IS NO PROOF OF GENIUS. 
And Light, the cause of all, is blamed: 
“OQ Lucifer’s and Genius’ sons, I Grant ’t is oft of greatest men the lot 

(From Lux comes Lucifer) see here,” To stumble now and then, or darkling grope ; 
The parson cries, — “ye faithless ones, Extremes for ever border on a blot, 

What direful fruits from light appear ! And loftiest mountains’ sides abruptest slope. 
Upon the Southern side bursts forth : f ; 
The fire, and doubt not but the North Mortals, observe what ills on genius wait ! 
Like end will find to crown such crime : Now god, now worm!— Why fallen?—A 
Then let us all resolve in time, dizzy head {_ 
With strictest care, to quench outright The energy that lifts thee to heaven’s gate, 
Whatever can conduce to light.” What is it but a hair, a distaff’s thread ? 
Already have the friends of light He, who o’er twenty centuries, twenty climes, 
(Such is fanaticism’s might), Has reigned, whom all will first of poets vote, 


E’en our good father Homer, nods at times; 


Now here, now there, by looks expressed 
‘ he P So Horace says, — your pardon, I but quote. 


A secret fear that rules the breast. 

At length arises one whose voice 

Is destined to decide their choice. 

All hushed, Lucidor has the word : — 

‘¢ My friends and brothers!” thus he’s heard,— 
“« A law there is, prescribed by Heaven, 

For every good to mortals given ; 


Thou, Eden’s bard, next him claim’st genius’ 
throne ; — 
But is the tale of Satan, Death, and Sin, 
Of Heaven's artillery, the poet’s tone ? 
More like street-drunkard’s prate inspired by 


And this the precept all-sublime : en 
That, ‘ wanting wisdom’s due control, Is madness only amongst poets found ? 
Even virtue’s self becomes a crime, — Grows folly but on literature’s tree ? 
The cup of bliss, a poisoned bowl.’ No! wisdom’s self is to fixed limits bound, 
All useful things may noxious be: And, passing those, resembles idiocy. 


Sleep strengthens, — sleep brings lethargy ; 
Meat feeds, — meat brings obstruction after; | He, who the planetary laws could scan, 


Ale warms, —ale causes strangury ; Dissected light, and numbers’ mystic force 
Smiles cheer,— convulsions come from | Explored, to Bedlam once that wondrous man 
laughter : Rode on the Apocalypse’ mouse-colored horse. 
Nay, more, — the mother virtue, whence 
Arises earth’s and heavenly bliss, Thou, whose stern precept, against sophists | 
The fear of God itself, has this hurled, | 
(When overstretched) sad consequence, Taught that to truth doubt only leads the | 
Of voiding certain heads of sense. mind, 
And yet, should any man from hence Thy law forgott’st, — and, in a vortex whirled, 
Induce a Christian soul to think Thou wander’st, as a Mesmer, mad and blind. 
"T were wrong to sleep, eat, laugh, or drink ; 
He is, by giving such a rule, But though some spots bedim the star of day, 
A self-convicted knave — or fool. The moon, despite her spots, remains the 
As to what concerns the right moon ; 
Administration of the light, And though great Newton once delirious lay, 
Wise rulers have two means of might - Swedenborg’s nothing but a crazy loon. 


a 


144 


Fond dunces! ye who claim to be inspired, 
In letters and philosophy unversed, 
Who deem the poet’s fame may be acquired 
By faults with which great poets, have been 
cursed ! 


Ye Swedenborgian, Rosicrucian schools, 
Ye number-prickers, ye physiognomists, 
Ye dream-expounding, treasure-seeking fools, 
Alchymists, magnetizers, cabalists ! 


Ye ’re wrong : — though error to the wisest clings, 
And judgments, perfect here, may there be 
shaken, 
That genius therefore out of madness springs 
5 P So) 
When ye assert, ye re deucedly mistaken. 


Vain reasoning ! —all would easily succeed, 
Was Pope deformed, were Milton, Homer 

‘ blind? 

To be their very likeness, what should need 
But just to crook the back, the eyes to bind? 


But leave we jest ;— weak weapon jest, in sooth, 
When justice and religion bleeding lie, 
Society disordered, and ’gainst truth 
Error dares strike, upheld by treachery. 


Arouse thee, Muse! snatch from the murderer 
His dagger, plunging it in his vile breast! 
By nature thou reason’s interpreter 
Wast meant; obey — and nobly —her behest! 


Manhem!! so named from olden Manhood’s 
sense 
And olden Manhood’s force; from error’s 
wave 
What haven shelters thee? 
hence 
One spacious bedlam shall the Baltic lave. 


Some few years 


Virtue from light, and vice from folly springs ; 
To sin ’gainst wisdom’s precept is high trea- 
son 
Against the majesty of man, and kings! 
Fanaticism leads on rebellion’s season. 


Pardon, my liege, the virtuous honesty 
That swells the poet’s breast and utterance 
craves! 
The enthusiast for thy fame must blush to see 
Thy sceptre raised to favor fools or slaves. 


But you who to his eyes obscure the light, 
What is ’t you seek? what recompense high 
prized? 
I see 't!—O fame! all, all confess thy might; 
And even fools would be immortalized. 


Ye shall be so! your brows and mind await 
A thistle and a Jaurel crown. ‘To thee, 
Posterity, their names I dedicate, 
Thy laughing-stock to all eternity ! 


1 The abode of men; an ancient poetical name of Swe- 
den. 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


ANNA MARIA LENNGREN. 


Turs lady, whose maiden name was Malm- 
stedt; was born at Upsala, in 1754. She was 
known as a poetess as early as the age of eigh- 
teen, by a piece called “The Council of the 
Tea-table”’?; and not long after produced vari- 
ous translations for the stage. Her best poems 
are her humorous sketches of characters and 
scenes in common life, wherein she exhibits 
her lively fancy to great advantage. She died 
at Stockholm in 1817. 


— 


FAMILY PORTRAITS. 


Upon an old estate, her father’s heritage, 
A shrivelled countess dowager 
Had vegetated half an age ; 
She drank her tea mingled with elder- 
flowers, 

By aching bones foretold the weather, 
Scolded at times, but not for long together, 
And mostly yawned away her hours. 

One day, (God knows how such things should 
occur !) 
Sitting beside her chambermaid 
In her saloon, whose walls displayed 
Gilt leather hangings, and the pictured face 
Of many a member of her noble race, 
She pondered thus: “I almost doubt 
Whether, if I could condescend 
Some talk on this dull wench to spend, 
It might not call my thoughts off from my 
gout 5 
And, though the malkin cannot compre- 
hend 
The charms of polished conversation, 
"T will give my lungs some exercise ; 
And then the goosecap’s admiration 
Of my descent to ecstasy must rise.’” — 
‘¢ Susan,”’ she said, ‘‘ you sweep this drawing- 
room, 
And sweep it almost every day ; 
You see these pictures, yet your looks betray 
You ’re absolutely ignorant whom 
You clear from cobwebs with your broom. 
Now, mind! That’s my great grandsire to the 
right, 
The learned and travelled president, 
Who knew the Greek and Latin names of 
flies, 
And to the Academy, in form polite, 
Was pleased an earthworm to present 
That he from India brought ; a prize 
Well worth its weight in gold. — 
That next him, in the corner hung by chance, 
The ensign is, my dear, lost, only son, 
A pattern in the graces of the dance, 
_ My pride and hope, and all the family’s. 
Seven sorts of riding-whips did he invent ; 
But-sitting by the window caught a cold, 
And so his honorable race was run. 
He soon shall have a marble monument. — 
Now, my,good girl, observe that other, 
The countess grandam of my lady mother, 


A beauty in her time famed far and near ; 
On Queen Christina’s coronation-day, 
She helped her majesty, they say, — 
And truly, no false tale you hear, — 
: To tie her under-petticoat. — 
The lady whose manteau you note 
| Was my great aunt. Beside her see 
| That ancient noble in the long simar ; 
An uncle of the family, 
| Who once played chess with Russia’s mighty 
czar. — 
That portrait further to the left 
Is the late colonel, my dear wedded lord ; 
His equal shall the earth, of him bereft, 
In partridge-shooting never more afford ! — 
But now observe the lovely dame 
In yonder splendid oval frame, 
Whose swelling bosom bears a rose ; — 
Not that one, ninny ; —look this way ; — 
What haughtiness those eyes display ! 
How nobly aquiline that nose ! 
King Frederick once was by her beauty caught ; 
But she was virtue’s self, fired as she ought, 
And scolded, reverently, the royal youth, 
Till, utterly confused, he cried, ‘My charmer, 
Your virtue ’s. positively cased in armor!’ 
Many can yet attest this story’s truth. 
Well, Susan, do you know the lady now? 
What! don’t you recognize my lofty brow?” 
But, ‘‘ Lord have mercy on me!” Susan cries, 
And scissors, needle, thread, lets slip ; 


‘* Could that be ever like your ladyship? ’— 


{ 
\ 


“What! what!” the countess screams, with 
flashing eyes ; 

“ Could that be like me? Idiot ! Nincompoop ! 
Out of my doors, with all thy trumpery ! 
Intolerable! But so must it be, 

If with such creatures to converse we stoop.” 

A gouty twinge then seized the countess’ toe, 
And of her history that’s all I know. 


—_¢—= 


CARL GUSTAF AF LEOPOLD. 


Tuts distinguished champion of the French 
school in Swedish poetry was born in Stock- 
holm in 1756. He was educated at Upsala; 
became private tutor in the family of Count 
Douglas ; afterwards, private secretary of King 

Gustavus the Third; and finally, Secretary of 

State. He died in 1829. For an account of 
his literary character and influence, see, ante, 


p. 131. 


» 


ODE ON THE DESIRE OF DEATHLESS FAME. 


Vatnty, amidst the headlong course 
Of centuries, centuries on that urge, 
Earth’s self, despite her weight and force, 
Becomes the prey of Time’s wild surge ; 
Vainly Oblivion’s depths profound 


Bury of former names the sound, 
19 


LENNGREN.—LEOPOLD. 


With manners, arts, and deeds gone by : 
Born amidst ruins, we survey 
Sixty long centuries’ decay, 

And dare Time’s sovereignty defy. 
Even when by Fame’s impetuous car 

Our glory round the world is spread, 
A breath from Eastern caves afar 


Comes poison-fraught, —the hero’s dead !— 


A worm, condemned in dust to crawl, 
Concealed in grass from thy foot-fall, 
Thy soaring flight for ever stays ; — 
A splinter starts; thy race is run ;— 
Shines on thy pride the rising sun, 
Thine ashes meet his setting rays. 


And thou, the insect of an hour, 
O’er Time to triumph wouldst pretend ; 


With nerves of grass wouldst brave the power 


Beneath which pyramids must bend ! 
A slave, by every thing controlled, 
Thou canst not for an instant mould 

Thine actions’ course, thy destiny ; 
In want of all, of all the sport, 

Thou, against all who need’st support, 

Boastest o’er Death the mastery ! 
Recall’st, as they would prove thy right 

To honors but to few assigned, 

Our Wasa sovereign’s annals bright, 
The triumphs of a Newton’s mind. 
Whilst round the globe thy glances rove 

On works and deeds that amply prove 

Man’s strength of intellect, they fall: 
Their mysteries Time and Space unfold, 
New worlds are added to the old, 

Beauty and light adorning all. 


Strange creature! go, fulfil thy fate, 
Govern the earth, subdue the waves, 
Measure the stars’ paths, regulate 


Time's clock, seek gold in Chile’s graves, 


Raise towns that lava-buried sleep, 

Harvest the rocks, build on the deep, 
Force Nature, journey in the sky, 

Surpass in height each monument, 

On mountains mountains pile, — content, 
Beneath their mass then putrefy ! 


Yes, fruits there are that we enjoy, 
Produce of by-gone centuries’ toil ; 

The gifts remain, though Time destroy 
The givers, long ago Death’s spoil : 

And whilst deluded crowds believe 

Their guerdon they shall straight receive 
In Admiration’s empty cries, 

Their whitening and forgotten bones 

Repose, unconscious as the stones 
Where burns the atoning sacrifice. 


The poet’s, hero’s golden dream, 
Olympus’ heaven, Memory’s days, 
Valor enthroned in Earth’s esteem, 
And Genius’ never-fading bays ! 
Proud names, the solace of our woes, 
That often Vanity bestows 
M 


On empty shadows, nothing worth ; — 
O, have ye given in Memory’s shrine 
To Virtue honors more divine 

Than Vice and Folly gain on earth ? 


But grant we that for victory’s prize 

The hero brave fierce war’s alarms 5 
His deeds are noble, if unwise, 

His valor overawes and charms ; 
And pardon him, created strong 
For energy in right or wrong ; — 

Whio darkling with the crowd remains, 
A son of Ruin’s night is he, 
Immersed in dreams of memory, 

That sound philosophy disdains. 


Go, shake the Neva’s banks with dread ; 
With liberal arts our Northland grace ; 

With Genius’ torch, or War’s, blood-red, 
Enlighten or destroy thy race ; 

A deathless name by arms be won 

For Ingo or for Marathon ; 
Establish thrones, or overturn ; 

Our Europe’s tottering liberty 

Down trample, or exalt on high ; — 
Then crown thyself, and danger spurn. 


But when a soul of vulgarer mood, 

For shadows, fancies, such as these, 
Abandons life’s substantial good, 

Life’s humbler duties that displease ; 
But when, seduced by dreams of praise 
From unborn worlds, idiots would raise 

A monument of baseless fame, 
Who, with false arrogance elate, + 
May guilty prove, but never great, — 

I blush in human nature’s name. 


Still may this thirst for men’s esteem 

Spur Merit forward on his course ! 
Deprive not Earth of that fair dream, 

Her culture’s and her honor’s source. 
Woe worth the day, when Reason’s hand, 
Unloosing Prejudice’s last band, 

From the world’s eye the veil shall tear, 
Shall with her blazing torch reveal 
The nothing that Svacas our zeal, 

The errors that our steps ensnare ! 


Young son of Art, thy bosom’s flame 
With hopes of centuries’ wonder cheer! 


Shrink, Monarch, from the voice of blame, 
Whose sound shall never reach thine ear ! 


And Virtue, thou, in life betrayed, 
Forgotten, proudly through death’s shade 
Thy memory see with honors graced ! 
A god, befriending our weak kind, 
Illusion, as our balm assigned, 
By the entrance to life’s desert placed. 


To Genius, in his kindling mood, 
Statues are promised by her breath ; 

She purchases the warrior’s blood 

With garlands in the hand of Death ; 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


She animates the poet’s song 
With all the raptures that belong 
To immortality divine ; 
The student, o’er his night-lamp bent, 
Sees through her glass, though poor, content, 
His light o’er distant ages shine. 


Break but her witchery’s golden wand ; — 
No longer Genius flashes bright ; 
Rome shrinks from the Barbarian’s brand ; 
Athens and Science fade from sight ; 
Europe’s old dread, our Northern ground, 
No more with heroes shall abound, 
When threaten danger, blood, and broil ; 
And, paid by thanklessness, no more 
Shall birth-crowned monarchs, as of yore, 
Exchange their joys for duty’s toil. 


a 


ESAIAS TEGNER. 


Esaias Tranér, Bishop of Wexid, and Knight 
of the Order of the North Star, was born in the 
parish of By in Warmland, in the year 1782. 
In 1799, he entered the University of Lund, as a 
student; and in 1812, was appointed Professor of 
Greek in that institution. In 1824, he became 
Bishop of Wexid, which office he still holds. 
He stands first among the living poets of Swe- 
den; aman ofa grand and gorgeous imagina- 
tion, and poetic genius of a high order. His 
country men are proud of him, ‘and rejoice in 
his fame. If you speak of their literature, Teg- 
nér will be the first name upon their lips. They 
will speak to you with enthusiasm of “ Frith- 
iofs* Saga’’;. and of “ Axel,” and) yea,” 
and ‘“ Nattvardsbarnen”’ (The Children of the 
Lord’s Supper). The modern Skald has writ- 
ten his*name in immortal runes; not on the 
bark of trees alone, in the “unspeakable rural 
solitudes”’ of pastoral song, but on the moun- 
tains of his native land, and the cliffs that-over- 
hang the sea, and on the tombs of ancient he- 
roes, whose histories are epic poems. Indeed, 
the “Legend of Frithiof”’ is one of the most 
remarkable productions of the age. It is an 
epic poem, composed of a series of ballads, each 
describing some event in the hero’s life, and each 
written in a different measure, according with 
the action described in the ballad. This is a 
novel idea; and perhaps thereby the poem loses 
something in sober, epic dignity. But the loss 
is more than made up by the greater spirit of 
the narrative; and it seems to us a very lauda- 
ble innovation, thus to describe various scenes 
in various metre, and not employ the same for 
a game of chess and a storm at sea. 

The first ballad describes the childhood and 
youth of Frithiof and Ingeborg the fair, as they 
grew up together under the humble roof of 
Hilding, their foster-father. They are two 
plants in the old man’s garden ; —a young oak, 
whose stem is like a lance, and whose leafy top 
is rounded like a helm; and a rose, in whose 


SS ee 


folded buds Spring still sleeps and dreams. 
But the storm comes, and the young oak must 
wrestle with it; the sun of Spring shines warm 
in heaven, and the red lips of the rose open. 
The sports of their childhood are described. 
They sail together on the deep blue sea; and 
when he shifts the sail, she claps her small 
white hands in glee. For her he plunders the 
highest birds’-nests, and the eagle’s eyry; and 
bears her through the rushing mountain-brook, 
—it is so sweet when the torrent roars, to be 
pressed by small, white arms. 

But childhood and the sports thereof soon 
pass away, and Frithiof becomes a mighty hunt- 
er. He fights the grisly bear without spear or 
sword, and lays the conquered monarch of the 
forest at the feet of Ingeborg.* And when, by 
the light of the winter evéning hearth, he 
reads the glorious songs of Valhalla, no goddess 
whose beauty is there celebrated can compare 
with Ingeborg. Freya’s golden hair may wave 
like a wheat-field in the wind, but Ingeborg’s 
is a net of gold around roses and lilies. Iduna’s 
bosom throbs full and fair beneath her silken 
vest, but beneath the silken vest of Ingeborg 
two Elves of Light leap up with rose-buds in 
thew hands.t And she embroiders in gold and 
silver the wondrous deeds of heroes; and the 
face of every champion, that looks up at her 
from the woof she is weaving, is the face of 
Frithiof; and she blushes and is glad; — that 
is to say, they love each other a little. Ancient 
Hilding does not favor their passion, but tells 
his foster-son that the maiden is the daughter 
of King Belé, and he but the son of Thorsten 
Vikingsson, a thane; he should not aspire to 
the love of one who has descended in a long 
line of ancestors from the star-clear hall of Odin 
himself. Frithiof smiles in scorn, and replies, 
that he has slain the shaggy king of the forest, 
and inherits his ancestors with his hide; and 
moreover, that he will possess his bride, his 
‘white lily,” in spite of the very god of thun- 
der ; for a puissant wooer is the sword. 

Thus closes the first fit. In the second, old 
King Belé stands leaning on his sword in his 
hall, and with him is his faithful brother-in-arms, 
Thorsten Vikingsson, the father of Frithiof, 
silver-haired, and scarred like a runic stone. 
The king complains that the evening of his 
days is drawing near, that the mead is no long- 
er pleasant to his taste, and that his helmet 
weighs heavily upon his brow. He feels the 
approach of death. Therefore he summons to his 
presence his two sons, Helgé and Halfdan, and 
with them Frithiof, that he may give a warning 
to the young eagles, before the words slumber 


* A lithographic sketch represents Frithiof bringing in a 
bear by the ears, and presenting it to Ingeborg; a delicate 
little attention on the part of the Scandinavian lover, 

¢ In the Northern mythology two kinds of elves are 
mentioned; the Ljus Alfer, or Elves of Light, who were 
whiter than the sun, and dwelt in Alfheim; and the Svart 
Alfer, or Elves of Darkness, who were blacker than pitch, 
and had their dwelling under the earth. * 


} ! 
TEGNER. 
eth, Ba ls Aa SERRE aX Ns oe lls Dl lai i A RR AL 3 


147 


on the dead man’s tongue. Foremost advances 
Helgé, a grim and gloomy figure, who loves to 
dwell among the priests and before the altars, 
and now comes, with blood upon his hands, 
from the greves of sacrifice. And next to him 
approaches Halfdan, a boy with locks of light, 
and so gentle in his mien and bearing, that he 
seems a maiden in disguise. And after these, 
wrapped in his mantle blue, and a head taller 
than either, comes Frithiof, and stands between 
the brothers, like mid-day between the rosy 
morning and the shadowy night. Then speaks 
the king, and tells the young eaglets that his 
sun is going down, and that they must rule his 
realm after him in, harmony and brotherly love ; 
that the sword was given for defence, and not 
for offence ; that the shield was forged as a pad- 
lock for the peasant’s barn; and that they 
should not glory in their fathers’ honors, as each 
could bear his own only. “If we cannot bend 
the bow,” says he, ‘it is not ours. What have 
we to do with worth that is buried? The 
mighty stream goes into the sea with its own 
waves.’ These, and many other wise saws, 
fall from the old man’s dying lips; and then 
Thorsten Vikingsson, who means to die with 
his king, as he has lived with him, arises and 
addresses his son Frithiof. He tells him that 
old age has whispered many warnings in his 
ear, which he will repeat to him; for as the 
birds of Odin descend upon the sepulchres of 
the North, so words of manifold wisdom de- 
scend upon the lips of the old. Then follows 
much sage advice ;—that he should serve his 
king, for one alone shall reign; the dark Night 
has marf¥ eyes, but the Day has only one; that 
he should not praise the day, until the sun had 
set, nor his beer until he had drunk it; that he 
should not trust to ice but one night old, nor 
snow in spring, nor a sleeping snake, nor the 
words of a maiden on his knee. Then the old 
men speak together of their long tried friend- 
ship; and the king praises the valor and heroic 
strength of Frithiof, and Thorsten has much to 
say of the glory which crowns the kings of the 
Northland, the sons of the gods. Then the 
king speaks to his sons again, and bids them 
greet his daughter, the rose-bud. ‘In retire- 
ment,” says he, ‘as it behoved her, has she 
grown up; protect her; let not the storm come, 
and fix, upon his helmet my delicate flower.” 
And he bids them bury him and his ancient 
friend by the sea-side ; —“ by the billow blue, 
for its song is pleasant to the spirit evermore, 
and like a funeral dirge ring its blows against 
the strand.” 

And now King Belé and Thorsten Vikingsson 
are gathered to their fathers, Helgé and Half 
dan share the throne between them, and Frithiof 
retires to his ancestral estate at Framnis; of 
which a description is given in the third ballad, 
conceived and executed in a truly Homeric spirit. 

Among the treasures of Frithiof’s house are 
three of transcendent worth. The first of these 
is the sword Angurvadel, brother of the light- 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


ning, handed down from generation to genera- 
tion, since the days of Bjorn Blatand, the Blue- 
toothed Bear. The hilt thereof was of beaten 
gold, and on the blade were wondrous runes, 
known only at the gates of the sun:. In peace 
these runes were dull, but in time of war they 
burned red as the comb of a cock when he 
fights; and lost was he who in the night of 
slaughter met the sword of the flaming runes. 
The second in price is an arm-ring of pure 
gold, made by Vaulund, the limping Vulcan of 


the North; and containing upon its border the_ 


signs of the zodiac, — the Houses of the Twelve 
Immortals. This ring had been handed down 
in the family of Frithiof from the days when 
it came from the hands of Vaulund, the founder 
of the race. It was once stolen and carried to 
England by Viking Soté, who there buried 
himself alive in a vast tomb, and with him his 
pirate-ship and all his treasures. King Belé and 
Thorsten pursue him, and through a crevice of 
the door look into the tomb, where they behold 
the ship, with anchor, and masts, and spars ; 
and on the deck, a fearful figure, clad in a man- 
tle of flame, sits gloomily scouring a blood- 
stained sword; though the stains cannot be 
scoured off. The ring is upon hisarm. Thors- 
ten bursts the doors of the great tomb asunder 
with his lance, and, entering, does battle with 
the grim spirit, and bears home the ring as a 
trophy of his victory.* 

The third great treasure of the house of Frith- 
iof is the dragon-ship Ellida. It was given to 


‘one of Frithiof’s ancestors by a sea-god, whom 


this ancestor saved from drowning, sgmewhat 
as Saint Christopher did the angel. “The an- 
cient mariner was homeward bound, when, at 
a distance, on the wreck of a ship, he espied an 
old man, with sea-green locks, a beard white as 
the foam of waves, and a face which smiled like 
the sea when it plays in the sunshine. The Vi- 
king takes this old man of the sea home with him, 
and entertains him in hospitable guise; but at 
bed-time the green-haired guest, instead of going 
quietly to his rest, like a Christian man, sets sail 
again on his wreck, like a hobgoblin, having, 
as he says, a hundred miles to go that night, at 
the same time telling the Viking to look the 
next morning on the sea-shore for a gift of 
thanks. And the next morning, behold! the 
dragon-ship Ellida comes sailing up the har- 
bour, like a phantom ship, with all her sails 
set, and not aman on board. Her prow is a 
dragon’s head, with jaws of gold; her stern, a 
dragon’s tail, twisted and scaly with silver ; 
her wings black, tipped with red; and when 
she spreads them all, she flies a race with the 
sousing storm, and the eagle is left behind. 
These were Frithiof’s treasures, renowned 
in the North; and thus in his hall, with Bjorn his 
bosom friend, he sat, surrounded by his cham- 


* Not unlike the old tradition of the Brazen Ring of 
Gyges; which was found on a dead man’s finger in the 
flank of a brazen horse, deep buried in achasm of the earth. 
—Puato. Rep. U. § 3. 


pions twelve, with breasts of steel and furrowed 
brows, the comrades of his father, and all the 
guests that had gathered together to pay the 
funeral rites to Thorsten Vikingsson, And 
Frithiof, with eyes full of tears, drank to his 
father’s memory, and heard the song of the 
Skalds, a dirge of thunder. 

“‘Frithiof’s Courtship ”’ is the title of the 
fourth canto. 


‘*High sounded the song in Frithiof’s hall, 
And the Skalds they praised his fathers all ; 
But the song rejoices 
Not Frithiof, he hears not the Skalds’ loud voices. 


** And the earth has clad itself green again, 
And the dragons swim once more on the main ; 
But the hero’s son 
He wanders in woods, and looks at the moon.”’ 


He had lately made a banquet for Helgé and 
Halfdan, and sat beside Ingeborg the fair, and 
spoke with her of those early days when the 
dew of morning still lay upon life; of the 
reminiscences of childhood ; their names carved 
in the birch-tree’s bark ; the well known vale 
and woodland; and the hill where the great 
oaks grew from the dust of heroes. And now 
the banquet closes, and Frithiof remains at his 
homestead to pass his days in idleness and 
dreams. But this strange mood pleases not his 
friend, the Bear. 


*‘Tt pleased not Bjorn these things to see; 
‘What ails the young eagle now,’ said he, 
‘So still, so oppressed ? , 
Have they plucked his wings?—have they pierced his 
breast # 


‘¢¢ What wilt thou? Have we not more than we need 
Of the yellow Jard and the nut-brown mead ? 
And of Skalds a throng? 
There ’s never an end to their ballads long. 


‘‘<«True enough, that the coursers stamp in their stall, 
For prey, for prey, scream the falcons all ; 
But Frithiof only 
Hunts in the clouds, and weeps so lonely.’ 


. 


‘*Then Frithiof set the dragon free, 
And the sails swelled full, and snorted the sea ; 
Right over the bay 
To the sons of the king he steered his way.’’ 


He finds them at the grave of their father, 
King Belé, giving audience to the people, and 
promulgating laws, and he boldly asks the hand 
of their sister Ingeborg; this alliance being in 
accordance with the wishes of King Belé. To 
this proposition Helgé answers, in scorn, that 
his sister’s hand is not for the son of a thane ; 
that he needs not the sword of Frithiof to pro- 
tect his throne; but, if he will be his serf, there 
is a place vacant among the house-folk, which 
he can fill. Indignant at this reply, Frithiof 
draws his sword of the flaming runes, and at 
one blow cleaves in twain the golden shield of 
Helgé, as it hangs on a tree ; and, turning away, 
in disdain, departs over the blue sea home- 
ward. 


seni ne era canes cede Smee tebe eee ceo ee ee a ne I Cerunisdas inet nkectan Sede ae 


TEGNER. 


In the next canto the scene changes. Old 
King Ring pushes back his golden chair from 
| the table, and arises to speak to his heroes and 
| Skalds, old King Ring,’a monarch renowned , 
in the North, beloved by all, as a father to the 
|| land he goyerns, and whose name each night 
| goes up to Odin with the prayers of his people. 
| He announces to them his intention of taking 
|| to himself a new queen, as a mother to his 
|| infant son, and tells them he has fixed his 
|| choice upon Ingeborg; the lily small, with the 
blush of morn on her cheeks.’ Messengers 
| are forthwith sent to Helgé and Halfdan, bear- 
| ing golden gifts, and attended by a Jong train 
| of Skalds, who sing heroic ballads to the sound 
j| of their harps. Three days and three nights 
|| they revel at the court; and on the fourth 
| morning receive from Helgé a solemn refusal, 
| and from Halfdan a taunt, that King Graybeard 
| should ride forth in person to seek his bride. 
| Old King Ring is wroth at the reply, and 
|| straightway prepares to avenge his wounded 
1, pride with his sword. He smites his shield as 
| it hangs on the bough of the high linden-tree, 
and the dragons swim forth on the waves, with 
|| blood-red combs, and the helms nod in the 
| wind. The sound of the approaching war 
| reaches the ears of the royal brothers, and they 
place their sister for protection in the temple of 
| Balder.* 
In the next canto, which is the sixth, Frithiof 
and Bjorn are playing chess together, when old 
Hilding comes in, bringing the prayer of Helgé 
and Halfdan, that Frithiof would aid them in 
the war against King Ring. Frithiof, instead 
of answering the old man, continues his game, 
making allusions, as it goes on, to the king’s 
being saved by a peasant or pawn, and the 
necessity of rescuing the queen at all hazards. 
Finally, he bids the ancient Hilding return to 
Belé’s sons, and tell them, that they have 
wounded his honor, that no ties unite them | 
together, and that he will never be their bonds- 
man. So closes this short and very spirited 
ballad. 

The seventh canto describes the meeting of 
Frithiof and Ingeborg in Balder’s temple, when 
silently the high stars stole forth, like a lover 
to his maid on tip-toe. Here all passionate 
vows are retold ; he swears to protect her with 
his sword, while here on earth, and to sit by her 
side hereafter. in Valhalla, when the champions 
ride forth to battle from the silver gates, and 
maidens bear round the mead-horn, mantled 
with golden foam. The parting of the lovers 
at day-break resembles the parting of Romeo 
|| and Juliet in Shakspeare. Hark! ’t is the 
| lark,” says Ingeborg : 

‘Hark! ’t is the lark! O, no, a dove 
Murmured his true-love in the grove,”? 
And again, farther on: 
**See, the day dawns! No, ’t is the fame 
Of some bright watch-fire in the east.’? 


* Balder, the son of Odin; —the Apollo of the Northern 


mythology. 


The eighth canto commences in this wise. 
Ingeborg sits in Balder’s temple, and waits the 
coming of Frithiof, till the stars fade away in 
the morning sky. At length he arrives, wild 
and haggard. He comes from the Ting, or 
council, where he has offered his hand in re- 
conciliation to King Helgé, and again asked of 
him his sister in marriage, before the assembly 
of the warriors. A thousand swords hammered 
applause upon a thousand shields; and the an- 
cient Hilding with his silver beard stepped 
forth and “held a talk” (hall et tal), full of 
wisdom, in short, pithy language, that sounded 
like the blows of a sword. But all in vain. 
King Helgé says him nay, and brings against 
him an accusation of having profaned the tem- 
ple of Balder, by daring to visit Ingeborg there. 
Death or banishment is the penalty of the law; 
but, instead of being sentenced to the usual pun- 
ishment, Frithiof is ordered to sail to the Ork- 
ney Islands, in order to force from Jarl Angantyr 
the payment of an annual tribute, which since 
Belé’s death he had neglected to pay. All this 
does Frithiof relate to Ingeborg, and urges her 
to escape with him to the lands of the South, 
where the sky is clearer, and the mild stars 
shall look down with friendly glance upon 
them, through the warm summer nights. B 
the light of the winter evening’s fire, old Thors- 
ten Vikingsson had told them tales of the Isles 
of Greece, with their green groves and shining 
billows ;—- where, amid the ruins of marble 
temples, flowers grow from the runes, that utter 
forth the wisdom of the past, and golden apples 
glow amid the leaves, and red grapes hang from 
every twig. All is prepared for their flight; 
already Ellida spreads her shadowy eagle- 
wings; but Ingeborg refuses to escape. King 
Belé’s daughter will not deign to steal her hap- 
piness. In a most beautiful and passionate 
appeal, she soothes her lover’s wounded pride, 
and at length he resolves to undertake the ex- 
pedition to Jarl Angantyr. He gives her the 
golden arm-ring of Vaulund, and they part, 
she with mournful forebodings, and he with 
ardent hope of ultimate success. This canto 
of the poem is a dramatic sketch, in blank 
verse. it is highly wrought up, and full of 
poetic beauties. & 

““Ingeborg’s Lament” is the subject of the 
ninth ballad. She sits by the sea-side, and 
watches the westward-moving sail, and speaks 
to the billows blue, and the stars, and to Fri- 
thiof’s falcon, that sits upon her shoulder, — 
the gallant bird whose image she has worked 
into her embroidery, with wings of silver and 
golden claws. She tells him to greet again 
and again her Frithiof, when he returns and 
weeps by her grave. The whole ballad is full 
of grace and beauty. 

And now follows the ballad of “ Frithiof at 
Sea’’; one of the most spirited and character- 
istic cantos of the poem. The versification, 
likewise, is managed with great skill; each 
strophe consisting of three several parts, and 


; ; M2 | 


\ 
{ 


we Sata hr A Hie her 


| reece ara 


150 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


each in its respective metre. King Helgé stands 
by the sea-shore, and prays to the fiends for a 
tempest ; and soon Frithiof hears the wings of 
the storm, flapping in the distance, and, as 
wind-cold Ham and snowy Heid beat against 
the flanks of his ship, he sings: 


‘Fairer was the journey, 
In the moonbeams’ shimmer, 
O’er the mirrored waters, 
Unto Balder’s grove. 
Warmer than it here is, 
Close by Ingeborg’s bosom ; — 
Whiter than the sea-foam, 
Swelled the maiden’s breast.” 


But the tempest waxes sore : — it screams in 
the shrouds, and cracks in the keel, and the 
dragon-ship leaps from wave to wave like a 
goat from cliff to cliff. Frithiof fears that 
witchcraft is at work; and calling Bjorn, he 
bids him gripe the tiller with his bear-paw, 
while he climbs the mast to look out upon the 
sea. From aloft, he sees the two fiends, riding 
on a whale; Heid with snowy skin, and in 


shape like a white bear, —Ham with outspread, 


sounding wings, like the eagle of the storm. 
A battle with these sea-monsters ensues. Ellida 
heard the hero’s voice, and with her copper 
keel smote the whale, so that he died; and the 
whale-riders learned how bitter it was to bite 
blue steel, being transfixed with Northern 
spears, hurled from a hero’s hand. And thus 
the storm was stilled, and Frithiof reached, at 
length, the shores of Angantyr. 

In the eleventh canto, Jarl Angantyr sits in 
his ancestral hall, carousing with his friends. 
In merry mood, he looks forth upon the sea, 
where the sun is sinking into the waves like a 
golden swan. At the window the ancient 
Halvar stands sentinel, watchful alike of things 
within doors and without; for ever and anon 
he drains the mead-horn to the bottom, and, 
uttering never a word, thrusts the empty horn 
in at the window, to be filled up anew. At 
length he announces the arrival of a tempest- 
tost ship; and Jarl Angantyr looks forth, and 
recognizes the dragon-ship Ellida, and Frithiof, 
the son of his friend. No sooner had he made 
this known to his followers, than the Viking 
Atlé springs up “from his seat and screams 
aloud: ‘“¢ Now will I test the truth of the tale, 
that Frithiof can blunt the edge of hostile 
sword, and never begs for quarter.”” Accord- 
ingly he and twelve other champions seize 
their arms, and rush down to the sea-shore to 
welcome the stranger with warlike sword-play. 
A single combat ensues between Frithiof and 
Atlé. Both shields are cleft in twain at once ; 
Angurvadel bites full sharp, and Atlé’s sword 
is broken. “ Frithiof, disdaining an unequal con- 
test, throws his own away, and the combatants 
wrestle together unarmed. Atlé falls; and Fri- 
thiof, as he plants his knee upon his breast, 
tells him, that, if he had his sword, he should 
feel its sharp edge and die. The haughty Atlé 
bids him go and recover his sword, promising 


to lie still and await his death, which promise 
he fulfils. Frithiof seizes Angurvadel, and 
when he returns to smite the prostrate Viking, 
he is so moved by his courage and magnanim- 
ity, that he stays the blow, seizes the hand of 
the fallen, and they return together as friends 
to the banquet-hall of Angantyr. ‘This hall is 
adorned with more than wonted splendor. Its 
walls not wainscoted with rough-hewn 
planks, but covered with gold-leather, stamped 
with flowers and fruits. No hearth glows in the 
centre of the floor, but a marble fireplace leans 
against the wall. There is glass in the win- 
dows, there are locks on the doors; and instead 
of torches, silver chandeliers stretch forth their 
arms with lights over the banquet-table, where- 
on is a hart roasted whole, with larded haunch- 
es, and gilded hoofs lifted as if to leap, and 
green leaves-on its branching antlers. Behind 
each warrior’s seat stands a maiden, like a star 
behind a stormy cloud. And high on his royal 
chair of silver, with helmet shining like the 
sun, and breastplate inwrought with gold, and 
mantle star-spangled, and trimmed with purple 
and ermine, sits the Viking Angantyr, Jarl of 
the Orkney Isles. With friendly salutations 
he welcomes the son of Thorsten, and in a 
goblet of Sicilian wine, foaming like the sea, 
drinks to the memory of the departed; while 
Skalds, from the hills of Morven, sing heroic 
songs.. Frithiof relates to him his adventures 
at sea, and makes known the object of his mis- 
sion ; whereupon Angantyr declares that he was 
never tributary to King Belé; that, although 
he pledged him in the wine-cup, he was not 
subject to his laws; that his sons he knew not; 
but that if they wished to levy tribute, they 
must do it with the sword, hke men. And 
then he bids his daughter bring from her cham- 
ber a richly embroidered purse, which he fills 
with golden coins, of foreign mint, and gives it 
to Frithiof, as a pledge of welcome and _ hos- 
pitality. And Frithiof remains his guest till 
spring. 

In the twelfth canto we have a description 
of Frithiof’s return to his native land. He 
finds his homestead at Framnias laid waste by 
fire ; house, fields, and ancestral forests are all 
burnt over. As he stands amid the ruins; his 
faleon perches on his shoulder, his dog leaps to 
welcome him, and his snow-white steed comes, 
with limbs like a hind, and neck like a swan; 
he will have bread from his master’s hands. 
At length old Hilding appears from among the 
ruins, and tells amournful tale ; how a bloody 
battle had been fought between King Ring and 
Helgé; how Helgé and his host had been 
routed, and in their flight through Framnas, from 
sheer malice, had laid waste the lands of Fri- 
thiof; and finally, how, to save their crown and 
kingdom, the brothers had given Ingeborg to be 
the bride of King Ring. He describes the bridal, 
as the train went up to the temple, with virgins 
in white, and men with swords, and Skalds, and 
the pale bride seated on a black steed, like a 


are 


a a et ee i eA Rn 
Seawe: Siler ae —— 


spirit on acloud. At the altar the fierce Helge 
had torn the bracelet, the gift of Frithiof, from 
Ingeborg’s arm, and adorned with it the image 
of ‘Baldor And Frithiof remembers that it is 
now mid-summer, and festival time in Balder’s 
temple. Thither he directs his steps. 

Canto thirteenth. The sun stands, at mid- 
night, blood-red on the mountains of the North. 
It is not day, it is not night, but something 
between the two. The fire blazes on the altar 
in the temple of Balder.. Priests with silver 
beards, and with knives of flint in their hands, 
stand there, and King Helgé with his crown. A 
sound of arms is heard in the sacred grove 
without, and a voice commanding Bjorn to 
guard the door. Then Frithiof rushes in, hike 
astorm in autumn. ‘ Here is your tribute from 
the western seas,’’ he cries; ‘take it; and then 
be there a battle for life and death between us 
twain, here by the light of Balder’s altar ; 
shields behind us, and bosoms bare ; — and the 
first blow be thine, as king; but forget not that 
mine is the second. Look not thus toward the 
door; I have caught the fox in his den. Think of 
Framnis ; think of thy sister with golden locks!” 
With these words he draws from his girdle the 
purse of Angantyr, and throws it into the face 
of the king with such force, that the blood gush- 
es from his mouth, and he falls senseless at the 
foot of the altar. Frithiof then seizes the brace- 
let on Balder’s arm, and, in trying to draw it 
off, he pulls the wooden statue from its base; 


and it falls into the flames of the altar. Ina 
moment the whole temple is in a blaze. All 


attempts to extinguish the conflagration are 
rain. The fire is victorious. Like a red bird 
the flame sits upon the roof, and flaps its loos- 
ened wings. Mighty was the funeral pyre of 
Balder. 

The fourteenth canto is entitled ‘ Frithiof in 
Exile.” Frithiof sits at night on the deck of 
his ship, and chants a song of welcome to the 
sea, which, as a Viking, he vows to make his 
home in life and his grave in death. ‘Thou 
knowest naught,” he sings, ‘¢ thou Ocean free, of 
a king who oppresses thee at his own wild will.” 
He turns his prow from shore, and is putting 
to sea, when King Helgé, with ten ships, comes 
sailing out to attack him. But anon the ships 
sink down into the sea, as if drawn downward 
by invisible hands, and Helgé saves himself by 
swimming ashore. Then Bjérn laughed aloud, 
and told how, the night before, he had bored 
holes in the bottom of each of Helgé’s ships. 
But the king now stood, on a cliff, and bent his 
mighty bow of steel against the rock with such 
force that it snapped in twain. And Frithiof, 
jeering, cried, that it was rust that had broken 
the bow, not Helgé’s strength; and to show 
what nerve there was in a hero’s arm, he seized 
two pines, large enough for the masts of ships, 
but shaped into oars, and rowed with such mar- 
vellous strength, that the two pines snapped in 
his hands like reeds. And now uprose the sun, 
and the land-breeze blew off shore, and, bidding 


i te NANA, Smelt Lanett 


TEGNER. 


151 


his native land farewell, Frithiof the Viking 
sailed forth to scour the seas. 

The fifteenth canto contains the Vikings 
Code, the laws of the pirate-ship. “No tent 
upon deck, no slumber in house; but the shield 
must be the Viking’s couch, and his tent the 
blue sky overhead. The hammer of victorious 
Thor is short, and the sword of Frey but an ell 
in length; and the warrior’s steel is never too 
short, if he goes near enough to the foe. Hoist 
high the sail, when the wild storm blows; ’t is 
merry in stormy seas; onward and ever on- 
ward. He is a coward who strikes; rather sink 
than strike. There shall be neither maiden 
nor drunken revelry on board. The freighted 
merchantman shall be protected, but must not 
wae his tribute to the vane for the Viking 

s king of the waves, and the merchant a slave 
iv gain, and the steel of the brave is as good as 
the gold of the rich. The plunder shall be di- 
vided on deck, by lot and the throwing of dice; 
but in this the sea-king takes no share; glory 
is his prize; he wants none other. They shall 
be valiant in fight, and merciful to the conquer- 
ed; for he who begs for quarter has no longer 
a sword, is no man’s foe; and Prayer is a child 
of Valhalla, — they must listen to the voice of 
the pale one.’’— With such laws, sailed* the 
Viking over the foaming sea, for three weary 
years, and came at length to the Isles of Greece, 
which in days of yore his father had so oft de- 
scribed to him, and whither he had wished to 
flee with Ingeborg. And thus the Senta of the 
absent and the dead rose up before him, and 
seemed to beckon him to his home in the North, 
He is weary of sea-fights, and of hewing men 
in twain, and of the glory of battle. The flag 
at the ack head pointed northward; there lay 
the beloved land; he resolved to follow the 
course of the winds of heaven, and steer back 
again to the North. 

Canto sixteenth is a dialogue between Frith- 
jof and his friend Bjorn, in which the latter 
gentleman exhibits some of the rude and unciv- 
ilized tastes of his namesake, Bruin the Bear. 
They have again reached the shores of their 
fatherland. Winter is approaching. The sea 
begins to freeze around their keel, Frithiof is 
weary of a Viking’s life. He wishes to pass 
the Jule-tide on land, and to visit King Ring, 
and his bride of the golden locks, his beloved 
Ingeborg. eae dreaming all the while of 
bloody exploits, offers eae as a companion, 
and talks of firing the king’s palace at night, 
and bearing off the queen by force. Or if his 
friend deems the old king worthy of a holmgang,* 
or of a battle on the ice, he is ready for either. 

But Frithiof tells him tha it only g eentle thoughts 
now fill his bosom. He wishes "only to take a 


* A duel between the Vikings of the North was called a 
holmgang, because the two combatants met on an island to 
decide their quarrel. Fierce battles were likewise fought 
by armies on the ice; the frozen bays and lakes of a moun- 
tainous country being oftentimes the only plains large 
enough for battle-fields. 


potstncnendcostsecadbeend apse meas stueniooeenanterecane citrate ee a OO eon LOO ee 
— 


pi Na A Sa te es 


152 


last farewell of Ingeborg. These delicate feel- 
ings cannot penetrate the hirsute breast of Bruin. 
He knows not what this love may be, — this 
sighing and sorrow for a maiden’s sake. The 
world, he says, is full of maidens; and he offers 
to bring Frithiof a whole ship-load from the 
glowing South, all red as roses and gentle as 
lambs. But Frithiof will not stay. He resolves 
to go to King Ring; but not alone, for his sword 
goes with him. 

The seventeenth canto relates, how King 
Ring sat in his banquet-hall at Jule-tide, and 
drank mead. At his side sat Ingeborg his queen, 
like spring by the side of autumn. And an old 
man, and unknown, all wrapped in skins, en- 
tered the hall, and humbly took his seat near 
the door. And the courtiers looked at each 
other with scornful smiles, and pointed with 
the finger at the hoary bear-skin man. At this, 
the stranger waxed angry, and, seizing with one 
hand a young coxcomb, he “twirled him up 
and down.” The rest grew silent; he would 
have done the same with them. “ Who breaks 
the peace?” quoth the king. ‘Tell us who 
thou art, and whence, old man.”’ And the old 
man answered, — 


“In Anguish was I nurtured, Want is my homestead hight, 
Now come I from the Wolf’s den, I slept with him last 
night.” 


‘Once on a dragon’s back I rode; strong wings 
had he, and flew with might. But now he lies 
wrecked and frozen on the strand, and I am 
grown old and burn salt by the sea-shore.’’ But 
King Ring is not so easily duped, and bids the 
stranger lay aside his disguise. And straight 
the shaggy bear-skin fell from the head of the 
unknown guest, and down from his lofty fore- 
head, over his shoulders broad and full, floated 
his shining ringlets, like a wave of gold. Frith- 
iof stood before them, in a rich mantle of blue 
velvet, with a hand-broad silver belt around his 
waist; and the color came and went in the 
cheek of the queen, like the northern light on 
fields of snow; 


“ And as two water-lilies, beneath the tempest’s might, 
Lie heaving on the billow, so heaved her bosom white.?? 


And now a horn blew in the hall, and kneeling 
on a silver dish, with haunch and shoulder hung 
“with garlands gay and rosemary,” and hold- 
ing an apple in his mouth, the wild boar was 
broughtin.* And King Ring rose up in his hoary 
locks, and, laying his hand upon the boar’s head, 
swore an oath that he would conquer Frithiof, 
the great champion, so help him Frey and Odin 
and the mighty Thor. With a disdainful smile, 
Frithiof threw his sword upon the table, so that 


* The old English custom of the boar’s head at Christ- 
mas dates from a far antiquity. It was in use at the festi- 
vals of Jule-tide among the pagan Northmen. The words 
of Chaucer in the Franklein’s Tale will apply to the old 
hero of the North: 

*¢ And he drinketh of his bugle-horn the wine, 

Before him standeth the brawne of the tusked swine.”’ 


‘ = sae 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


the hall echoed to the clang, and every warrior 
sprang up from his seat, and turning to the king 
he said: * Young Frithiof is my friend; I know 
him well; and I swear to protect him, were 
it against the world; so help me Destiny and 
my good sword.” The king was pleased at 
this great freedom of speech, and invited the 
stranger to remain, their guest till spring; bid- 
ding Ingeborg fill a goblet with the choicest 
wine for him. With downcast eyes and trem- 
bling hand, she presented Frithiof a goblet, 
which two men, as men are now, could not 
have drained ; but he, in honor of his lady-love, 
quaffed it at a single draught. And then the 
Skald took his harp, and sang the song of Hag- 
bart and fair Signé, the Romeo and Juliet of 
the North. And thus the Jule-carouse (Julerus) 
was prolonged far into the night, and the old 
fellows drank deep, till, at length, 


“They all to sleep departed, withouten pain or care.’? 


The next canto describes an excursion on the 
ice. It has a cold breath about it. The short, 
sharp stanzas are like the angry gusts of a 
northwester. 


“King Ring, with his queen, to the banquet did fare, 
On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear. 


“« «Fare not o’er the ice,’ the stranger cries ; 
“It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies.’ 


“ «The king drowns not easily,’ Ring out-spake ; 
‘He who’s afraid may go round the lake.’ 


*¢ Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, 
His steel-shoes with haste on his feet he bound. 


“¢ The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free; 
He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 


‘¢ «Strike out,’ screamed the king, ‘ my trotter good, 
Let us see if thou art of Sleipner’s * blood.’ 


‘* They go as a storm goes over the lake; 
No heed to his queen doth the old man take. 


‘* But the steel-shod champion stands not still, 
He passes by them as swift as he will. 


** He carves many runes in the frozen tide, 
Fair Ingeborg o’er her own name doth glide.”’ 


Thus they speed away over the ice, but be- 
neath them the treacherous Ranft lies in am- 
bush. She breaks a hole in her silver roof, the 
sledge is sinking, and fair Ingeborg is pale with 
fear, when the stranger on his skates comes 
sweeping by like a whirlwind. He seizes the 
steed by his mane, and, at a single pull, places 
the sledge upon firm ice again. They return 
together to the king’s palace, where the stran- 
ger, who is none else than Frithiof, remains a 
guest till spring. 

The nineteenth canto is entitled ‘*¢ Frithiof’s 
Temptation.” The spring comes, and King 
Ring and his court go forth to hunt; but the old 
king cannot keep pace with the chase. Frithi- 
of rides beside him, silent and sad. Gloomy mu- 


* The steed of Odin. 
t A giantess, holding dominion over the waters. 


Soe 


sings rise within him, and he hears continually 
the mournful voices of his own dark thoughts. 
Why had he left the ocean, where all care is 
blown away by the winds of heaven? Here 
he wanders amid dreams and secret longings. 
He cannot forget Balder’s grove. But the grim 
gods are no longer friendly. They have taken 
his rose-bud, and placed it on the breast of 
winter, whose chill breath covers bud and leaf 
and stalk with ice. — And thus they come to a 
lonely valley shut in by mountains, and over- 
shadowed by beeches and alders. Here they 
alight; the quiet of the place invites to slum- 
ber. Frithiof throws down his mantle, and the 
king, stretching himself upon it, pretends to 
sleep. Frithiof is tempted to murder him, but 
resists the temptation, and the king, starting up, 
declares that he has not been asleep, but has 
feigned sleep, merely to put Frithiof— for he 
has long recognized the hero in his guest — to 
the trial. He then upbraids him for having 
come to his palace in disguise, to steal away his 
queen; he had expected the coming of a war- 
rior with an-army; he beheld only a beggar in 
tatters. But now he has proved him, and for- 
given; has pitied, and forgotten. He is soon to 
be gathered to his fathers.. Frithiof shall take 
his queen and kingdom after him. Till then he 
shall remain his guest, and thus their feud shall 
have an end. But Frithiof answers, that he 
came not as a thief to steal away the queen, but 
only to gaze upon her face once more. He will 
remain no longer. The vengeance of the of- 
fended gods hangs over him. He is an outlaw. 
On the green earth he seeks no more for peace ; 
for the earth burns beneath his feet, and the 
trees lend him no shadow. ‘Therefore,’ he 
cries, “away to sea again! Away, my dragon 
brave, to bathe again thy pitch-black breast in 
the briny wave! Flap thy white wings in the 
clouds, and cut the billow with a whistling 
sound; fly, fly, as far as the bright stars guide 
thee, and the subject billows bear. Let me 
hear the lightning’s voice again; and on the 
open sea, in battle, amid clang of shields and 
arrowy rain, let me die, and go. up to the dwell- 
ing of the gods.” 

In the twentieth canto the death of King 
Ring is described. The sunshine of a pleasant 
spring morning plays in the palace hall, when 
Frithiof enters to bid his royal friends a last 
farewell. With them he bids his native land 
good night. 


** No more shall I see 
In its upward motion 
The smoke of the Northland. 
The Fates decree. 
On the waste of the ocean, 
There is my fatherland, there is my grave. 


Man is a slave; 


‘¢ Go not to the strand, 
Ring, with thy bride, 
After the stars spread their light through the sky. 
Perhaps in the sand, 
Washed up by the tide, 
The bones of the oufamnd Viking may lie. 


TEGNER. 


153 


“ Then quoth the king, 
“?T is mournful to hear 
A man like a whimpering maiden cry, 
The death-song they sing 
Even now in mine ear, 
What avails it? He who is born must die.’ ”’ 


He then says that he himself is about to de- 
part for Valhalla; that a death on the straw 
(stradéd) becomes not a king of the Northmen. 
He would fain die the death of a hero: and he 
cuts on his arms and breast the runes of death, 
—runes to Odin. And while the blood drops 
from among the silvery hairs of his naked hos- 
om, he calls for a flowing goblet, and drinks a 
health to the glorious North ; and in spirit hears 
the Gjallar Horn,* and goes to Valhalla, where 
glory, like a golden helmet, crowns the coming 
guest. 

The next canto is the “ Dirge of King Ring ”’ ; 
in the unrhymed, alliterative stanzas of the old 
Icelandic and Anglo-Saxon poetry. The Skald 
sings how the high-descended monarch sits in 
his tomb, with his shield on his arm and his 
battle-sword by his side. His gallant steed, 
too, neighs in the tomb, and. paws the ground 
with his golden hoofs.t But the spirit of the 
departed rides over the rainbow, which bends 
beneath its burden, up to the open gates of Val- 
halla. Here the gods receive him, and garlands 
are woven for him, of golden grain with blue 
flowers intermingled, and Bragé sings a song of 
praise and welcome to the wise old Ring. 

The twenty-second canto describes, in a very 
spirited and beautiful style, the election of a 
new king. The yeoman takes his sword from 
the wall, and, with clang of shields and sound 
of arms, the people -gather together in a public 
assembly, a Ting, whose roof is the sky of hea- 
ven. Here Frithiof harangues them, bearing 
aloft on his shield the little son of Ring, who 
sits there like a king on his throne; or a young 
eagle on the cliff, gazing upward at the sun. 
Frithiof hails him as King of the Northmen, 
and swears to protect his kingdom; and when 
the little boy, tired of sitting on the shield, leaps 
fearlessly to the ground, the people raise a 
shout, and acknowledge him for their monarch, 
and Jarl Frithiof as regent, till the boy grows 
older. But Frithiof has other thoughts than 
these. He must away to meet the Fates at 
Balder’s ruined temple, and make atonement to 
the offended god. And thus he departs. 

Canto twenty-third is entitled “Frithiof at 
his Father’s Grave.’ The sun is sinking like a 
golden shield in the ocean, and the hills and 
vales around him, and the fragrant flowers, and 
song of birds, and sound of the sea, and shadow 


* The Gjallar Horn was blown by Heimdal, the watch- 
man of the gods. He was the son of nine virgins, and was 
called “the God with the Golden Teeth.”? His watch-tower 
was upon the rainbow, and he blew his horn whenever a 
fallen hero rode over the Bridge of Heaven to Valhalla. 

+ It was a Scandinavian as well as a Scythian custom, to 
bury the favorite steed of a warrior in the same tomb with 
him. 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


of trees awaken in his softened heart the mem- 
ory of other days. And he calls aloud to the 
gods for pardon of his crime, and to the spirit of 
his father, that he should come from his grave 
and bring him peace and forgiveness from the 
city of the gods. And, lo! amid the evening 
shadows, from the western wave uprising, land- 
ward floats the Fata Morgana, and, sinking down 
upon the spot where Balder’s temple once 
stood, assumes itself the form of a temple, with 
columns of dark blue steel, and an altar of pre- 
cious stone. At the door, leaning upon their 
shields, stand the Destinies. And the Destiny 
of the Past points to the solitude around, and 
the Destiny of the Future to a beautiful temple 
newly risen from the sea. While Frithiof gazes 
in wonder at the sight, all vanishes away, like 
a vision of the night. But the vision is inter- 
preted by the hero, without the aid of prophet 
or of soothsayer. 

Canto twenty-fourth; ‘The Atonement.” 
The temple of Balder had been rebuilt, and 
with such magnificence, that the North beheld 
in it an image of Valhalla. And two by two, 
in solemn procession, walked therein the twelve 
virgins, clad in garments of silver tissue, with 
roses upon their cheeks, and roses in their in- 
nocent hearts. They sang a solemn song of 
Balder, how much beloved he was by all that 
lived, and how he fell, by Hoder’s arrow slain, 
and earth and sea and heaven wept. And the 
sound of the song was not like the sound of 
buman voice, but like the tones which come 
from the halls of the gods, like the thoughts of 
a maiden dreaming of her lover, when the night- 
ingale is singing in the midnight stillness, and 
the moon shines over the beech-trees of the 
North. Frithiof listened to the song; and as 
he listened, all thoughts of vengeance and of 
human hate melted within him, as the icy 
breastplate melts from the bosom of the fields, 
when the sun shines in spring. At this mo- 
ment the high-priest of Balder.entered, venera- 
ble with his long silver beard; and welcoming 
the Viking to the temple he had built, he de- 
livered for his special edification a long homily 
on things human and divine, with a short cate- 
chism of Northern mythology. He told him, 
likewise, very truly, that more acceptable to 
the gods than the smoke of burnt-offerings was 
the sacrifice of one’s own vindictive spirit, the 
hate of a human soul. He then spake of his 
hatred to Belé’s sons; and informed him that 
Helgé was dead, and that Halfdan sat alone on 
Belé’s throne, urging him, at the same time, to 
sacrifice to the gods his desire of vengeance, 
and proffer the hand of friendship to the young 
king. This was done straightway, Halfdan 
having opportunely come in at that moment; 
and the priest removed forthwith the ban from 
the Varg-i-Veuwm, the sacrilegious and outlawed 
man. And then Ingeborg entered the vaulted 
temple, followed by maidens, as the moon is 
followed by stars in the vaulted sky; and 
from the hand of her brother Frithiof receives 


i 


re 


"the bride of his youth, and they are married in 
Balder’s temple. 


es 


EXTRACTS FROM FRITHIOFS SAGA. 


CANTO I. 
FRITHIOF AND INGEBORG. 


Two plants, for fostering nurture placed, 
The rural Hilding’s hamlet graced ; 
And, peerless since the birth of time, 
Exulted in North’s vigorous clime. 


One rose to seek the bright expanse, 
An Oak, its stem a warrior’s lance; 
Its wreath, which every gale unbound, 
A warrior’s helmet, vaulted round. 


The other reared its blushing head, 

A Rose, when wintry storms are fled ; 
Yet spring, which stores its richer dyes, 
Still in the rose-bud dreaming lies. 


When earth’s bright face rude blasts deform, 
That Oak shall wrestle with the storm; 
When May’s sun tints the heaven with gold, 
That Rose its ruddy lips unfold. 


Jocund they grew, in guileless glee ; 
Young Frithiof was the sapling tree , 
In budding beauty by his side, 
Sweet Ingeborg, the garden’s pride. 


The noontide beam which gilt their sport, 
Say, showed it not like Freya’s court ; 
Where bride-guests flit in spsiteful rings, 
With glistening locks and roseate wings ? 


Whilst, neath the moon-lit silver spray, 
They wheeled in evening roundelay, 
Say, showed it not a fairy scene, 

Where elf-king danced with elfin-queen ? 


Her pilot soon he joyed to glide, 

In Viking-guise, o’er stream and tide: 
Sure, hands so gentle, heart so gay, 
Ne’er ’plauded rover’s young essay ! 


No beetling lair, no pine-rocked nest, 
Might ’scape the love-urged spoiler’s quest : 
Oft, ere an eaglet-wing had soared, 

The eyry mourned its parted hoard. 


He sought each brook of rudest force, 
To bear his Ing’borg o’er its source : 
So thrilling, ’midst the wild alarm, 
The tendril-twining of her arm. 


The earliest flower, spring’s infant birth, 
The earliest fruit that gemmed the earth, 
The ear that earliest graced the plain, 
Oft told his love, nor told in vain. 


But years of childhood smiling fled, 
Youth came with light advancing tread ; 
New hopes the stripling’s glance betrayed, 
Maturing charms adorned the maid. 


gn a SR a a ani inte Ti ennai hana enn acl stil Laat i a ince 


icise-sursundinsiosiaiiecaoreiel ee eT Oe 


SR EL lina pO ite IER ah clea IR ahead ia se 


TEGNER. 


A hunter grown, through den and dale, 
Such chase might see the stoutest quail : 
For, waging desperate stake of life, 

The spearless met in equal strife. 


Breast closed to breast, they struggling stood : 
Those savage teeth are wet ‘with blood ! 
Yet laden home the victor hies, 


And could the nymph his boon despise ? 


Since dear to beauty valorous deed, 
td > ? 

The fair one e’er the hero’s meed: 

Assorted forthe mutual vow, 

As martial helm to softer brow. 


When clustering near the social blaze, 
A tale beguiled the icy days, 

Of mystic names, supernal all, 

Rife in Valhalla’s beaming hall ; 


He mused : “ Though Freya’s braid is bright 
As corn-land waving amber light, 

My Ing’borg’s meshy tresses throw 

O’er rose and lily rival glow. 


“‘Tduna! mortal vision fails, 

Dazed by the orbs thy mantle veils ; 

And, ah! what venturous look may dare, 
Where light-elves move, a bud-crowned pair? 


‘‘O! blue and clear is Frigga’s eye, 
Dazzling as heaven’s unclouded sky : 
But hers the eye whose sparkling ray 
Eclipses e’en spring’s sapphire day. 


‘What, Gerda, though thy cheeks may glow 
Like Northern-light on drifted snow? 

The cheeks I see, whene’er they dawn, 
Blush forth at once a twofold morn. 


‘I know a heart whose truth might claim 
A portion, Nanna, in thy fame! 

Well, Balder, may each poet’s song 

The gratulating strain prolong ! 


“Ah! by one Nanna might my bier 
Be watered with as true a tear, 

The proofs of tenderness she gave 
Would bid me hail an early grave.” 


The feats of many a storied king 

The royal maid would sit and sing ; 

And, broidering, paint the blood-stained scene 
"Midst wave of blue and grove of green. 


In snow-white wool is seen to spread 
The ample shield of gilded thread ; 
Red lances pierce the mascled side, 
In burnished mail the champions ride. 


Yet, though she proves her various skill, 
Each face bears Frithiof’s semblance still : 
And forth the tissue as they gaze, 

She blushes, but with pleased amaze. 


His steel imprints with runic mark 
The living rolls of birchen bark ; 

Where blent initials frequent show 
The hearts that thus together grow. 


When Day’s bright train invests the alry 
King of: the world with splendent hair, 
And men in noiseful courses move, 
Their only thoughts are thoughts of love. 


When Night’s dark train invests the air, 
Queen of the world with raven hair, 
And stars in silent courses move, 

Their only dreams are dreams of love. 


“Thou earth, which, bathed in April showers, 
Weav’st thy green locks with wreathy flowers ! 
Culled from the fairest of the spring, 

A garland for my Frithiof bring.”’ 


‘Thou sea, which, in thy caves below, 
Strew’st lucid pearls in countless row ! 
Here bear the treasures of the main, 
That love may thread a silken chain.” 


‘¢ Brilliant on Odin’s seat of state, 

Heaven’s eye, whose glance no years abate ! 
If thou wert mine, thy orb should yield 

My Frithiof a golden shield.”’ 


‘¢ All-father’s lamp, whose evening beam 
Illumes his dome with softened gleam ! 
If thou wert mine, my maid should bow 
Thy silver crescent o’er her brow.” 


But Hilding’s sager counsel came, 

To damp the youth’s presumptuous flame : 
‘Fan not,” he warned, “ forbidden fire ; 
The virgin boasts a royal sire. 


“To Odin, throned in starry space, 
Ascends the lineage of her race : 

Let Thorsten’s son the prize resign, 
Best thrive whom equal lots combine.” 


*¢ My race,” young Frithiof gayly said, 
‘¢ Descends to regions of the dead : 
My sway the forest-king confessed, 
His lineage mine, and bristling vest. 


‘¢ The world his realm, what daunts the free ? 
He heeds not partial fate’s decree : 

Smiles may dispel stern fortune’s frown, 

"Tis hope’s to wear and point a crown. 


‘In pedigree all might excels, 

Its parent, Thor, in Thrudvang dwells : 
Valor by him, not birth, is weighed, 

A potent wooer is the blade. 


‘¢ In combat for my youthful bride 

Were thunder’s-god himself defied : 

Grow blithe, my flower, in sure defence, 
Woe to the hand would pluck thee hence ! ” 


- = 


sat on 


| 
| 
| 
| 


SSS ee Somerton 


CANTO III. 


FRITHIOF’S HOMESTEAD. 


THREE miles extended around the fields of the 
homestead ; on three sides 

Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the 
fourth side was the ocean. 

Birch-woods crowned the summits, but over 
the down-sloping hill-sides 

Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was 
waving the rye- -field. 

Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held 
up for the mountains, 

Held for the forests up, in whose depths the 
high-antlered reindeers 

Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred 
brooklets. ; 

But in the valleys, full widely around, there fed 
on the green-sward 

Herds with sleek, shining sides, and udders 
that longed for the milk-pail. 

’Mid these were scattered, now here and now 
there, a vast, countless number 

Of white-woolled sheep, as thou seest the white- 
looking stray clouds, 

Flock-wise, spread o’er the heavenly vault, 
when it bloweth in spring-time. 

Twice twelve swift-footed coursers, mettlesome, 
fast-fettered storm-winds, 

Stamping stood in the line of stalls, all champ- 
ing their fodder, 

Knotted with red their manes, and their hoofs 
all whitened with steel shoes. 

The banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timber- 
ed of hard fir. 

Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the 
hundred)! 

Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for 
drinking at Yule-tide. 

Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a 
table of holm- cab. 

Polished and white, as of steel ; 
(twain of the high-seat 

Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out 
of an elm-tree ; 

Odin ? with lordly look, and. Frey? with the 
sun on‘his frontlet. 

Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the 
skin, it was coal-black, 
Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were 
shodden with silver), 
Thorsten sat with his friends, 
ting with Gladness. 

Oft, when the moon among the night clouds 
flew, related the old man 

Wonders from far distant lands he had seen, 
and cruises of Vikings 4 


the columns 


Hospitality sit- 


1 An old fashion of reckoning in the North. 

2 Odin, the All-father; the Jupiter of Scandinavian my- 
thology. 

3 Frey, the god of Liberty ; the Bacchus of the North. 
He revresents the sun at the winter solstice. 

4 The old pirates of the North were called Vikingar, 
Kings of the Gulf. 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


Far on the Baltic and Sea of the West, and the 
North Sea. 

Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances 
hung on the graybeard’s 

Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Skald was 
thinking of Bragé,5 

Where, with silver beard, 
tongue, he is seated 

Under the leafy beach, and tells a tradition by 
Mimer’s ® 

Ever murmuring wave, himself a living tradi- 
tion. 

Mid-way the floor (with thatch was it strewn), 
burned forever the fire-flame 

Glad on its stone-built hearth ; and through the 
wide-mouthed smoke-flue 

Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down 
into the great hall. 

But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were 
hanging in order 

Breastplate and helm with each other, and here 
and there in among them 

Downward lightened a sword, 
evening a star shoots. 

More than helmets and swords, the shields in 
the banquet-hall glistened, 

White as the orb of the sun, or white as the 
moon’s disk of silver. 

Ever and anon went a maid round the board 
and filled up the drink-horns ; 

Ever slie cast down her eyes and blushed; in 
the shield her reflection 

Blushed too, even as she ; — this gladdened the 
hard-drinking champions. 


and runes on his 


as in winter 


CANTO IV. 


FRITHIOF’S SUIT. 


Tue songs are loud-pealing in Frithiof’s hall, 
And the praise of his sires is the burden of all : 
But the Skald’s art is vain, 

He heeds not the music, and hears not the strain. 


Now a vest of bright green mantles vale, hill, 
and tree, 

And dragons are swimming the dark blue sea: 

But the son of the brave, 

The moon is his pole-star, the wood-flower his 
wave. 


O, the hours had been joyous, how rapid their 
speed, 

Whilst merry King Halfdan late quaffed of his 
mead! 

For, though Helgé dark-frowned, 

The smile of fair Ing’borg spread sunshine 
around. 


He sat by her side, and he pressed her soft hand, 
And he felt a fond pressure responsive and bland : 


5 Bragé, the god of Song; the Scandinavian Apollo. 
6 Mimer, the god of Eloquence. He sat by the wave of 
Urda, the Destiny of the Past. 


TEGNER. 


a ene nee, ye 


157 


Ah ! how envied her fate! 


Was returned as the sun’s in the moon’s placid | Could he ask her return? She had found her 


Whilst his love-beaming gaze 
rays. 
| 


They spoke of days by-gone, so gladsome and 
gay, 

When the dew was yet fresh on life’s new-trod- 
den way: 

For on memory’s page 

Youth traces its roses, its briers old age. 


She brought him a greeting from dale and from 
wood, 

|| From the bark-graven runes and the brook’s 

silver flood ; 

| From the dome-crowned cave, 

Where oaks bravely stream o’er a warrior’s 
grave. 


‘From the pomp of the palace ’t were sweet to 
return, 

For Halfdan was puerile, Helgé was stern : 

And the two royal heirs 

Savored only the incense of praises and pray- 
ers. 


‘There was no one,” she said, as she blushed 
like a rose, 

“To whom her sad heart could unbosom its 
woes: 

From a king’s halls, in truth, 

Freedom fled to respire in the scenes of her 
youth. 


*‘ Of the doves he had given, purloined from the 
nest, 

Which had fed from her hand and reposed on 
her breast, 

Lo!” she lisped, a last pair : 

These brave the near falcon; let one be thy care. 


“For homeward the swift-pinioned turtle will 
wend, 

Like another it yearns to rejoin a lost friend : 

Let its faith-guided wing 

A kind token concealed to the desolate bring.” 


Such whispers Day heard, as he rode his gay 
round, 

And the ear of the Evening still caught the soft 
sound, — 

To the leaves of the grove 

Thus the zephyrs of Spring whisper accents of 
love. 


But now she has left him, and with her are 
flown 

Joy and Peace its sweet sister, he wanders 
alone, 

And with Astrild’s warm dyes 

Young blood stains his cheek, as he burns and 
he sighs. 


His sorrow, his plaint, to the dove he consigned, 
And love’s messenger joyous outstrips the fleet 
wind : 


lost mate. 


This unmartial demeanour Bjérn’s anger in- 
flamed : 

‘¢ What means our plumed eagle ?”’ displeased 
he exclaimed ; 

“« Why so mute, so reserved ? 

Has his breast been pierced through, or his 
wing been unnerved ? 


‘Say, groans not thy board, — canst thou covet 
aught more, 

With the foaming brown mead and fat chine of 
the boar ? 

And of Skalds what a throng ! 

They could weary thy walls with the echo of 
song. 


‘The stalled coursers, indeed, they paw restless 
and neigh, 

And the falcon shrieks wildly, ‘To 
prey!’ 

But their lord’s dreamy chase 

Is pursued in the clouds, and he faints with the 
race. 


prey! to 


“ Ellida, ’t is true, on the wave has no rest, 
She tugs at the anchor and rears her high crest : 
Cease thy hiss, dragon, cease ! 

For Frithiof wars not, his watchword is Peace. 


*‘ There ’s a death on the straw, and a death by 
the spear, 

I can carve me, like Odin, for blood on the 
bier : 

Not a fear we should fail, 

Seeking shadowy welcome with Hela the pale.”’ 


Then he loosed his sea-dragon and donned his 
bright mail ; 

There was snorting of billow and swelling of 
sail, 

And light furrowed the bay, 

As straight to the monarchs he steered his bold 
way. 


On the cairn of King Bele they were seated in 
state, 

With the balance and ensign of awful debate. 

Soon the echoes awoke, 

And far caverns repeated the voice, as he spoke. 


* To the hand of fair Ing’borg, ye kings, I as- 
pire, 

Be the nuptial torch lit with a spark of love’s 
fire : 

"T was a parent’s behest ; 

Bind his flower, as he bade, to this helm-mount- 
ed crest. 


“He had left us to grow, to sage Hilding as- 
signed, 
Like saplings whose branches are closely en- 


twined ; 
N 


——— 7? 


And bright Freya above 
Had linked the young tops with the gold knot 
of love. 


“© Grant my sire was no monarch, nor high- 
titled thane, 

But he lives in the song, and is hymned with 
the slain ; 

My ancestors’ fame 

Their high-vaulted Bauta-stones proudly pro- 
claim. 


“Tt were easy to win me a sceptre and land, 

But the home of my choice is my own native 
strand : 

There the cot and the court 

My shield shall o’erscreen, and my spear shall 


support. 
“¢’'T is the death-mound of Bele, of the honored, 
we tread, 
Now hearkening he raises his time-silvered 
- head: 


E’en the dead intercedes, 
And bethink ye for whom? ’t is for Frithiof he 
pleads.” 


Then spake Helgé, uprising, with scorn-breath- 
ing ire, 

“¢'To a sister of kings shall the serf-born as- 
pire? 

Can the pine and crab blend? 

Let monarchs for Valhall’s fair scion contend ! 


‘¢ For the first in the North dost thou burn to be 
sung ? 

Win men with thy sword-arm, and maids with 
thy tongue. 

But Odin’s blood-tide 

Shall disdain to be. poured in the veins of thy 
pride. 


«My realm J defend; vain intruder, forbear, 

It can yield stalworth yeomen enough and to 
spare ; 

Yet a place in my train 

Thy humble entreaty might haply obtain.” 


«¢ A retainer ?’’ he thundered, and grasped his 
dread brand: . 

‘«¢ Thorsten’s son, like his sire, knows alone to 
command : 

From thy sheath’s silver stay 

Fly forth, Angurvadel! it brooks not delay.” 


In the sunshine the blue steel then brilliantly 
beamed, 

And redly the flaming rune-characters gleamed : 

“¢ Thou,” he cried, “* my good blade, 

Thou, at least, art in birth’s ancient honors ar- 
rayed ! 


‘«¢ But I bow to the peace of this grave-hallowed 
mound, 

On the spot it should hew thee, swarth chief, to 
the ground ; ‘ 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


The live started above, the dead started below. 


«¢ Well rived, Angurvadel! thy runic fires hide, 

And, of higher feats dreaming, repose by my 
side : 

Thou shalt wake thee again. 

Now home be our course o’er the purple-clad 
main.” 


CANTO VI. 


FRITHIOF AT CHESS. 


BrsipE a chess-board’s chequered frame 
Frithiof and Bjérn pursued their game: 
Silver was each alternate plane, 

And each alternate plane of gold. 


Aged Hilding came: to throne of beech 
The chieftain led with courteous speech : 
‘¢ Sire, when the mead’s bright horn shall wane, 


Our field be won, thy tale unfold.” 


The sage began: ‘“ From Bele’s high heirs 
I come with courteous words and prayers: 
Disastrous tidings rouse the brave, 

On thee a nation’s hope relies.”’ 


“Check to thy king!” then Frithiof cried, 
‘“¢ Prompt means of rescue, Bjérn, provide ; 
His crown a yeoman’s life may save, 
And who would heed the sacrifice ?”’ 


“¢ Naught ’gainst a king, my son, presume ; 
Strong the young eagle’s beak and plume: 
Measured with Ring’s, the weaker power 
Were adamant, opposed to thine.” 


«My castle, Bjérn, thou threat’st in vain, 
My yeomen rout thy royal train : 

*T’ will cost thee much to win its tower, 
Shielded secure in bastion-line.”’ 


‘In Balder’s fane, grief’s loveliest prey, 
Sweet Ing’borg weeps the live-long’ day: 
Say, can her tears unheeded fall, 

Nor call her champion to her side?” 


“ Thy fruitless quest, good Bjorn, forbear ! 
From earliest youth I held her dear ; 

‘The noblest piece, the queen of all, 

She must be saved, whate’er betide.” 


“Ts brief rejoinder yet deferred ? 
And must thy foster-sire, unheard, 
Or quit this hall, or menial wait ‘ 


Yet learn, from this hour, 

That my sword has some edge, and my arm has 
some power.” 

He said; and, lo! cloven in twain at a stroke, 
Fell King Helgé’s gold shield from its pillar of 
oak : 

At the clang of the blow, 

Thy sport’s procrastinated close ?”’ 


——S—S——EE 


TEGNER. 159 


Then Frithiof, moved, approached his guest, 
The old man’s hand he kindly pressed: 

‘“‘T have replied,” he said elate, 

| *¢ My soul’s resolve my father knows. 


But, secure in sea-tight keel, 
Desperate Viking scorns the port ; 
Grasps the helm. with hand of steel, 
Joying in the whirlwind’s sport. 
More he girds the groaning mast, 
Cleaves the surge with keener force 
Vantaging by wave and blast, 
West, due west, pursues his course. e 
“Lists me with the tempest 
Yet an hour of combat ; 
Here the storm and Northman 
Cope with like advantage. 
What were Ing’borg’s blushes, 
Should her proud sea-eagle, 
By a gust disheartened, 
| oy Drooping seek the land!” 
CANTO X. 


“ Haste! tell the sons of royal Bele 
I wear not a retainer’s steel : 

For wounded honor bids divide 

The sacred bond it once revered.” 


? 


‘Well, tread thy path,” the answer came, 
‘Thy wrath ’t were chance unmeet to blame. 
May Odin all in mercy guide!” 

Thus Hilding spake, and disappeared. 


| 
Deeper and more oft 

Ayes oth Lok eet da Satis the gulfs of death : | 
Hees on the strand | 
Chants his wizard-spell, 
Potent to command : 

Fiends of earth or hell. 
Gathering darkness shrouds the sky ; 
Hark, the thunder’s distant roll! 
Lurid lightnings, as they fly, 
Streak with blood the sable pole. 
Ocean, boiling to its base, 


There is whistling aloft, 

There is cracking beneath. 
Yet, amidst the war of waves, 
Now pursuing, now opposed, | 
Shock and blast Ellida braves, 
Gods her seamless fabric closed : 
As a meteor’s scudding light, 
Shoots athwart the flashing deep ; 
As a chamois launched in flight, 


Scatters wide its wave of foam; 

Screaming, as in fleetest chase, 

Sea-birds seek their island-home. 
“ Hard ’s the weather, brother! 


Bounds o’er cataract and steep. 
“ Better ’t were to gather, 
For the spray’s salt kisses, 
Sweets in Balder’s temple, 


List the storm’s wild pinions 
Flapping in the distance ; 
Yet we tremble not. 
Tranquil in the high-grove, 
Sighing, think of Frithiof, 
In thy tears most beauteous, 
Lovely Ingeborg! ”’ 


From thy lips distilling : 
Better ’t were, than grappling 
Thus the impatient rudder, i 
Hold in fond embraces 

Thee, my royal bride !”’ 


Snow-flakes ride the gale; 

Nature seems congealed ; 

Fast the pattering hail 

Beats on deck and shield. 

Frosty Ham is there ; Full between the rampant beaks 
There is snowy Heyd. Night her canopy hath spread ; 

Now, the hoarse-winged storm, set free, Not a darker dawning breaks | 

Delves in depths their coral road ; O’er the chambers of the dead. 

Now, aloft on mountain-sea, As with demon-wrath endued, 

i Whirls them to the gods’ abode. Fiercely roars each spell-bound wave ; 

/ Courage, proved in many a fight, As with heroes’ ashes strewed, 

Shudders at emprise like this, Soundless gapes each foamy grave. 

| Scaling the ethereal height, «¢ Rana in sea-caverns 

From the bottomless abyss. Streeks our beds of azure ; 


Two foul imps of air 
Toward Ellida glide : 


‘“‘ Fairer was the passage But the couch of Ing’borg 
O’er the watery mirror, Waits her weary wanderer. 
Silvered by the moon-beam, Mariners undaunted 
Bound to Balder’s grove: Man the oared Ellida; 
Warmer than this region, Sea-gods framed her timbers : 
Near my Ing’borg’s bosom ; Still an hour she bides.”’ 
Whiter than the sea-foam i 
Heaved her swelling breast.” Now.a torrent stream, 
Threatening instant wreck, 
“See, Solundar Isle Swift as lightning gleam, 
Peers amid the spray ; Swept the laden deck. 
| Try its calm awhile, Frithiof from his arm released, 

{ 


Run to make the bay.” Three marks’ weight, a solid ring, 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


Brilliant as the glowing East, 
Relic of the honored king. 
Portioning, he hewéd the gold, 
Wrought by dwarfs with artful care ; 
Crew and fragments nicely told, 
| No one lacked his equal share. 
H “¢ Love’s persuasive herald, 
\~ Gold, befits the suitor ; ‘ 
Hands devoid of tribute 

Press not sea-green Rana. 
Cold she shuns fond ardor, 
Fleeting flies caresses, * 

Yet the burnished metal 

| Sea-bride shall enchain.”’ 


As mad with defeat, 
It blows more and more hard ; 
There is bursting of sheet, 
There is splintering of yard. 
O’er and o’er the half-gulfed side, 
Flood succeeding flood is poured ; 
Fast as they expel the tide, 
Faster still it rolls aboard. 
Now e’en Frithiof’s dauntless mind 
Owned the triumph of his foe ; 
Louder yet than wave and wind, 
Thus his thundering accents flow : 
*¢ Haste and grasp the tiller, 
Bjorn, with might of bear-paw ! 
Tempest so infuriate 
Comes not from Valhalla. 
Witchcraft is a-going ; 
Sure, the coward Helgé 
Spells the raging billows ! 
Mine the charge to explore.” 


Light as marten-tread 
Up the pine he sprung ;— 
From its dizzy head 
Eagle-glances flung. 
Floating as an isle loose-torn, 
Lo! a whale’s terrific form ; 
On whose scaly ridge upborne, 
Two fell demons rule the storm. 
Like a shaggy mammoth, Heyd 
Shook his mane of drifting snow : 
Ham, with ospray wings spread wide, 
Taught the tempest where to blow. 
“‘ Tron-braced sea-dragon, 
Boots one gallant onset, 
Prove that heart of prowess 
Tenants breast of oak. 
Hear my voice accordant : 
Boast’st thou birth celestial, 
Up! with ore-edged bosom 
Gore the charmed whale !”’ 


Chafing, as he spake, 

With expanded crest, 

Flew the hissing drake, 

Cleft the monster’s breast. 
Burst a blood-spout from the wound, 
Mingling with the reeking clouds, 
Ere the beast in mire profound, 


Bellowing, its death-strife shrouds. 


re rr Sr rrr rr rE 


Fate-winged lances, two allied, 
Hurtling from their nervous rest, 
Pierced the Mammoth’s shaggy hide, 
Pierced the Ospray’s plumed vest. 
‘‘ Bravely struck, Ellida! 
Not, I ween, so quickly 
Helgé’s sloop emerges 
From the bloody slime. 
Ham and Heyd, its pilots, 
Keep the brine no longer ; 
Bitter is the morsel, 
Biting cold blue steel.” 


Straight the sky was cleared ; 
Calmed the angry flood, 
Save a swell that steered 
Where an island stood. 
Suddenly the orb of day, 
Leading on its pageant train, 
Gladdened with reviving ray 
Vale and mountain, ship and plain. 
Snow-capped cliff and wood-veiled slope 
Shone, with parting radiance crowned : 
Instinct all with kindling hope, 
Hailed the strands of Efje-sound. 
‘“‘ Ing’borg’s prayers have risen, 
Maiden pale, to Valhall, 
At the golden altar 
Her fair knees have bowed. 
Tears in eyes of crystal, 
Sighs in swandown-bosom, 
Touched the obdurate Asar ; 
Theirs be all the praise! ”’ 


Yet Ellida’s prow 
Rued the fierce affray ; 
Wearily and low, 
Ploughed its watery way. 
Still more weary of the main, 
Scarce the stoutest of the band 
Now their toilworn limbs sustain, 
Aided by the trusty brand. 
Of the frozen seamen, four 
Bjorn’s gigantic shoulders raise ; 
Frithiof’s, eight; and, borne to shore, 
Seat them round the cheering blaze. 
“¢ Nay, blush not, ye pale ones! 
Viking, brave the billow! 
Desperate is the conflict, 
Waged with ocean-maids. 
See, on hastening gold-foot 
Moves the sparkling mead-horn, 
Warmth and strength diffusing : 
Health to Ingeborg!” 


CANTO XI. 


FRITHIOF AT THE COURT OF ANGANTYR. 


"T 1s time to tell how Angantyr, 


The earl, was seated then 


High in his hall of stately fir, 


Carousing with his men. 


Sa Tt NNR ere ee ee TE TTD 


TEGNER. 


Thence he surveyed, in merry mood, 
The day-car as it rolled ; 

Now cleaving through the purple flood, 
All like a swan of. gold. 


The window near, a trusty swain, 
Old Halvar, kept good heed ; 

One eye upon the foamy main, 
One on the frothy mead. 

Oft as the veteran’s dole came round, 
He quaffed till all was drawn ; 

Then straight, with gravity profound, 
Replaced the exhausted horn. 


Now hurled, it bounded on the floor, 
Whilst loud the warder cried, 

* The billows, laboring toward the shore, 
I see a vessel ride. 

Wrestling with death, pale rowers strain, 
And now thgy touch the land ; 

And ghastly forms, by giants twain, 

re strewed along the strand.”’ 


The chieftain o’er the glassy vale 
Losked from his hall on high : 

*¢ Yon pennon is Ellida’s sail ; 
Frithiof, I ween, is nigh. 

That noble port, that lofty brow, 
Old Thorsten’s son declares ; 

Such cognizance, brave youth, as thou, 
No gallant Northman bears.’’ 


Swift from the bench, with maddening air, 
The Berserk Atlé flew ; 

O’er whose gaunt visage, gore-stained hair 
A sable horror threw. 

‘¢ | haste,” he roared, ‘+ intent to brave 
This sword-subduer’s spell, 

Who peace or truce ne’er deigned to crave, 
As vaunting rumors tell.” 


Then twice six followers from the board 
Rushed forth with fierce delight ; 

They whirled the club, they waved the sword, 
Impatient for the fight. 

Thus storming, to the beach they hied, 
Where Frithiof on the sand 

Seated, by spent Ellida’s side, 
Cheered his disheartened band. 


** Conquest,” he ’gan, with thundering voice, 
‘“¢ Were feat of light emprise, 
Yet generous Atlé grants a choice, 
Ere luckless Frithiof dies. 
For proffered peace deign once to sue, 
Else all unwont to plead, 
Thy steps, myself, as comrade true, 
To yonder keep will lead.” 


“Though worn with conflict fell and long,” 
In ire, the Bold replied, 

“‘ Hre Frithiof wear a suppliant tongue, 
Be the fresh battle tried.” 

Then from each sun-burnt warrior’s steel 
The lightning flashes came, 

And Angurvadel’s runes reveal 
Dark fate, in signs of flame. 


161 


Now on their bucklers, showered like hail, 
The clattering death-strokes beat ; 

Till, cleft at once, each shield’s beaod mail 
Falls clanging at their feet. 

Yet, proof alike ’gainst fear and ruth, 
They played the desperate stake ; 

But keen was Angurvadel’s tooth, 


And Atlé’s falonker brake. e 


Said Frithiof, ** Swordless foeman’s life 
Ne’er dyed this gallant blade : 

So, list thee to prolong the strife, 
Be equal war essayed.”’ 

Like billows driven by autumn’s blast, 
The champions met and closed ; 

In mutual clutch locked firm and fast, 
Their steel-clad breasts opposed. 


They hugged like bears, that, wandering free, 
Meet on their cliff ah snow ; 

Grappled like eagles o’er the sea, 
That frets its waves below. 

Such force had well-nigh torn the rock, 
Deep-rooted, from its bed ; 

And, shaken less, the iron oak 
Had bowed its leafy ‘head. 


Big from their brows the heat- drops roll, 
Coli d heaves each laboring chest, 
Touched by their tread, stone, bush,.2 and knoll 
Start from their ancient fart 
Trembling, their sturdy followers wait 
The issue of the fray ; 
And oft shall Northern lips relate 
The wrestling of that day. 


"T is o’er; for Frithiof’s matchless strength 
Has felled his ponderous size ; 

And ‘neath that knee, a giant length, 
Supine the Viking Tas 

* But fails my sword, thou Berserk swart!”’ 
The voice rang far and wide, 

“Its point should pierce thy ftidiokt heart, 
Tis hilt should drink the tide.” 


‘¢ Be free to lift the weaponed hand,”’ 
Undaunted Atlé spoke, 

“‘ Hence, fearless quest thy distant brand ! 
Thus I abide the stroke: 

To track Valhalla’s path of light, 
In arms immortal shine, — 

My destiny, perchance, this night, 
To-morrow may be thine ! re 


Nor Frithiof long delayed ; intent 
Te close the dread debate, 
His blade redeemed ’gainst Aulé bent, 
And aimed the expected fate. 
But reckless courage holds a charm 
Can kindred wrath surcease ; 
This quelled his ire, this checked his arm, 
Outstretched the hand of peace. 


The warder growled, and eyed the cheer, 
Waving his staff of white: 
“ But little boots our banquet here, 


That Hildur’s cates invite ; 
NZ 


Speman rea harem rick || 


St aE A hr NE SOAR LETS RR NTN ST lm te. 
SPSS LISS Ss eae 1D -- — anal 


For you must stand the savory meat 
Untouched in reeking row, 

For you these lips be parched with heat, 
Halvar his horn forego.”’ 


Now, brothers sworn, the former foes 
Have passed the spacious gate, 

Whose valves to Frithiof’s view disclose 
Wonders of wealth and state. 

For planks, his walls’ rude vest, scant aid 
To exclude the piercing cold, 

Rich skins with glittering flowers o’erlaid, 
Berries of pendent. gold. 


No central balefire in the hall 
With stifling splendor shone ; 
But glowed within the. caverned wall 
A hearth of polished stone. 
No sooty clouds the roof defaced, 
The polished plank distained ; 
Glass neatly squared the windows graced ; 
The door a lock restrained. 


For torch of pine, whose crackling blaze 
Diffused a flickering gleam, 

From branching silver shed, bright rays 
Rivalled the solar beam. 

He saw the.table’s ample sweep 
A larded hart adorn, 

With gold-hoof raised for menaced leap, 
And leaf in grove of horn. 


Behind the seated chief, serene, 
Appeared a virgin-form ; 

So looks the star of beauty’s queen, 
Soft, o’er a sky of storm. 

There nut-brown ringlets circling flowed ; 
There sparkled eyes of blue ; 

And, as a flower ’midst runes, there glowed 
Small lips of roseate hue. 


High on a throne of ore-clad elm 
Sat Angantyr sedate ; 

Bright as the sun his burnished helm, 
As bright his gilded plate. 

His mantle, rich with many a gem, 
Strewed the bespangled ground ; 

Along whose border’s purple hem 
The spotless ermine wound. 


He strode three paces from the dais, 
His gallant guest to greet, 

And led, with many a gracious phrase, 
To honor’s nearest seat. 

“ What place a comrade’s cherished name 
Might ask for Thorsten’s son 

Is thine, brave youth ; the due of fame, 
By peerless valor won.” 


Now flagons from Sicilia’s store 
Their treasured nectar gave ; 

Not Etna’s fire could sparkle more, 
More froth Charybdis’ wave. 

* Come, pledge the memory of my friend, 
Be welcome pledged,” he said, 

« And let the brimming goblet blend 

The living and the dead.” 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


A chief of Morven’s bards of old ° 
Then ’gan his harp essay ; 

In Gaelic numbers darkly trolled 
The wild heroic lay. 

He ceased. When straight the chords along 
A Norrhene finger flies, 

Thorsten’s exploits its customed song 
And this obtained the prize. 


Now much the curious earl would learn 
Of friends and scenes of youth, 

And well might listening ear discern 
The answering voice of truth. 

To partial doom in vain esteem 
Or honest hate excites ; 

So calm, by Time’s absorbing stream, 
Saga her tale indites. 


When Frithiof spake of hair-breadtl ’scape, 
Proved on the watery plain ; 

Of Helgé’s imps and monster shape, 
Which ne’er shall float again : ; 

Then laughed the champions’ festive ring, 
Great Angantyr then smiled, 

Whilst back the echoing rafters fling 
Plaudits more rude and wild. 


But when he told how dearly loved 
The sister of his chief, 

What tears her fond affection proved, 
How noble in her grief; 

Then deep sighed many a maiden-breast, 
Love tinted many a cheek, 

And many a palm had fain expressed 
What maiden may not speak. 


At length the youth his embassade 
Announced in firmer tone ; 

Each champion frowned, trembled each maid, 
Calm spake the earl alone : — 

““ No feudatory sceptre mine, 
Free men the free obey ; 

Oft have we pledged Bele’s royal line, 
But never owned its sway. 


‘¢'T’o those unknown, degenerate heirs, 
That tribute-craving king, . 

Bear back : ‘The vassal count prepares 
What offering warriors bring. 

Behoves that power should wait*6n pride : — 
Yet was thy father dear.’ ” 

He paused. His beck, her instant guide, 
An elf-like form drew near. 


The sandal neath her foot was mute ; 
Her frame the elastic sprig ; 

Her bosom was the rounded fruit ; 
Her waist its slender twig. 

Close-nestled in her dimpled chin, 
Arch knave, young Astrild lay ; 

So lurks the honey-fly within 
The flower-cup borne by May. 


She, flitting through a deep alcove, 
From its recesses drew 

A purse, by maiden fingers wove, 
With scenes of various view. 


Rk OE a eo ES NS A is ml 


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TEGNER. 


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- There deer enjoyed the verdant shade ; 
Sails thronged the liquid lea ; 
Soft sheaves of gold its pendants made ; 
Rubies supplied a key. 


With filial air, this web of price 
To Angantyr conveyed, 

He heaped with coin, whose strange device 
A Southern mint betrayed. 

“This guest-gift take,’ he said benign, 
‘To render or retain ; 

But here, till winter rules the sign, 
Must Thorsten’s son remain. 


* Though desperate valor oft avails, 
"T is winter’s stormy tide ; 

It bears, believe me, on its gales, 
Another Ham and Heyd. 

Ellida with so nice assault 
May threat her foe in vain; 

And ocean in its soundless vault 
Has whales in plenteous train.” 


Whilst jest and social joys engage, 
Swift the night-watches fled ; 
Freighted with mirth, not fraught with rage, 
The golden goblet sped ; 
A health to Angantyr they shout, 
At the close of each regale : 
And Frithiof wears the winter out, 
Ere swells Ellida’s sail. 


CANTO XIX. 
FRITHIOF’S TEMPTATION. 


SprinG is coming, birds are twittering, forests 
leaf, and smiles the sun, 

And the loosened torrents downward singing to 
the ocean run; 

Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rose- 
buds ’gin to ope, 

And in human hearts awaken love of life, and 
joy, and hope. 


Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the 
queen shall join the sport; 

Swarming in its gorgeous splendor is assembled 
all the court ; 

Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions 
paw the ground alway, 

And, with hoods upon their eyelids, falcons 
scream aloud for prey. 


See, the queen of the chase advances! Fri- 
thiof, gaze not on the sight! 

Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her 
palfrey white, 

Half of Freya,! half of Rota,? yet more beau- 
teous than these two, 

And from her light hat of purple wave aloft 


the feathers blue. 


1 The goddess of Love and Beauty. 
2 One of the Valkyries. 


163 


Now the huntsman’s band is ready. 
over hill and dale !. 


Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the 


hall of Odin sail. 

All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their 
cavern homes, 

But, with spear outstretched before her, after 
them Valkyria ° comes. 

Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and 
upon the greensward spread, 

And the ancient king so trustful laid on Fri- 
thiof’s knee his head ; 

Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war’s 
alarms 

On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its 
mother’s arms. 


As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black 
bird upon a bough : 

“‘ Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your 
quarrel at a blow ; 

Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the 
bridal kiss she gave ; 

Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and 
silent is the grave.” 


Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow- 
white bird upon the bough: 

‘¢ Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s 
eye beholds thee now. 

Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defence- 
less old man slay? 

Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a 
hero’s fame this way.” 


Thus the two wood-birds did warble ; Frithiof 
took his war-sword good, 

With a shudder hurled it from him, far into 
the gloomy wood. 

Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand ;* but on 
light unfolded wings, 

Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding 
towards the sun upsprings. 


Straight the ancient king awakens. ‘ Sweet 
has been my sleep,”’ he said ; 

*¢ Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded 
by a brave man’s blade. 

But where is thy sword, O stranger? 
ning’s brother, where is he ? 
Who thus parts you, who should never from 

each other parted be?” 


Light- 


“Tt avails not,” Frithiof answered; ‘in the 
North are other swords ; 

Sharp, O monarch, is the sword’s tongue, and 
it speaks not peaceful words, 

Murky spirits dwell in steel-blades, spirits from 
the Niffelhem, 

Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks 
but anger them.” 


3 The Valkyries are celestial virgins, who bear off the 


souls of the slain in battle. 
4 The Strand of Corpses; a region in the Niffelhem, or 


Scandinavian Hell. 


Hurrah ! 
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THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER. 
The 


PrntEcost, day of rejoicing, had come. 
‘church of the village 
Stood gleaming white in the morning’s sheen. 
On the spire of the belfry, 
Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames 
of the spring-sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire beheld by 
Apostles aforetime. 
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with 
her cap crowned with roses, 
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the 
wind and the brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace ! 
With lips rosy-tinted 
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry 
on balancing branches 
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn 
to the Highest. 
Swept and clean was the church-yard. Adorned 
like a leaf=woven arbor 
Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon 
each cross of iron 
Hung was a sweet-scented garland, new-twined 
by the hands of affection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a fountain among 
the departed 
(There full a hundred years had it stood), was 
embellished with blossoms. 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith 
and the hamlet, 
Who on his birth-day is crowned by children 
and children’s children, 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with 
his pencil of iron 
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured 
the swift-changing moment, 
While all around, at his feet, an eternity slum- 
bered in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this 
was the season 
In which the young, their parents’ hope, and 
the loved-ones of Heaven, 
should at the foot of the altar renew the vows 
of their baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner were swept 
and cleaned, and the dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the 
oil-painted benches. 
There stood the church like a garden; the 
Feast of the Leafy Pavilions 
Saw we in living presentment. 
arms on the church wall 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preach- 
er’s pulpit of oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod 
before Aaron. 
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, 
and the dove, washed with silver, 
Under its canopy fastened, a necklace had on 
of wind-flowers. 


From noble 


1 The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish, Léfhyddo- 
hégtiden, the Leaf-huts’-high-tide. 


A armas A Nant AER Tac LOIN Hn eRe eiatit AAR Nhe 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece 
painted by Horberg,? 

Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling 
tresses of angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, out of the 
shadowy leaf-work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, 
blinked from the ceiling, 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set 
in the sockets. 


Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging 

crowd was assembled 

Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy 

. preaching. 

Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones 
from the organ, 

Hover like voices from God, aloft, like invisible 
spirits. 

Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off from 
him his mantle, 

Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; 
and with one voice 

Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem 
immortal 

Of the sublime Wallin, of David’s harp in the 
North-land, 

Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its 
powerful pinions 

Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to 
heaven, 

And every face did shine like the Holy One’s 

face upon Tabor. 

there entered then into the church the 

reverend teacher. 

Father he hight, and he was,in the parish; a 
Christianly plainness’ 

Clothed from his head to his feet the old man 
of seventy winters. 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the 
heralding angel 

Walked he among the crowds; but still a con- 
templative grandeur 

Lay on his forehead, as clear as on moss-covered 
gravestone a sunbeam. 

As, in his inspiration (an evening twilight that 
faintly 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the 
day of creation), 

The Artist, the friend of Heaven, imagines Saint 
John when in Patmos, 

Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so 
seemed then the old man ; 

Such was the glance of his eye, and such were 
his tresses of silver. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that 
were numbered ; 

But with a cordial look, to the right and the 
left hand, the old man, 

Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the 
innermost chancel. 


Lo! 


2 The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly 
by his altar-pieces in the village churches. 


: 7 


| 


| 


} 
| 
} 


Simply and solemnly now proceeded the 

Christian service, 

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent dis- 
course from the old man. 

Many a moving word and warning, that out of 
the heart came, 

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna 
on those in the desert. 

Afterwards, when all was finished, the teacher 
reéntered the chancel, 

Followed therein by the young. On the right 
hand the boys had their places, 

Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and 
cheeks rosy-blooming ; 

But on the left hand of these, there stood the 
tremulous lilies, 

Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, 
the diffident maidens, — 

Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes 
cast down on the pavement. 

Now came, with question and answer, the cate- 
chism. In the beginning 

Answered the children with troubled and fal- 
tering voice, but the old man’s 

Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, 
and the doctrines eternal 

Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear 
from lips unpolluted. 

Whene’er the answer was closed, and as oft as 
they named the Redeemer, 

Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens 
all courtesied. 

Friendly the teacher stood, like an angel of 
light there among them, 

And to the children explained he the holy, the 
highest, in few words, 

Thorough, yet simple and clear; for sublimity 
always.ts simple, 

Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on 
its meaning. 

Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded 
when spring-tide approaches, 

Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the 
radiant sunshine, 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the 
perfected blossom 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its 
crown in the breezes, — 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of sal- 
vation, 

Line by line, from the soul of childhood. The 
fathers and mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at 
each well worded answer. 


Now went the old man up to the altar; — 
and straightway transfigured 

} (So did it seem unto me) was then the affec- 
tionate teacher. 

Like the Lord’s prophet sublime, and awful as 
Death and as Judgment, 

Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul- 
searcher, earthward descending. 

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to 
him were transparent, 


TEGNER. 
Sabai ac enbun Atte i alma heey ie ey 


Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the 
thunder afar off. 

So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he 
spake and he questioned. 


“This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith 

the Apostles delivered ; 

This is, moreover, the faith whereunto I baptized 
you, while still ye 

Lay on your mothers’ breasts, and nearer the 
portals of heaven. 

Slumbering received you then the Holy Church 
in its bosom ; 

Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light 
in its radiant splendor 

Rains from the heaven downward ;— to-day 
on the threshold of childhood 

Kindly she frees you again, to examine and 
make your election, 

For she knows naught of compulsion, only 
conviction desireth. 

This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point 
of existence, 

Seed for the coming days; without revocation 
departeth 

Now from your lips the confession; bethink 
ye before ye make answer ! 

Think not, O, think not with guile to deceive 
the questioning teacher ! 

Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests 
upon falsehood. 

Enter not with a lie on life’s journey; the 
multitude hears you, 

Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear 
upon earth is and holy 

Standeth before your sight as a witness; the 
Judge Everlasting 

Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels 
in waiting beside him 

Grave your confession, in letters of fire, upon 
tablets eternal. 

Thus, then, —believe ye in God, in the Father 
who this world created ? 

Him who redeemed it, the Son? and the Spirit 
where both are united ? 

Will ye promise me here (a holy promise!) to 
cherish 

God more than all things earthly, and every 
man as a brother ? 

Will ye promise me here to confirm your faith 

' by your living, — 

The heavenly faith of affection? —to hope, to 
forgive, and to suffer, 

Be what it may your condition, and walk before 
God in uprightness ? 

Will ye promise me this before God and man?” 
— With a clear voice 


Answered the young men, Yes! and Yes! with 


lips softly-breathing 

Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved 
from the brow of the teacher 

Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake 
on in accents more gentle, 

Soft as the evening’s breath, as harps by Baby- 
lon’s rivers. 


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166 SWEDISH POETRY. 


“ Fail, then, hail to you all! To the heir- 

dom of heaven be ye welcome ! 

Children no more from this day, but by cove- 
nant brothers and sisters ! 

Yet, — for what reason not children? Of such 
is the kingdom of heaven. 

Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in 
heaven one Father, 

Ruling them as his own household, — forgiving 
in turn and chastising: 

That is of human life a picture, as Scripture 
has taught us. 

Blessed are the pure before God! Upon purity 
and upon virtue 

Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from 
on high is descended. 

Strong as a man and pure as achild, is the sum 
of the doctrine 

Which the Godlike delivered, and on the cross 
suffered and died for. 

O, as ye wander this day from childhood’s 
sacred asylum 

Downward and ever downward, and deeper in 
Age’s chill valley, 

O, how soon will ye come, — too soon !— and 
long to turn backward 

Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, 
where Judgment 

Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad 
like a mother, 

Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving 
heart was forgiven, 

Life was a play, and your hands grasped after 
the roses of heaven! 

Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father 
Eternal 

Gave to me gladness and care ; but the loveliest 
hours of existence, 

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I 
have instantly known them, 

Known them all, all again;—they were my 
childhood’s acquaintance. 

Therefore take, from henceforth, as guides in 
the paths of existence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and 
Innocence, bride of man’s childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the 
world of the blessed, 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life’s 
roaring billows 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in 
the ship she is sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; 
in the desert 

Angels descend and minister unto her; she 
herself knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows 
faithful and humble, 

Follows, so long as she may, her friend ; O, do 
not reject her, 

For she cometh from God, and she holdeth the 
keys of the heavens. — 

Prayer is Innocence’ friend ; and willingly fly- 
eth incessant 


*Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon 
of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, 
the spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like 
flames ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his Father’s mani- 
fold mansions, 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blos- 
somed more freshly the flowers, 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and .he played 
with the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and 
homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again; and the spirit’s 
longings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and 
its tongue is entreaty. 

Ah! when the infinite burden of life descend- 
eth upon us, 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, 
in the grave-yard, — 

Then it is good to pray unto God, for his sor- 
rowing children 

Turns he ne’er from his door, but he heals and 
helps and consoles them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are pros- 
perous with us, 

Pray in fortunate days, for life’s most beautiful 
Fortune 

Kneels down before the Eternal’s throne; and, 
with hands interfolded, 

Praises thankful and moved the only giver of 
blessings. 

Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that 
comes not from Heaven? 

What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it 
has not received ? 

Therefore fall in the dust and pray! The ser- 
aphs adoring 

Cover with pinions six their face in the glory 
of him who 

Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when 
the world he created. 

Earth declareth his might, and the firmament 
uttereth his glory. 

Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward 
from heaven, 

Downward like withered leaves; at the last 
stroke of midnight, millenniums 

Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees 
them, but counts them as nothing. 

Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath 
of the Judge is terrific, 

Casting the insolent down at a glance. When 
he speaks in his anger, 

Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap 
like the roe-buck. 

Yet, why are ye afraid, ye children? This 
awful avenger, 

Ab! is a merciful God! God’s voice was not 
in the earthquake, 

Not in the fire nor the storm, but it was in the 
whispering breezes. 


TEGNER. 


Love is the root of creation, — God’s essence ; 
worlds without number 

Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them 
for this purpose only. 

Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed 
forth his Spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, 
it laid its 

Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a 
flame out of heaven. 

Quench, O, quench not that flame! 
breath of your being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. 
nor mother 

Loved you as God has loved you; for ’t was 
that you may be happy 

Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down 
his head in the death-hour, 


It is the 
Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then 


Not father, 


was completed. 

Lo! then was rent on a sudden the vail of the 
temple, dividing 

Earth and heaven apart; and the dead, from 
their sepulchres rising, 

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears 
of each other 

The answer, but dreamed of before, to creation’s 
enigma, — Atonement! 

Depths of Love are Atonement’s depths, for 
Love is Atonement. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the mer- 
ciful Father ; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from 
fear, but affection ; — 

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that 
loveth is willing ; 

Perfect was, before God, and perfect is Love, 
and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest 
thou likewise thy brethren ; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, 
is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp 
on his forehead ? 

Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? 
he not sailing, 

Lost like thyself, on an ocean unknown, and is 
he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee? Why 
shouldst thou hate, then, thy brother? 

Hateth he thee, forgive ! 
stammer one letter 

Of the Eternal’s language ;— on earth it is call- 
ed Forgiveness ! 

Knowest thou Him who forgave, with the 
crown of thorns round his temples ? 

Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murder- 
ers? Say, dost thou know him? 


Is 


For ’t is sweet to 


Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow like- 
wise his example ; 

Think of thy brother ho ill, but throw a veil 
over his failings ; 

Guide the erring aright; for the good, the 
heavenly Shepherd 


Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it 
back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits 
that we know it. 

Love is the creature’s welfare, with God; but 
Love among mortals 

Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, 
and stands waiting, 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears 
on his eyelids. . 

Hope, —so is called upon earth his recom- 
pense, — Hope, the befriending, 

Does what she can, for she points evermore up 
to heaven, and faithful 

Plunges her anchor’s peak in the depths of the 
grave, and beneath it 

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a 
sweet play of shadows! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on her 
wavering promise, 

Having naught else beside Hope. 
we our Father in heaven, 

Him who has given us more; for to us has 
Hope been illumined, 

Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she 
is living assurance. 

Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the 
eye of affection, 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves 
their visions in marble. 

Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance 
shines like the Prophet's, 

For she has looked upon God; the heaven on 
its stable foundation 

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the 
New Jerusalem sinketh 

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors 
descending. a 

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the 
figures majestic, 

Fears not the winged crowd; in the midst of 
them all is her homestead. 

Therefore love and believe; for works will 
follow spontaneous, 

Even as day does the sun; the Right from the 
Good is an offspring, 

Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works 
are no more than 

Animate Love and Faith, as flowers are the ani- 
mate spring-tide. 


Then praise 


Works do follow us all unto God; there stand |} 


and bear witness 


Not what they seemed, -— but what they were, 
only. Blessed is he who 

Hears their confession secure; they are mute 
upon earth, until Death’s hand 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, 
does Death e’er alarm you? 

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is 
he, and is only 
More austere to behold. 

that are fading 
Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in 
the arms of affection, 


With a kiss upon lips 


Places the ransomed child, new-born, ‘fore the 
face of its Father. 

Sounds of his coming already I hear, —see 

_ dimly his pinions, 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon 
them! I fear not before him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. 
On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and, 
face to face standing, 

Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by 
vapors ; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the 
spirits majestic, 

Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne 
all transfigured, 

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and 
are singing an anthem, 

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language 
spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he 
one day shall gather, 

Never forgets he the weary ;—then welcome, 
ye loved ones, hereafter ! 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, 
forget not the promise ; 

Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth 
shall ye heed not ; 

Earth is but dust, and heaven is light; I have 
pledged you to heaven. 

God of the Universe, hear me! thou Fountain 
of Love everlasting, 

Hark to the voice of thy servant ! 
my prayer to thy heaven! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one 
spirit of all these 

Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved 
them all like a father. 

May they bear witness for me, that I taught 
them the way of salvation, 

Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word; again 
may they know me, 

Fall on their teacher’s breast, and before thy 
face may I place them 

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and 
exclaiming with gladness, 

‘Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom 
thou hast given me!’ ” 


I send up 


Weeping, he spake in these words; and 

now, at the beck of the old man, 

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round 
the altar’s enclosure. 

Kneeling, he read then the prayers of the con- 
secration, and softly 

With him the children read ; at the close, with 
tremulous accents, 

Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction 
upon them.— 

Now should have ended his task for the day ; 
the following Sunday 

Was for the young appointed to eat of the 
Lord’s holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the 

teacher silent, and laid his 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks up- 
ward; while thoughts high and holy 
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his 
eyes glanced. with wonderful brightness. 

“On the next Sunday, — who knows ? — per- 
haps I shall rest in the grave-yard ! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken 
untimely, 

Bow down his head to the earth ! 
I? The hour is accomplished ; 

Warm is the heart. -I will so! for to-day grows 
the harvest of heaven. 

What I began accomplish I now; for what fail- 
ing therein is 

I, the old man, will answer to God and the 
reverend father. 

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new- 
come in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of 
Atonement? 

What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I 
have told it you often. 

Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atone- 
ment a token, 

’Stablished between earth and heaven. 
by his sins and transgressions 

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 
"T was in the beginning 

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it 
hangs its crown o’er the 

Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall; 
in the Heart the Atonement. 

Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite like- 
wise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remem- 
bers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her 
wearied pinions, 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the 
lifetime of mortals. 

Brought forth is Sin full-grown; but Atonement 
sleeps in our bosoms, 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heav- 
en and of angels, 

Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones 
in the harp’s strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the de- 
liverer’s finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the 
Prince of Atonement, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands 
now with eyes all resplendent, 

Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with 
Sin and o’ercomes her. 

Downward to earth he came and transfigured, 
thence reascended ; 

Not from the heart in like wise, for there he 
still lives in the Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. 
is, is Atonement. 

Therefore with reverence receive this day her 
visible token. 

Tokens are dead, if the things do not live. The 
light everlasting 


Why delay 


Man 


So long as Time 


Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the 
eye that has vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart 
that is hallowed, 

Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone 
of amendment 

Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, 
and removes all 

Sin and the guerdon of sin. 
his arms wide extended, 

Penitence weeping and praying, the Will that 

is tried, and whose gold flows 

Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, man- 
kind by Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement’s bread, and drinketh 
Atonement’s Wwine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with 
hate in his bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ’s 
blessed body 

And the Redeemer’s blood ! 
eateth and drinketh 

Death and doom! And from this preserve us, 
thou heavenly Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread 
of Atonement?” 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together an- 
swered the children, 

Yes! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read 
he the due supplications, 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed 
the organ and anthem : 

“O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our 
transgressions, 

Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have 
mercy upon us!” 

The old man, with trembling hand, and heay- 
enly pearls on his eyelids, 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt 
round the mystical symbols. 

O, then seemed ‘it to me, as if God, with the 
broad eye of mid-day, 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the 
trees in the churchyard 

Bowed down their summits of green, and the 
grass on the graves ’gan to shiver ! 

But in the children (I noted it well; I knew 
it) there ran a 

Tremor of holy rapture along through their 
icy-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood 
the green earth, and above it 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; 
there saw they 

Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right 
hand the Redeemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, 
and angels from gold clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with 
their pinions of purple. 


Only Love with 


To himself he 


Closed was the teacher’s task, and with 
heaven in their hearts and their faces 
Up rose the’children all, and each bowed him, 
weeping full sorely, 
22 


TEGNER. 


169 


Downward to kiss that reverend hand ; but all 


of them pressed he, 


Moved, to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, 


his hands full of blessings, 


Now on the holy breast, and now on the inno- 


cent tresses, 


ne 


EXTRACTS FROM AXEL. 
THE VETERAN. 


I nove the old heroic times 


Of Charles the Twelfth, our country’s g 


And deem them fittest for the scenes 
Of stern or tender story ; 
For he was blithe as Peace may be, 
Yet boisterous as Victory. 
Even now, on high, there glide, 
Up and down, at eventide, 
Mighty men, like those of old, 
With frocks of blue and belts of gold. 
O, reverently I gaze upon 
Those soldier spirits clad in light, 
And hold as things most wonderful 


lory, 


Their coats of buff and swords of giant height! 


One of his oldest veterans 

I knew before my boyhood’s prime ; 
He seemed like some triumphal pillar, 

Undermined by Time. 
The scars along his forehead were 
Like sculptures on a sepulchre ; 
There flowed behind that old man’s ears 
The silver of a hundred years ; 

"T was all that old man had. 
The stranger, gazing on his door, 
Might sigh to think on one so poor ; 
But Time had trained his soul, and he 
Had shaken hands with Poverty ; 

He was nor sick, nor sad. 
With two possessions, all his pride, 
Yet dearer than the world beside, — 
The sword that earned his soldier fame, 
A Bible, with King Charles’s hame, — 
He lived, beneath a forest’s shade, 
Within a hut, himself had made, 

And fancied like a tent. 
And all that Sweden’s hero did, 
Of valor praised, or craven chid, 

Or Cossack foeman bent, — 
That now the child who runs may read 


(For Fame, the Eagle, flew with speed), — 


Were stored within that soldier’s mind, 
Each in their own heroic kind, 

Like monumental urns beneath 

A barrow in the field of death. 

Oft as he told of toils gone through, 
For Charles and his dragoons of blue, 
That soldier seemed to rise in height, 
Flashed from his eyes unwonted light, 
And all his gestures, all his words, 


Sprang out like flame from Swedish swords. 


Why say, that, in the winter nights, 
He loved to tell his former fights; 
And, grateful, only spoke to praise 


King Charles ; and never failed to raise, 
O 


170 


When mention of his name was made, 
His rimless hat and torn cockade ? 

My infant height scarce reached his knees, 
And yet I loved his histories. 

His sunken cheek and wrinkled brow 
Have lived with me from then till now, 
And, with his stories strange and true, 
Keep rising in my mind anew ; 

Like snowdrop bells, that wait to blow 


Beneath the winter’s shielding snow. 


—= 


KING CHARLES’S GUARD. 


He was of Charles’s body-guard, 
Swedish soldiers’ best reward ; 
Seven in number, like the train 
Of sister stars in King Charles's Wain ; 
Or nine at most, as the maidens be 
Who weave the songs of Eternity. 
They were trained to scorn of death, 
And tried by fire and steel and blood, 
And hardened, by their Christian faith, 
Beyond the Viking hardihood 
Of their sires, that, fast and free, 
Ploughed with keels the subject sea. 
They lay to sleep on turf or plank, 
With northern winds for lullaby, 
And curtained by the colder sky, 
As softly as on mossy bank. 
Little they cared for the flames’ red aid, 
Save for the sake of the cannonade, 
Casting light as fierce and dun 
As a winter’s blood-red sun. 
They deemed no battle lost cr won 
To lesser odds than seven to one; 
And then retreated, soft and slow, 
With their faces to the foe. 
But harsher laws than these, I ween, 
Lay upon those hardened men: 
Never to look on a maiden’s eye, 
Never turn ear to a maiden’s sigh, 
Never to heed the sweet words she said, 
Ere Charles, that cold, stern chief was wed. 
No matter how soft voices strove 
To match the music of the grove ; 
How lips might mock the rosebud’s hue, 
How eyes, the violets steeped in dew ; 
How breasts might heave for love’s sweet sake, 
Like floating swan on silver lake, — 
Vain were eyes, and breasts, and words ; 
They were wedded to their swords. 


— 


LOVE. 


Love! our being’s waking bliss! 
Spirit garb of Happiness! 
Heaven’s halo, sent to shine 
O’er a world no more divine ! 
Nature’s heart, whose choicest measure 
Beats in time to promised pleasure ; 
Drop to drop, within the ocean ; 
Star to star, in heaven above, 
Moving, with harmonious motion, 
Round the sun they love ; 


SWEDISH POETRY. 
en  — —— 


Brotherhood and Sympathy 
Are the laws that flow from thee, 
Love! that art, within the mind 
Of our erring, hapless kind, 
Even this, —a recollection 
Of a holier affection, 
Born in heaven; fairest then, 
With the silver chaplets round it 
Of the singing stars that bound it, 
Then nestled on its father’s breast, 
With angel-wings to shade its rest, — 
Reflected last on men. 
Ere then, as rich as Thought, as fair 
As minstrel-dreams, its speech was Prayer ; 
Its kindred sweet, those forms that bless 
This world with their own loveliness ; 
And fill the sense with music, flung 
From harps unearthly, Spirit-strung. 
What if it fell to mix with men, 
And none must feel it pure again ? 
At some sweet times, it seems to wear 
The seraph-robes that erst it bare ; 
At some sweet times, its whispers come 
Like echoes from its heavenly home, 
When heart meets heart, and life is love. 
The breath that fans the spring’s blue sky, 
The minstrel’s magic melody, 
In such soft numbers move ; 
But liker still, for that they be 
Themselves the brood of Memory, 
Those recollected distant chants 
Of homes for which the Switzer pants, 
That raise beneath the tropic’s glow 
His old, familiar Alpine snow. 


Sees 


PER DANIEL AMADEUS ATTERBOM. 


Turs poet is the son of a country clergyman, 
and was born at Abo, in 1790. After com- 
pleting his college education at Upsala, inspired 
with the love of German literature, he estab- 
lished, in 1810, a monthly periodical, called 
‘¢ Phosphorus,”’ in which open war was declared 
against the French school of poetry. ‘This war 
was carried on with unabated vigor for many , 
years, and Atterbom was always kept in the 
field, as one of the prominent champions of the 
German, or Romantic, school. In 1817-18, 
he travelled through Germany, Italy, and Den- 
mark; and on his return, in 1819, was appoint- 
ed tutor of the German language and literature 
to the Crown Prince. In 1824, he was appoint- 
ed Adjunct Professor of Philosophy, and, in 
1828, Professor of Metaphysics, in the Univer- 
sity of Upsala. His principal poetic work is 
entitled “ Lycksalighetens O ” (the Island of the 
Blest), a dramatic romance in five adventures. 
The following analysis and extract are taken 
from the “Foreign Review and Continental 
Miscellany,” No. IV. 

“ Asdolf, a Northern king, wearied by the 
monotony of life, longs for some adventurous — 
deviation from his daily round of duties and 


ATTERBOM. 


amusements. He has an indistinct idea that 

he may somewhere find a state of unalloyed fe- 

licity, and is impatient to discover it ; for which 

purpose he defers his union with Svanhvit, a 

young and arhiable princess, to whom he is _be- 

trothed. At length this restless wish is gratifi- 
ed. On one of his hunting parties, he finds the 
haunt of Anemotis, Mother of the Winds, and 
there meets with Zephyr, who wafts him to the 
Island of the Blest, where the fair Felicia reigns 
as queen. At first sight, she beheves the stran- 
ger to be a wonderful bird (the phenix), of 
which many strange accounts had been related 
to her; but Asdolf soon dispels this notion, and, 
forgetting earth, with ‘all its ties, asks and ob- 
tains Felicia’s hand in marriage. They pass 
three hundred years in mutual bliss, though to 

Asdolf the time has appeared only so many 

minutes, when he is unfortunately awakened to 

the recollection of his earthly life, which, not- 
withstanding the caresses of Felicia, he deter- 

mines to resume. Finding his resolution im- 

movable, she gives him a splendid equipment, 

with sundry spells and amulets, in order to 

insure his safe return, when he sets out on a 

winged horse, of the highest mettle, and arrives 

on earth with wondrous expedition. As will 
be readily conceived, his majesty finds matters 
marvellously altered from what they were at 
the period of his departure. His own subjects 
are much infected with revolutionary notions of 
general equality ; and our hero, being a high au- 
tocrat, is disgusted by this manifestation of new- 
fangled feeling. He fails, however, in his en- 
deavours to restore the customs of ‘the olden 
time,’ and resolves on returning to Felicia and 
the Island of the Blest; but on his way back, 
being beguiled by the artifices of Time, who, 
disguised as an infirm old man, allures him from 
his horse, he loses the charm of fadeless youth, 
which had been bestowed on him in the island, 
and which, during his earthly journey, depend- 
ed on his possession of the horse intrusted to 
him by Felicia. Time then seizes and stifles 
him, and his faithful friend the Zephyr carries 
the corse to the Island of the Blest, when Fe- 
licia, for the first time, discovers that happiness 
is nowhere truly lasting. Unable with all her 
art to restore life to her beloved, she resolves 
to watch his body unceasingly, when her moth- 
er, Nyx (Night), shows her the region of eternal 
bliss, and Thanatos (Death), lighting his torch, 
leads her to eternal day. 

“« The pervading idea of this poem would ap- 
pear to be, that death, as the metamorphosis of 
the human being, is necessary, in order to con- 
duct it to immortal bliss, and that the search 
for happiness in earthly life is vain and unpro- 
ductive. This the author has represented in 
his romantic and didactic drama, amplifying 
and illustrating, in much beautiful poetry, what 
Fouqué has finely said in the following lines : 


“¢ ¢Man geht aus Nacht in Sonne, 
Man geht aus Graus in Wonne, 
Aus Tod in Leben ein.’ 


“The drama is divided into five adventures. 
The first is‘ The Aérial Journey,’ when Asdolf 
is carried by Zephyr to the Happy Island; the 
second, ‘ Love,’ when Felicia is united to As- 
dolf (a masterly erotic effusion, of almost South- 
ern coloring) ; the third, ‘The Farewell,’ when 
Asdolf sets forth on his return to earth (this is 
by far the weakest part of the poem ; the author 
puzzles himself and his readers with politics, 
and proves that they are by no means his prov- 
ince); the fifth, ‘The Return,’ treating of As- 
dolf’s death, and the final destruction of the 
Happy Island.” 


EXTRACT FROM THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 


SVANHVIT (alone in her chamber)? 
No Asdolf yet, —in vain and everywhere 
Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed, 
At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before 
The lofty staircase, in the castle yard. 
His drooping crest, and wildly rolling eye, 
And limbs with frenzied terror quivering, 
All seemed as though the midnight fiends had 
urged 
His swiftest flight, through many a wood and 
plain. 
O Lord! that know’st what he hath witnessed 
there, 
Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound 
Unto the faithful creature’s silent tongue, 
That momentary voice would be, for me, 
A call to life, or summons to the grave. 
[She goes to the window. 
And yet what childish fears are these! How oft 
Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved 
And ever home returned, unharmed and beauti- 
ful ! 
Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower 
That proudly glances on the frosty pane. 
Short is the violet’s, short the cowslip’s spring ;— 
The frost-flowers live far longer; cold as they 
The beautiful should be, that it may share 
The splendor of the light without its heat ; 
For else the sun of life must soon dissolve 
The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears: 
And tears — flow fast away. 
[She breathes on the window. 
Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf-flower, 
That I may look into the vale beneath ! 
There lies the city, — Asdolf’s capital. — 
How wondrously the spotless vest of snow 
On roof, and mount, and market-place now 
smiles 
A glittering welcome to the morning sun, 
Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the 
earth ! 
The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament, 
But smiles in silence, — knowing sadly well 
That she is slighted, and that he, who could 
Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells 
In other climes, where lavishly he pours 
His fond embracing beams, while she, alas! 
In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness 


eget elem 


I ey 


172 SWEDISH POETRY. 


Cold on the solitary couch reclines. — 
[After a pause. 
What countless paths wind down, from divers 
points, 
To yonder city gates !—O, wilt not thou, 
My star, appear to me on one of them? 
Whate’er I said, — thou art my worshipped sun. 
Then pardon me ; — thou art not cold ;— O, no! 
Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me. 
Yet thus it is! Thy being’s music has 
A thousand chords with thousand varying tones, 
Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee 
Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed, 
This, too, may have its power ;—but then it lasts 
One and the same for ever, sounding still 
Unalterably like itself alone ; 
A wordless prayer to God for what we love, 
"T'is more a whisper than a sound, and charms 
Like new-mown meadows, when the grass ex- 
hales 
Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it. 
Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men, 
Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings, 
And far beneath them view the world, whose 
form 
For ever varies on from hour to hour. 
What would they ask of love? That, volatile, 
In changeful freshness it may charm their ears 
With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air 
Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull 
To rapturous repose, when round them roars 
The awful thunder’s everlasting voice ! 
Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem 
The maid who is no more than woman. How 
Should she o’er-sound the storm their wings 


have raised ? — 
[Sitting down. 


Great Lord! how lonely I become within 

These now uncheerful towers! O’er all the 
earth 

No shield have I, —no mutual feeling left ! 

’T is true that those around me all are kind, 

And well I know they love me, — more, in- 
deed, 

Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though 

They raised me to my Asdolf’s royal throne, 

As being the last of all his line, —ah, me! 

No solace could it bring ; — for then far less 

Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul! 

A helpless maiden’s tears like rain-drops fall, 

Which in a July night, ere harvest-time, 

Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within 

Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and un- 


known. 
[She rises. 


Yet One there is, who counts the maiden’s 
tears 5; — 

But when will their sad number be fulfilled ? — 

[Walking to and fro. 

How calm was I in former days !—I now 

Am so no more! My heart beats heavily, 

Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah! fain 

Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that 

’T were conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had 
seemed 


ee SS SS SSS ee 


a 


Not all unworthy in thine eyes. 
[She takes the guitar. 
A gentle friend — the Master from Vallandia — 
Has taught me how I may converse with thee, 
Thou cherished token of my Asdolf’s love ! 
I have been told of far-off lakes, around 
Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave, 
And make a mournful shade above the stream, 
Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells 
Broad and unfathomably deep below ;— 
From those dark lakes at certain times, and 
most 
On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals, 
Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound 
Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells 
Of churches and of castles long since sunk 5 
And, as the wanderer’s steps approach the shore, 
He hears more plainly the lamenting tone 
Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still 
Continues motionless and calm, and seems 
To listen with a melancholy joy, 
While thus the swelling depths resound. 
So let me strive to soften and subdue 
My heart’s dark swelling with a soothful song. 
[She plays and sings. 
‘¢ The maiden bound her hunting-net 
At morning fresh and fair —”’ 


Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve. 
Another, then! that of the hapless flower, 
Surprised by frost and snow in early spring. 
[Sings. 
Hush thee, O, hush thee, 
Slumber from snow and stormy sky, 
Lovely and lone one! 
Now is the time for thee to die, 
When vale and streamlet frozen lie. 
Hush thee, O, hush thee ! 


Hours hasten onward ; — 

For thee the last will soon be o’er. 
Rest thee, O, rest thee ! 

Flowers have withered thus before, — 

And, my poor heart, what wouldst thou more? 
Rest thee, O, rest thee ! 


Shadows should darkly 

Enveil thy past delights’: and woes. 
Forget, O, forget them ! 

’T is thus that eve its shadow throws ; 

But now, in noiseless night’s repose, 
Forget, O, forget them! 


Slumber, O, slumber! 

No friend hast thou like kindly snow ; 
Sleep is well for thee, 

For whom no second spring will blow; — 

Then why, poor heart, still beating so? 
Slumber, O, slumber! 


Hush thee, O, hush thee! 
Resign thy life-breath in a sigh, 
Listen no longer, 
‘Life bids farewell to thee, —then die ! 
Sad one, good night ! — in sweet sleep lie! 
Hush thee, O, hush thee! 


OR 


ATTERBOM.—STAGNELIUS. 


Ce 


173 


~ 2-2 SSIS Sak Sen eae ORIEN eonree eter ee a oe al UO AL 


[She bursts into tears. 
Would now that I might bid adieu to life ; 
But, ah ! no voice to me replies, “ Sleep well!” 


THE HYACINTH.* 


Tue heart’s blood am I‘of expiring strength, 
Engraved on mine urn is its cry. 
My dark glowing pangs, to thee are they known ? 
Art thou, too, a stranger ’mid life’s shadows 
thrown, 
Deceived by its dreamery ? 
Learn that youth-giving joy to the stars alone 
Was allotted! Their youth in the sky 
With circling dances they celebrate, 
And our steps from the cradle illuminate 
To the grave. 


Why longer endeavours thine earnest glance 
To a merciless Heaven to pray? 

An adamant door bars its tower of light ; 

To earth’s abyss from its dizzying height 
What bridge may open a way ? 

There Blessedness, Truth, may be throned in 

might ; 

But thou, canst thou destiny sway ? 

Of suffering only can dust be secure ; 

Who rises, thy happier lot to insure, 

From the grave ? 


Hope points, indeed, to a verdant shore, 
Where the beautiful Sirens sing, 
And waken their harps, while bright shines the 
sun ; 
But the bone-whitened coast shows where mur- 
der is done, 
And treachery dwells on each string. 
Illusions, on distaffs of Nornas spun, 
To the feeble distraction bring : 
He is wise who disdains to fear or implore ; 
But wisest he who desires nothing more 
Than a grave. 


Yet within thee, to battle with time and fate, 
There blazes a fire divine : 
Whate’er ’s evanescent its flame shall consume } 
And if clouded the course of the planets in 
gloom, 
Thy star on the conflict shall shine; 
And soon shall the long, happy night of the 
tomb, 
With peace and her laurels, be thine. 
He, whose bosom of heaven and hell holds the 
fires, 
Suffices himself, and no solace requires 
But the grave. 


a Qs 
ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS. 


THE most signal specimen of a genius at 
once precocious and productive, which the an- 
nals of Swedish literature afford, is Stagnelius. 


* The old Greek fable makes the Hyacinth spring from 
the blood of Ajax. 


ee, ee 


justly applied. 


He died at the age of thirty, but has left behind 
him three epic poems,— one of which, though 
never completed, was written at the age of 
eighteen, — five tragedies, and seven other dra- 
matic sketches, and a very large collection of 
elegies, sonnets, psalms, ballads, and miscella- 
neous lyrics ; making, in all, three large octavo 
volumes, written in the space of twelve years, 
and marked with the impress of a high poetic 
genius. 
,, Stagnelius was the son of a parish priest in 
Oland (afterwards bishop of Kalmar), and was 
born in 1793. He studied first at the Uni- 
versity of Lund, and then at Upsala, where, 
upon passing his examination in 1814, he was 
made clerk in the Department of Ecclesiastical 
Affairs. This, or some similar office, he held 
until his death, in 1823. His brief exist- 
ence, though completely barren of incident, 
was rich in intellectual achievements. ‘ Stag- 
nelius,”’ says a writer in the “ Foreign Re- 
view” (No. I.), ‘ was one of those truly poetic 
beings, to whom Goethe’s beautiful comparison, 
likening the life of a poet to the gentle, ever- 
working existence of the silkworm, may be 
He was so thoroughly a poet, 
that all his thoughts, words, deeds, and even 
his errors and excesses, bore the stamp of poetic 
impulse. He is remarkable for a strain of deep 
melancholy, a profound mystical intuition of 
life and nature, and a longing for the moment 
when the imprisoned anima might burst its 
earthly tenement, and soar to the pleroma, as he 
terms it,——the purer regions of celestial air. 
These sentiments, cherished by the philosophy 
of Schelling, and the Gnostic doctrines of the 
Nazarenes, contained in the “ Adam’s Book,” * 
distinguished the poems of Stagnelius from all 
that we have seen of Swedish poetry. Among 
foreign poets, we can only compare him with 
the German Novalis. Both thought they saw 
in this visible world merely the symbolic ex- 
pression of a more ecstatic order of things, and 
both were early summoned to those blissful 
regions after which they so fervently aspired,— 
whose bright effulgence seems to have en- 
chanted their mental gaze, while yet inhabitants 
of earth.”’ 

To this article the reader is referred for a 
more detailed account of the writings of Stag- 
nelius, 


oe 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE MARTYRS. 
EMILIA AND PERPETUA. 


EMILIA, 
Ir that thou love me, wherefore not intrust 
Thy sorrows and thy pleasures to my bosom? 
Confidence is the holy aliment 
That nourishes the fire of tender feeling, 
As the lamp’s flame by Pallas’ oil is fed. 


* Edited by the late Dr. Norberg, the famous Swedish 


Orientalist, and published at Lund. 
02 


‘ 


174 


Believe me, he, who, silent, visionary, 

Shuts up within himself his joy and grief, 

Naught but self-love within his bosom kindles. 

For even as the fire will in its eddy 

Whirl up towards heaven whatever owns its 
power ; 

As iron, by the magnet’s witchery 

Attracted, will riaice its resting-place ; 

So tenderness, wherever found, rests not, 

Until united - its likeness. Where, 

O, where are fled those former happy days, 


When in thy Jaughing eye each new-born 
thought 
I read ?— when into a fond mother’s breast 


Thy hopes and fears, thy weal and woe were 
poured ? 

Now, bathed in tears, a gloomy wanderer 

] ak thee evermore. Thou sufferest; 

May not thy mother with thee mourn ? 

Unworthy to compassionate her child ? 


ois she 


PERPETUA. 
Mother, I suffer not! O, couldst thou know 
The blessedness of tears! Not sweeter falls, 
I’ th’ hour of evening’s crimson glow, the iow 
On Syria’s nardus-rose. The myrrh- -tree’ Ss sweat- 
drops 
In Saba’s groves less precious are than tears. 


EMILIA. 

Ay, truly, they yield solace; but that solace 

By burning agony must be preceded ; 

Their balm, Fate’s sun, with scorching noontide 
rays, 

Expresses. Hapless child, thou sufferest ! 

Strive not to laugh, —a gh Ost like laughter only 

Hovers round thy cold lips. 


PERPETUA. . 
Alas! this earth 
Deserves not gladness. Like the butterfly 
That has outlived the rose’s day of bliss, 
Our soul on dusky pinions here below 
Round deserts flies, pining incessantly. 


EMILIA, 
My daughter, others praise life’s plenteousness ; 
Why pinest thou alone? Youth’s cup for thee 
Still mantles, and each wafture of heaven’s 
breath 
Should pleasure thee. 
this, 
The single reason of thy melancholy. 
Love, and be happy! With a hundred tongues 
Nature exhorts thee thus. Obey her voice ! 
The hand of Death quenched thy first nuptial 
torch: 
Venus for thee superior bliss prepares 
I’ th’ second’s light. O, bid her kindle it, 
And by its golden beams begin a new 
Olympian life! Cornelius loves thee. Yet 
In life’s mid season, like the stately palm 
He blooms, and Fortune dwells in his proud 
halls. 
Present him with thy hand at Hymen’s altar, 


Lo! 


Thou lovest not. 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


And bid the Fates spin a rose-colored thread 
Of many joyful years for both of you. 


PERPETUA. 
O, I conjure you, utter not a word 
of earthly happiness, of earthly love ! 
Not theirs to satisfy the*soul ; —I know them. 
O, force me not on my heart’s higher longings 
To act a murder, and false sacrifices 
Offer to gods whose impoteyice I ’ve proved ! 


EMILIA., 

Wilt thou, then, daughter, haughtily reject 
Each elias proffered by a mother’s heart? 
Like the delusive light in forest shades, 
Fli’st thou injuriously our outstretched arms ? 
Then let my tenderness no longer speak, 
But mine upbraidings storm thy cule ! Now hear, 
And answer. Wherefore dost thou thus facahira 
Thy mother’s home, thy father’s ancient halls ? 
Wherefore dost thou no longer celebrate 
Our yearly festivals? no longer crown 
Our household gods with dit and myrtle, 
Or offer holy Salt on their chaste altars? 
Hast thou thy heart changed with thy residence, 
And to the house that aheltared thee in ehild. 

hood 
Does no soft fire now draw thy soul? Have all 
The rosy recollections of thy youth 
Fled with the hours’ still circling dance ? 


PERPETUA. 
My heart 

God sees, and in high heaven hears the sighs 
I for your welfare breathe. 


EMILIA, 

With fiction’s blossoms 
Thou ‘dst decorate the winter of thy heart. 
Like serpent amidst roses does thy soul 
Conceal itself. Thou breathe a sigh for us 
To Heaven? No! The cloudy heigh ts, to which 
In solitary piety thou prayest, 
For us have only wrath and thunderbolts. 
O grievous word, die not upon my lips ! 
Infernal thought, embody thee in sound ! 
Let it howl tnoamntal as the north wind’s sigh 
In forest, or owl’s hoot from moss-clad grave ! 
Come hither, daughter! Look into mine eyes. 
Traitress, come hither! Sink not to the ground 
Like vapor; what thou thinkest in night eternal 
To hide, before thy mother’s gaze severe 
It lies unveiled. Wretched one, thou ’rt a 

Christian’! 


PERPETUA, 
O, woe is me, unhappy, that myself 
I was not first mine honor to proclaim ! 
Yes, mother, I’m a Christian. Holy waves 
Have purified my soul ; from darkness’ errors 
The blessed mystery of the high Cross 
Has called me to the path of light and truth. 
The hidden manna I’ve already tasted 
That feeds the soul in deserts; I have gathered 
The golden fruit, in Eden’s morning dew, 


2 See 


LE a A TE OI NE I TD ET SE TS TT) 


OE NE oe 


o 


ct Se hint a SD atta Mh sl bah shain Fehrs ded i id dé fos 


STAGNELIUS. 17 


That shines seraphically o’er life’s stream. 
O, grudge not to thy daughter her delight, 
But share thyself her happiness, her glory ! 


EMILIA. 
Alas! What sorceress from Thessalian huts 
Has with her witcheries bewildered thee ? 
What dream, of subterranean vapors formed, 
Deceives thy heart? Which of the Eumenides 
Has lured thee criminally to abandon 
Thy childhood’s faith, thy maidhood’s golden 

gods? 


PERPETUA. 


Those gods are visionary, and the poets 
Say truly, that by Night, black, desolate, 
Void, unexisting Night, they were engendered. 


EMILIA, 
O cruel daughter, that into her grave 
Precipitat’st thy mother! Ne’er believe 
I can survive thee. Thou ’rt the sun, whose rays 
Of softened purple brighten my late autumn 
And open life’s last flowers of gladsomeness. 
If thou art lost, what should remain for me 
Save Death’s cold winter night and sleep eternal? 


Believe as likes thee, but conceal thy faith. 


PERPETUA. 
Thy tender counsel I may not obey ; 
Thou biddest me against my conscience act : 
Believe, and own thy faith, are life's conditions. 


EMILIA, 
Have mercy on the heart that throbbed for thee 
Whilst thine was yet unmoved! O, turn again ! 
Be as thou wast of yore! 


PERPETUA, 
Thou, who in sorrow 
To sorrow bor’st me, and a deathful life, 
Take back thy gift! I to the sacrifice 
Offer me willingly. 
O God! amongst the many habitations 
That shine above, the thousand rose-formed 
bowers 
In Paradise, is there no place for her? 


MARCION AND EUBULUS. 


MARCION. 


In the vale of Tiber, 
Near to the gates of high and awful Rome, 
There dwelt a saint. The humble hut still 

stands, 

Covered with weeds and shaded by tall pines, 
In which she spent her earthly life, — alone 
Her earthly life; for, soaring far above 
The crystal vault of stars, that purer flame 
Of life, which earth could not retain, was borne 


Or 


Unto the Tabernacle’s kindred rays. 

A maid she was as daylight chaste and fair, 
Pure as the jewel in the kingly crown, 
Spotless and beautiful as is the lily. 

Her name was Theodora. Blessed within 
That bumble hut’s obscurity, the care 

Of Christian parents watched her infant steps, 
And trained her for the heritage of light. 

The sun of all creation’s systems gave 

To her a glorious growth, and yet in spring 
The plant bore golden fruits, purpureal blooms. 
For God alone the maiden’s bosom burned ; 
And ever, when upon the eastern hills 
Aurora raised the flag of day, or when 

The evening star-lamp trembled in the west, 
The lovely maiden prostrate prayed in tears 
Before the sacred cross, nor thought upon 
That cruel world of darkness and of crime, 
So near the shelter of her blooming groves. 


A VOICE. 
O blissful knowledge ! knowing nothing more 
Beyond the Saviour’s wounds and heavenly 
love ; 
Dissolving in a tearful stream, to glide 
In Love’s wide ocean, héedless of the world! 


MARCION. 


Thus life flowed on,—no change its course 
disturbed, — 

Until one eye, returning from the chase, 

The emperor beheld her steal along 

The valley’s path with timid steps, to seek 

The cave of congregation. Anda beam 

Celestial from her pure blue eyes inflamed 


The tyrant’s tiger-breast, and kindled there 
Vu it Bagh 
{ 


Wild passion’s Jawless fire: for natures vile 
Forget how far above them shine the pure 
(As children vaitily wish to play with stars). 
To the imperial balls the weeping maid 
Was forced to follow in the tyrant’s train. 


A VOICE. 
Who was this emperor? He who governs now ? 


* MARCION. 
My friends, what boots it if his name we know? 
Not ours is it to judge, or hate, or curse. 
Yet duty bids me tell you all. Know, then, 
"T’ was cruel Commodus, Aurelius’ son, 
He, who, all-clothed like Hercules, was seen 
To drench the sand of amphitheatres 
With streams of blood from elephants and slaves. 


SEVERAL VOICES. 
Speak! speak! Our eager bosoms beat to learn 
The triumph of a Christian’s piety. 


MARCION, 
Two sceptres have the lords of earth, wherewith 
Their slaves to sway, — with promises and 
threats. 
With promises the Cesar long besieged 
The heart of Theodora. All that most 
On earth is praised by man’s inebriate mind — 


176 


Gold, songs of lutes, and soft voluptuousness — 

Was held before the captive maiden’s gaze, 

In long perspective of delight. But vain, 

My friends, are life’s allurements, weak 

Their spell, against a Christian breast, inspired 

And penetrated by celestial love ! 

Then furiously the tyrant turned to threats. 

O wrath most impotent! *The heart whose 
strength 

Is proof ’gainst Pleasure’s overpowering smiles 

Can ne’er be conquered by the throb of Pain ; 

For, manacled with heavy chains, within 

The dungeon’s depth was Theodora plunged. 


EUBULUS. 

All hail, all hail, ye dungeons, bonds, and death ! 

O sons of darkness, you, yourselves, thus lead 

The longing martyr to the gates of heaven ! 

Your murky cells present a boon to him, — 

A sweet asylum from a world of woe! 

There Love divine in secret breathes, and there 

Calm Contemplation lights her golden flame, 

And Silence o’er the germ of inward life 

Spreads the warm shelter of a mother’s wings! 

"Mid dreariest darkness true light beams and 
smiles, 

To bless the soul’s fond gaze! 
frame 

With iron bonds is rudely bound, O, then 

The mind shakes off its chains with joy! But say, 

How suffered and how died the Christian maid ? 


And when the 


MARCION, 


In vain to bend her lofty heart to crime. 

Fierce serpents hissed within the prison-walls, 

And there did loathsome lizards dwell, and 
there 

The toads crawled forth upon the clammy earth, 

While from the roof monotonously fell 

The chilly, ceaseless drops. No sunbeam came 

That gloom to cheer. But, as among 

The mouldering tombs a lonely lily rears 

Its balmy crest, so bloomed that pious maid, 

And sweetly smiled amidst surrounding gloom ! 

Calm was her soul ; — for, when celestial love 

Is burning on the altar of the heart, 

We heed not outward things ; and while illumed 

By beams from the unclouded sun, what cares 

The body if its earthward shadow be 

Of morning or of eve? The tyrant, thus 

Beholding Theodora’s heart unmoved 

Alike by pain and pleasure, gave revenge 

The place of hot desire, and doomed her death. 

He sent a chosen freedman with a slave 

To execute his fierce and murderous will, — 

Who, when they reached the dungeon cave, be- 
held 

Amid the darkness, like an angel’s look, 

The beaming light of Theodora’s smile ! 

She heard the word with joy, and calmly clasped 

Her hands in prayer; then, with enraptured 
thought, 

Exclaimed, ‘ All hail, blessed isles of Paradise ! 

Even now the breath of roses from your bowers 


Hunger, and cold, and darkness, now combined 


es 


FEROS ee Oe ee eS reenrad 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


Is wafted towards me!’’ And the freedman 


From those celestial groves, for which you leave 
Our sinful world, some wreath of purple blooms.” 
Then Theodora bound her flowing hair, 

And, gently blushing, bared her ivory neck ; — 
One cruel blow-—— and down that fair head fell, — 
Its golden locks ensanguined, but the smile 

In death unaltered still! The sand drank in 
The crimsom tide of life. An earthquake shook 
The vault, the torch extinguished, and around 
Impenetrable darkness spread, — when, lo! 

A light, like spring-time’s golden eves,.illumed 
The cave, and showed a lovely, beaming boy, 
Whose snow-bright robe a starry girdle bound. 
A basket on his lily arm he bore, 

With flowerets of the rainbow’s thousand hues; 
And calling on the freedman by his name, 


smiled : . 
In scorn, and, jesting, said, “* Send me, fair maid, 


In tones whose sound was musically sweet 
As bridal songs, the heavenly envoy said, 
‘“‘ Behold, how Theodora sends you flowers 
From Paradise ! 
choose ! ” 
Senseless to earth the freedman fell, — and lay 
Till wakened by a mighty earthquake’s voice. 
had fled ; 


then come, O, come, and 


The vision then 
through 

The shattered cavern shone, and lit their steps, 

"Mid crumbling ruins, from the awful scene. 


but day-beams 


THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE, 


Brno tp! the birds fly 
From Gauthiod’s strand, 
And seek with a sigh 
Some far foreign land. 
The sounds of their woe 
With hollow winds blend : 
‘© Where now must we go? 
Our flight whither tend ?” 
’T is thus unto heaven that their wailings 
ascend. 


“The Scandian shore 
We leave in despair, 
Our days glided o’er 
So blissfully there : 
We there built our nest 
Among bright blooming trees ; 
There rocked us to rest 
The balm-bearing breeze : — 
But now to far lands we must traverse the 
seas. 


‘¢ With rose-crown all bright 
On tresses of gold, 
The midsummer night 
It was sweet to behold: 
The calm was so deep, 
So lovely the ray, 
We could not then sleep, 
But were tranced on the spray, 
Till wakened by beams from the bright car 
of Day. 


‘The trees gently bent 
O’er theeplains in repose ; 
With dew-drops besprent 
Was the tremulous rose: 
The oaks now are bare, 
The rose is no more ; 
The zephyr’s light air 
Is exchanged for the roar 
Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles 
of hoar. 


*‘'Then why do we stay 
In the North, where the sun 

More dimly each day 
His brief course will run ? 

And why need we sigh? 
We leave but a grave, — 

: To cleave through the sky 
On the wings which God gave ; — 
Then, Ocean, be welcome the roar of thy 
wave!” 


Of rest thus bereaved, 
They soar in the air, 
But soon are received 
Into regions more fair ; 
Where elms gently shake 
In the zephyr’s light play, 
Where rivulets take 
Among myrtles their way, 
And the groves are resounding with Hope’s 


happy lay. 


When earth’s joys are o’er, 
And the days darkly roll, 
When autumn winds roar, — 
Weep not, O my soul! 
Fair lands o’er the sea 
For the birds brightly bloom; 
A land smiles for thee, 
Beyond the dark tomb, 
Where beams never fading its beauties il- 
lume! 


AMANDA. 


Waere sun and flower are beaming, 
Amanda’s charms appear ; 

Her beauty’s rays are streaming 
Round all this earthly sphere: 

The breeze, when gently blowing, — 
The rose that scents the grove, — 

The vine, when brightly glowing, — 


All tell of her I love. 


I hear her song’s sweet numbers, 
When Zephyr’s breezy wings 

Sweep o’er the gold harp’s slumbers, 
And wake its tuneful strings. 

All —all the charms of nature 
Amanda’s beauty bear, 

And show, in every feature, 


| Her godhead imaged there. 
| 23 


| SJOGREN. 
a NNT Ty 
| 


The spirits of the dying 
Must quit this clay’s control ; 
But they to rest are flying 
In regions of the soul ; — 
The floods, now onward striding, 
Are foaming, fierce, and free ; 
Yet soon their waves, subsiding, 
Will slumber in the sea. 


But I must vainly languish 
For joys I ne’er can know, 

And wear a cureless anguish 
In loneliness and woe! 

Fair goddess! I shall ever 
Behold thy beauty shine 
Like stars above, — but never 

Can hope to call thee mine! 


=e 


ERIC SJOGREN (VITALIS). 


Eric Syé@ren, who wrote under the pseudo- 
nym of Vitalis, has a distinguished name and 
place among the modern poets of Sweden. He 
is one of those poets, who, struggling with want 
and disease, die young, and leave behind them 
a melancholy fame. His poems are chiefly 
lyrical; and though some of them are of a 
humorous nature, yet through them all “the 
features of settled despondency are still distinct- 
ly seen.’ The genius of this poet will be seen 
in the passages of his works which follow. 
They show great tenderness and delicacy of 
feeling; a profound sense of the beauties of 
nature ; a sensibility tremblingly alive to the 
whispering leaves of the woods, the tints of 
the flowers, the warbling of the birds, and to 
the silent language of the landscape, which he |} 
interprets in a gentle moralizing vein. The 
beautiful poem entitled “ Spring Fancy,” which 
is very well translated, will remind the reader, 
by its flowing verse, its graceful imagery, the 
pensive melancholy of its tone, and the delicate 
and gentle sentiment which pervades it, of 
some of Bryant's best pieces. This poet’s ex- 
quisite organization seems to have been touched 
even to finer issues by the ill health which 
shed a subduing influence over his brief exist- 
ence. The following well written sketch of his 
life is from the * Foreign Review,” No. VII. 

 Kric Sj6gren was born in 1794, in the prov-_ || 
ince of Soédermanland. While yet in his cra- 
dle, he was exposed to the frowns and storms of 
life. Poverty attended the steps of the boy, 
checked the free and soaring genius of the 
youth, and stood beside the death-bed of the 
man. Sjogren’s father, a poor journeyman, 
could do nothing to assist the education of his 
son, who, thus thrown upon his native resour- 
ces, felt himself strengthened for exertions, of 
which the wealthy have no need and no knowl- 
edge. From a want of other materials, he was 
induced to exercise the art of writing in the 
primitive mode, on the bark of trees, which he 


| | 


spatnnenere asian 


a 
~y 
ie2) 


SWEDISH POETRY. 


did in conjunction with a young companion, 


with whom he thus established a correspond- 
ence. The school of the small town of Trosa 
soon became too bounded a sphere for the spirit 
of Sjogren, and the schoolmaster, a man of sense 
and penetration, recommended that the boy 
should be removed to Strengnis, an episcopal 
see in Westmanland, where the severity of the 
school discipline was such, that in 1814 he 
quitted the college or gymnasium before the 
usual period of probation, and proceeded to the 
University of Upsala. 

‘¢ Two pounds and ten shillings, the gratuity 
of a friend, was the entire capital possessed by 
our young student when he sought the classic 
shades at Upsala Thenceforward his sole re- 
liance was on the resources of a mind strength- 
ened by constant exercise in the struggle with 
want, — resources, on which the poor students 
at the universities of Sweden must not unffe- 
quently depend. He gained his livelihood by 
instructing some fellow-students younger and 
wealthier than himself. 

“There is something awful in the struggling 
of a noble mind against the never-clearing storms 
of a life, throughout which hunger and misery 
have fastened their fangs upon the sufferer’s 
heart. The greater his magnanimity, the more 
poignant is the pain which, like a lingering 
malady, attacks the energies of the soul; and, 
if we sometimes see men come victorious from 
the conflict, we may with more reason number 
them among the heroes of mankind, than those 
whose brows are wreathed with laurels stained 
by the tears and blood of thousands. If, on the 
other hand, human nature sink subdued by the 
woes and adversities of such a life, a heart- 
less sneer but too often supplies the place of 
sympathy. ‘He ought to have struggled and 
withstood, — he ought not to have been over- 
powered,’ are the sage and feeling remarks of 
dull and callous natures. The soul of Sjogren 
was never subdued, but his bodily frame was 
too weak to sustain the strife, and thus he fell 
unconquered. 

“The poetical genius of our author developed 
itself under the most unfavorable circumstances. 
Considering his life of want and misery, his 
poetical productions may be likened to those 
Northern flowers, the snow-drops, which blos- 
som before Spring has wholly disengaged herself 
from the cold embraces of Winter. His first 
appearance, as a poet, before the literary world, 
was in 1820, when he wrote some verses in an 
Annual for Ladies; and with this first appear- 
ance he became so universally admired, that, 
in the following year, a collection of his poems 
was published and read with great avidity. 

‘¢ When, in the year 1822, the crown prince, 
Oscar, visited Upsala, Sjogren was recommend- 
ed to his notice; and as the prince, who is 
Chancellor of the University, has been invaria- 
bly distinguished by his bountiful and delicate 
liberality in the encouragement of the votaries 
of literature and science, it may be readily con- 


ceived that the young poet was not passed over 
with neglect. ‘The support extended to him by 
the prince will appear inconsiderable to our 
English notions of pecuniary assistance. It 
consisted of a pension of two hundred dollars 
banco, about twenty pounds per annum, and 
was an important sum for a man who had been 
taught by necessity to accommodate his wants 
to his resources. His biographer says, that the 
year 1822 was perhaps the most free from care 
which Sjégren had experienced ; but he belong- 
ed not to those who were content to eat the 
bread of bounty, and, while basking in the sun- 
shine of princely favor, he felt a blush of hon- 
est shame for his dependent condition. Profes- 
sor Geijer, through whom the remittances were 
made to Sjogren, took occasion to inquire after 
his poetical pursuits, and at the same time ex- 
pressed a wish that he should devote his pow- 
ers to an object of greater extent than any in 
which he had been hitherto engaged. From 
these inquiries and suggestions Sjogren conclud- 
ed that his royal patron required something 
more for his money than minor poems, or that 
the grant had perhaps been made under the sup- 
position that his abilities were greater than he 
felt them to be. Such being his impression, the 
year had hardly elapsed when he spontaneous- 
ly resigned the pension, and threw himself once 
more within the grasp of penury. ‘The reason 
which he alleged for this step was, the weak- 
ened state of his health, which would not ad- 
mit of his prosecuting his studies with the en- 
ergy necessary for enabling him to graduate, 
and thus attain that end which his patron had 
probably had in view when he so liberally hon- 
ored him with his support. He now depended 
solely on his own exertions; but he had a foe 
to battle with, — disease,— and this he could not 
overpower. Notwithstanding, however, the in- 
terruptions in his studies, — interruptions caused 
rather by want of health and means than of ap- 
plication,— he took the degree of Master of Arts 
in 1824. Having failed in an attempt to pro- 
cure the appointment of Docens at the Univer- 
sity, he turned his attention to the capital, but 
life now became for him still more dark and 
gloomy. Private tuition and translations from 
the English afforded him but a scanty subsist- 
ence till the spring of 1828, when he fell dan- 
gerously ill; and though it would appear that 
every possible kindness was shown to him by 
the family in which he was then employed as 
tutor, he insisted on being removed to a public 
hospital, where he expired on the 4th of March, 


1828.” 


TO THE MOON.—A DEDICATION. 


My gentle book I take beneath my arm, 
And audience, O Moon! I here implore ; 
Led by a secret, sympathetic charm 
To thee, for thou art rich in silvery store. 


Enlightened patron! tell me, wilt thou give 
What may be deemed a reasonable fee? 

If thou refuse, thy service I must leave, 
And dedicate to other than to,thee. 


Yet no! for kindly thou wilt earthward wend, 
Where, cap in hand, submissively I stay ; 
And from thy height to me wilt downward send 

At times a little, little silvery ray. 


SPRING FANCY. 


Love now is found ; — for from the lips of ail 

He murmurs forth in tones most wonderful ; 

Is manifest alike in hues and sounds, 

And beautiful alike in every tongue. 

Within the verdant sanctuary of groves 

The zephyr steals along to kiss the earth, 

And by his kiss gives life to fragrant flowers : 

The children of Platonic love are they. 

So, too, the trees with green and various tongues 

In gentle whisperings own, at eventide, 

Their mutual and mysterious love; as low 

They downward bend their heads embracingly 

In twilight, when no watchful eyes are on them. 

The flowerets also love; and though no tongue 

Have they, to tell their tenderness, they gaze 

With streaming looks into each others’ eyes, 

And understand each other, although dumb : 

Earth never hears a sweeter language spoken 

Than that invented by these fond ones, who 

With fervent glance fulfil the want of tongues. 

The streamlet, too, clasping, with constant arms, 

And folding to its breast the green Lemoniade, 

Arrayed in Irving rubies and in gold, 

Sighs forth its tender love in broken tones, 

Nature! I know thy heart’s deep meaning well, 

Thy flowery writings and discourse of birds, 

Whereof the fair interpreting by thee 

Was written on my heart’s pure page with fire. 

A word it was of holy flame, long stifled, 

But now set free ; like to the enfranchised bird, 

Which high upsoars and fills the air with songs, 

Forgetting how of late the prison pressed 

That love of song within his heart to pain, 

While with a voiceful flight he mounts to heaven, 

His home. Though o’er the wide earth none 
these sounds 

May understand, they still are known to God. 

Ye flowerets! I will gently dream among ye; 

And I will give to ye a human heart, 

And thus empower ye to return my love. 

Sweet, even as childhood’s sinless beauty, shines 

The glance that greets me through your trem- 
bling tears. 

Fair angels! blooming in eternal youth, 

Ye ne’er survive your early loveliness, 

But even in death itself are beautiful. 

And yet ye do not die,— but sink to rest, 

When ruthless northern tempests raging come. 

Ye will not look on life when stormful ; ne’er 

Save when, in child-like sweetness, it disports 


aes 


\ eshnaeeepnsenscterceiehietenedeeeenesnieeetanientine snieestenenmeeanenttneemenammemetaret eect entero ee ee ee re eee = 


SJOGREN. i 179 


With Nature in the western breeze. But when | 
Destruction, striding o’er the fresh green fields, ! 
Goes forth to battle with this blissful life, 
Then ye close down your lovely lids in slum- 
ber, | 
And on your mother’s beauteous breast repose, 
Until, the contest done, victorious life 
In light and song reveals itself once more. 
Then God arouses ye again from sleep, 
Sending sweet May to whisper in your ears 
That spring is blooming in the vaulted heaven, 
And that ’t is time for you yourselves to bloom. 
Ye then put off your verdant veil, — and feel 
The spring-breeze spreading life upon your 
cheeks, 
Which vie with roses planted by the Morn 
Along the Garden of the East. And when 
The sun shall come, your forms so bright and || 
fair 
Will shine forth more magnificently still. 
Thus I, too, shall not die ; — men call it death, 
When mortals soar unto the eternal Father, 
Who yonder dwells upon the horizon’s verge, 
Where earth and heaven mingle in harmony 
and joy ! 


| 


LIFE AND DEATH. | 


Art morning I stood on the mountain’s brow, 
In its May-wreath crowned, and there 

Saw day-rise in gold and in purple glow, 
And I cried, —*+O Life, how fair !”’ 


As the birds in the bowers their lay began, 
When the dawning time was nigh, 

So wakened for song in the breast of man 
A passion heroic and high. 


My spirit then felt the longing to soar 
From home afar in its flight, 

To roam, like the sun, still from shore to shore, 
A creator of flowers and light. | 


At even I stood on the mountain’s brow, 
And, rapt in devotion and prayer, 

Saw night-rise in silver and purple glow, | 
And I cried, —‘* O Death, how fair !”’ 


And when that the soft evening wind, so meek, 
With its balmy breathing came, 
It seemed as though Nature then kissed my 
cheek 
And tenderly sighed my name! 


I saw the vast Heaven encompassing all, 
Like children the stars to her came ; 

The exploits of man then seemed to me small,— 
Naught great save the Infinite’s name. 


Ah! how unheeded, all charms which invest \ 
The joys and the ‘hopes that men prize, j ; 

While the eternal thoughts in the ea S breast, , 
- Like stars in the Honveus, arise ! 


he 


ips 


Tue earliest specimen of the ancient Gothic 
tongue is Ulfila’s translation of the Bible. He 
was Bishop of the West Goths in the latter 
half of the fourth century. Only fragments of 
this translation remain. The celebrated ‘¢ Codex 
Argenteus,” so called from the letters being 
overlaid with silver leaf, now in the library of 
the University of Upsala, contains the greater 
part of the Evangelists. Other portions of the 
work have been discovered by Knittel, in 
Brunswick, and by Abbé Maj and Count Cas- 
tiglione in Milan. A complete edition of Ulfila’s 
writings, so far as discovered, was published at 
Altenburg in 1836. This language is generally 
spoken of as the Mceso-Gothic, indicating its 
Eastern or Scythian origin, and may be regard- 
ed as the parent of all the Scandinavian and 
Germanic dialects. 

Of the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries no 
literary monuments remain, at least, none well 
authenticated. At the beginning of the eighth 
century, however, we find that the Gothic lan- 
guage, in Germany, had assumed the two forms 
of, 1., Upper German (Ober Deutsch), spoken in 
the South of Germany, and embracing two dia- 
lects, the Frankish (sometimes called Althoch- 
deutsch, old High German), and the Alemannic 
or Swabian; and, 2., Low German (Meder 
Deutsch, Piatt Deutsch, Altstichsisch), spoken in 
the North, and the parent of the Anglo-Saxon, 
Frisic, Dutch, and Flemish. The Frankish was 
the language of the court of Charlemagne ; 
and the Swabian was carried to its greatest 
refinement by the Minnesingers, in the twelfth 
and thirteenth centuries. 

From the union of the Upper and Lower 
German sprang the modern High German 
(Hoch Deutsch), the character of which may be 
considered as made permanent by Luther, in 
the beginning of the sixteenth century. Speak- 
ing of his translation of the Bible, he says, “I 
have not a distinct, particular, and peculiar kind 
of language, but I use the common German 
language, in order that the inhabitants of both 
Upper and Lower Countries may understand 
me.’ Since Luther’s time the High German 
has been exclusively the language of literature 
and science. The other forms of the language, 
on account of the predominance of the High 
German, have sunk to the rank of dialects, but 
still exist in popular use, under a great variety 
of subdivisions. Some of them are occasionally 
employed by patriotic poets and writers of 
popular songs. 

- These dialects have been classed as follows, 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


by Radlof:* 1. The German dialects in Italy ; 
2. The Tyrolian; 3. The Salzburg; 4. The 
Bavarian ; 5. The Austrian; 6. The East Mid- 
dle-German, embracing the Upper Saxon; 7. 
The South and West Middle-German, embrac- 
ing the Nuremberg; 8. The Swabian; 9. The 
Swiss in its various forms; 10. The dialects of 
the Upper and Middle Rhine; 11. The West- 
ern Lower Rhine, embracing Aix-la-Chapelle, 
Cologne, and Bonn; 12. The Low German 
dialects between the Rhine and the Elbe; 13. 
The Frisic; 14. The Lower Saxon; 15. The 
dialects east of the Elbe; 16. The Pomera- 
nian; 17. The Holstein and Schleswig; 18. 
The corrupted dialects, as the Pennsylvanian 
and Jewish. These are the principal classes, 
some of which embrace as many as eight or 
ten subdivisions. 

The translations from German poetry into 
English are so numerous, and extended through 
so many centuries, that they form in themselves 
almost a complete history. It will be necessary, 
therefore, in this introductory sketch, only to 
indicate the successive periods of this history, 
with a few remarks upon their prominent char- 
acteristics. The history of German poetry may 
be conveniently divided into seven periods.t 

J. From the earliest times to 1100. The 
earliest remains of German poetry belong to 
the eighth century. As might maturally be ex- 
pected, they are the song of a hero and the 
prayer of a monk; “The Song of Hildebrand” 
and ‘The Wessobrun Prayer,’ which have 
been published together by Grimm (Cassel, 
1812); who has also published a curious fae- 
simile of the manuscript of the former (G6ttin- 
gen, 1830). The former is in the old Saxon 
dialect, the latter in the Frankish. 

The remains of the ninth century are more 
numerous and important. They are, ‘¢*The Har- 
mony of the Evangelists,’ in old Saxon, which 
has been published by Schmeller, under the 
title of “ Heliand”’ (Stuttgart, 1830); and in 
Frankish, Otfried’s ‘* Krist, or Book of the 
Evangelists,’ published by Graff (Konigsberg, 
1831) ; —‘‘ Ludwigslied,” or “Song of King 
Lewis the Third,” in celebration of his victory 
over the Normans in 883 (Schilter, Thesau- 


* Mustersaal aller Deutschen Mundarten, von J. G. Rap- 
Lor. 2vols. Bonn: 1821-2. 

+ See Leitfaden zur Geschichte der Deutschen Literatur, 
von F, A. Prscuon. Berlin: 1843. 8vo. ; and Denkmiler der 
Deutschen Sprache, von den friithesten Zeiten bis jezt, von 
F. A. Prscnon. 3 vols. 8yo. 1838-40-43,—a fourth vol- 
ume to follow. 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 181 


rus, Vol. II.) ;—‘* The Legend of Saint George ”’ denbuch,”’ to whom also some critics attribute 
(editions by Sandvig, Copenhagen, 1783; Do- | the authorship of the “Nibelungenlied ”’ :— 
cen, Munich, 1813) ;— “The Song of the Sa- | Konrad Fleck, author of “Flor Fan Blanks 
maritan Woman” (Schilter, II.) ;—-and frag- | flor’? ;—Wirin von Gravenberg, author of “ Vi- 


: BS : S59 a 
ments of one or two psalms, and a poem on the | galois, the Knight of the Wheel ” ;— Gottfried 
Last Judgment. von Strasburg, author of “ Tristan’ ;— Konrad 


The only relic of the tenth century is a | von Wiirtzburg, author of ‘“ The Trojan War,” 
Frankish fragment entitled ‘The Song of the | ‘The Golden Smithy,” “* The Knight of the 
two Henries,’’ which has been published in Swan,” and several legends and tales ; — Wal- 
Hoffmann’s “ Fundgruben” (Breslau, 1830) ; | ther von der Vogelweide ; — Herr Nithart ; — 
and of the eleventh century we have only | Hugo von Trinberg;— Dietmar von Ast. 
“The Rhyme of Saint Anno,” who was Arch- Speaking of the lyric poems of the Minne 
bishop of Cologne ; and a fragment of an old | singers, Mr. Taylor, to whom we are indebted 
rhyme chronicle entitled “ Merigato,” meaning | for our numerous extracts, remarks: Nothing 
the Great Home, or Garden of the World (edi- | can breathe more clearly the sentiments of in- 
tion by Hoffmann, Prague, 1834). nocent and tender affection than many of these 

II. From 1100 to 1300. The poetry of the | little productions. Narrow and circumscribed 
twelfth century, of which numerous monuments | as the field of such poetry may appear, its 
remain, consists chiefly of legends, prayers, | charms are diversified by the varied attractions 
hymns, and benedictions. Among these is heard | of natural beauty and the impassioned tones of 
occasionally the voice of a Minnesinger, chant- | feeling. Admiration of his lady’s perfections, 
ing some fragment of chivalrous romance, as if | joy in her smiles, grief at her frowns, and anx- 
by way of prelude to the universal chorus of | iety for her welfare, are expressed by the poet 
love and heroism which bursts forth from the | in a thousand accents of simplicity and truth ; 
century following. Most worthy of note are, | and if extravagance or affectation sometimes 
“The Legend of the Virgin Mary,” by Wern- | offends, it ought to be recollected that the 
her, monk of Tegernsee (edition by Oetter, | bounds of taste were not then so accurately 
| Altdorf, 1802) ; ‘The Song of Kaiser Karl,” | defined, nor the gallant spirit of chivalry so 
by Pfaffe Chunrat (edition by Grimm, under | chastened, as to render unnecessary some allow- 
the title of ‘* Ruolandes Liet,”’ Gottingen, 1838); | ance for the extravagance of a principle which 
—‘ The Poem of Alexander,” by Pfaffe Lamp- | was in the main generous, and at any rate con- 
recht ;—the heroic romance of “King Roth- | ferred incalculable blessings on society, in ad- 
er; ’’-— the legends of Pilate, of King Orendel, | vancing the interests and elevating the station 
and of Saints Oswald and Ulrich, together with | of its most defenceless portion. 

“The Litany of All Saints,’ “Contemplation “Tt is surely difficult, in the perusal of many 
of Death,” “Tbe Life and Passion of Christ,” | of these ancient songs, to abstain from partaking 
“The Laud of the Virgin Mary,” and the old- | in the joyous hilarity, the frolic festivity of 
est German form of “ Reinhart Fuchs,” by | spirit, with which they seem to revel in the 
Heinrich der Glichsenire. : charms of Nature, as clothed in her most smiling 

The thirteenth century is the age of the | forms. The gay meadows, the budding groves, 
Minnesingers, who filled the Swabian court | the breezes and flowers 
with their love-songs, and poetic romances of 
chivalry. The names of more than a hundred 
of these have been preserved, with portions, at 
least, of their writings.* Of these the most 
celebrated are, Hartmann von Aue, author of 
“The Knight of the Lion,” ‘ Poor Henry,”’ and 
“The Legend of Saint Gregory on the Stone”’ ; 
— Wolfram von Eschenbach, author of “'Ti- 
turel, or the Guardian of the Grail,’ ‘ Par- 
cival,” ‘* Wilhelm von Oranse,’’ and “ Gott- 
fried von Bouillon ’”’;— Heinrich von Ofterdin- 
gen, author of ‘“‘King Laurin, or the Little 
Garden of Roses,’’ forming part of the “ Hel- 


. ‘di primavera candida e vermiglia,’ 
sparkle in the song; and the buoyant efferves- 
cence of youthful gayety is often in delightful 
keeping with the bounding rhythm and musical 
elegance of the verse.’’ * 

But the most important, remains of this period 
are the noble old epic of the ‘ Nibelungen- 
lied,’’t and a collection of heroic poems known 
by the name of the “+ Heldenbuch,” or “ The 
Book of Heroes.” 

The first stanzas of the song of the Nibel- 
ungen, like the overture of an opera, contain 
the theme of the whole piece. 


* Bopmer and MANgssen. Sammlung von Minnesing- 
ern aus dem Schwabischen Zeitpuncte, CXL. Dichter 
enthaltend. Ziirich: 1758-9. 2vols. 4to. 

BENECKE. Minnelieder, Erganzung der Sammlung von 
Minnesingern. Gdttingen: 1810-32. 2vols. 8vo. 


“Tn ancient song and story, marvels high are told, 

Of knights of high emprise, and adventures manifold ; 

Of joy and,merry feasting, of lamenting woe and fear, 

Of champions’ bloody battles, many marvels shall ye hear. 


Mutter. Sammlung Deutscher Gedichte aus dem XIL., 
XIII., und XIV. Jahrhundert. 3 vols. Berlin: 1784-5, 4to. * Lays of the Minnesingers or German Troubadours of 
Von per Hacen. Minnesinger. 4 vols. Leipzig: 1838. | the 12th and 13th Centuries (London: 1825). pp. 123, 124. 
4to. This collection of the Minnesingers embraces the t The most beautiful edition of the Nibelungenlied is 
Manessen, Jena, Heidelberg, and Weingarten collections Wigand’s: Leipsic: 1840. It is adorned with numerous 
Von ver Hacen and Buscuine. Deutsche Gedichte des | illustrations, and is a very beautiful specimen of typogra- 14 
Mittelalters. 3 vols. Berlin: 1808-20-25. 4to. phy. = | 
ee ee 


182 


“A noble maid and fair grew up in Burgundy, 

In all the land about, fairer none might be ; 

She became a queen full high, Chrimhild was she hight ; 
But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade of might.’’ 


The “ Heldenbuch,” though somewhat similar 
in character, is more heterogeneous in its mate- 
rials. A brief account of both these works will 
be given hereafter, in connexion with the ex- 
tracts from them. For a more complete analysis 
and criticism, the reader is referred to Weber 
and Carlyle.* 

Passing over the Latin plays of Roswitha, 
the Nun of Gandersheim, who wrote in the 
eleventh century, and the Easter play of * Anti- 
Christ,’’ also in Latin,t which is only a panto- 
mime interspersed with songs, belonging to the 
twelfth century, the earliest traces of the Ger- 
man drama belong to the close of this period. 
Atamuch earlier time, and as far back as the 
eleventh century, mention is made by the 
chroniclers of mimes and players who fre- 
quented the courts of princes and amused their 
audiences with all kinds of pantomime. Noth- 
ing, however, is said of their enacting plays, 
and it is evident that they were not comedians, 
but jugglers; a race of vagabonds, who, early 
in the twelfth century, came under the ban of 
the civil law, being ranked with prize-fighters 
and common thieves.} ‘The earliest play in 
which the German language is introduced is a 
Mystery entitled “* The Passion of Christ’ (Das 
Leiden Christi).§ It is written for the most 
part in Latin, but with here and there a song 
in German, and contains a representation of 
the principal events of the Saviour’s life, which 
are made to follow each other in rapid succes- 
sion, without interlude or change of scene, In 
fact, the whole piece is little more than certain 
portions of the Evangelists, changed from the 
narrative to a dramatic form; and this so un- 
skilfully, that, at times, the extracts are brought 
into curious juxtaposition by the omission of 
the context. For example, when Zaccheus is 
called down from the sycamore-tree with the 
words, ‘¢ Zaccheus, make haste and come down, 
for to-day I must abide at thy house,” he replies 
immediately, “‘ Lord, if I have taken anything 
from any man by false accusation, I restore him 
fourfold.’ In the course of the play, the Devil 
enters, seizes upon Judas, and hangs him in 
the most summary manner. The stage direc- 
tion is, *¢ Statem veniat diabolus, et ducat Judam 
ad suspendium, et suspendatur.’’ In one point 
of view this mystery is of some importance. 
It shows the transition from Latin to German 
in dramatic composition, and fixes this transition 
as early as the thirteenth century. That plays, 
entirely in the German language, were written 


* Tilustrations of Northern Antiquities (by Werner and 
Jamieson). Edinburgh: 1814. Critical and Miscellaneous 
Essays, by THomas CaRLyLe. 4 vols. Boston: 1838-9. 


+ Published in PEzius, Thesaurus, Vol. II., Part III., 187. 
t See Sachsenspiegel, Book I.. Art. 38. 

§ Published in Arerin, Beitrage zur Geschichte und 
Vol. VII., p. 497. 


Literatur. 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


before the close of this century, seems probable 
from a fragment still extant, entitled “The Na- 
tivity of Christ.”* In this fragment, Saint Au- 
gustine is represented as calling upon Virgil to 
give an account of what he knows concerning 
Christ; the author being apparently one of 
those theologians of the Middle Ages who 
regarded Virgil as a prophet, on account of the 
well known passage in his fourth Eclogue. 

III. From 1300 to 1500. This period, though 
far less important than the preceding, is marked 
by the same general characteristics. We have 
still romances, rhyme-chronicles, songs, le- 
gends, paraphrases, prayers, hymns, and final- 
ly a death-dance, and the lamentation of that 
damned soul which goes wailing in the dark- 
ness of the Middle Ages through all lands. 
But the Muse assumes a more prosaic garb, the 
Minnesingers give place to the Mastersingers, 
the artist sinks to the artisan, the profession to 
a trade. 

‘‘Far back towards the thirteenth century,” 
says Grimm,t “until which time nothing but 
the Jong-drawn strains of old heroic poems 
had been sung and heard, a wondrous throng 
of tones and melodies resounds at once, as if 
rising from the earth. From afar we fancy we 
hear the same key-note, but, if we come nearer, 
no tune is like another. One strives to rise 
above the rest, another to fall back and softly 
to modulate the strain; what the one repeats, 
the other but half expresses. If we think, too, 
of the accompanying music, we feel that this, 
on account of the multitude of voices, for which 
the instruments would not have been enough, 
must have been simple in the highest degree. It 
must have rested mainly on the rhymes, and have 
been wanting in harmony, though not, indeed, 
devoid of melody, A thousand pure and varied 
colors lie there outspread, succeeding each other 
in glaring brilliancy, and very seldom inter- 
mixed ; and this is the reason that all the Minne- 
songs, even the most diversified, seem still to 
resemble each other. These poets called them- 
selves Nightingales ; and, certainly, no compari- 
son can express, more strikingly than that of 
the song of birds, their rich and unattainable 
notes, in which, at every moment, the ancient 
warblings recur always with new modulations. 
In the fresh and youthful Minnepoesy, all art 
has acquired the appearance of nature, and 
is, too, in a certain sense, purely natural. Never 
before, and never since, has a poetry so inno- 
cent, so loving, so unaffected, left the human 
soul to step upon the earth, and it may be said 
with truth, that the mysterious nature of rhyme 
was never so fully recognized nor so publicly 
employed by a poetizing people. 

‘““A few centuries later, we no longer see 
courts, at which minstrels arrive to gladden the 


* Published in DrerERicHius, Specimen Antiquitatum 
Biblicarum. Marburg: 1642. p. 122. 
t Uber den altdeutschen Meistergesang. 


Von Jacos 
Grimm. Gottingen: 1811. 8vo. 


eee 


revel with their songs, and to exalt the liberal- 
ity of the lord with their ingenious eulogy. 
We find quiet shut-up cities, within whose 
walls honest burghers dwell, who practise 
among themselves a singular and rigid art. If 
we examine this more closely, it has not at all 
the aspect of a new invention. No reason 
whatever can be imagined, why the burgher 
class should have introduced among themselves 
a peculiar art of rhyme. Many affirm, that they 
guarded with pride and fidelity what had come 
down from former times. Every other ornament 
is far removed from their poetry ; but the rhymes 
stand solitary in the ancient places, where they 
no longer rightfully belong, and without signif- 
icance, as the memorials of a lost possession 
are continued long after their meaning has 
ceased to be remembered. The later Master- 
song has been hitherto entirely misapprehended, 
and its ancient origin has not been observed, 
in its very awkwardness. JI affirm, that its ap- 
pearance would be inexplicable to us, if we 
could not go back to the very first bloom of the 
Minnesong. For, the more firmly and fatally 
any thing whose glory has departed is adhered 
to, the more excellent and solid must have been 
the groundwork ; and without enthusiasm at the 
beginning, it is impossible to understand the rev- 
erence with which a people can remain faithful 
to the empty dogmas of a creed. These two pe- 
riods, therefore, must necessarily refer to each 
other ; and yet in each there is a point not easily 
settled, where they are not intimately united.” 

The most noted poetic writers of the four- 
teenth century are Ulrich Boner, author of 
the ‘ Edelstein,” a collection of one hundred 
fables (edition by Benecke, Berlin, 1816) ; — 
Johannes Frankenstein, author of a poem on 
the Life and Passion of Christ ;—~ Heinrich 
Frauenlob, the last of the Minnesingers ; — 
Ottokar von Horneck, author of a rhyme chron- 
icle ; Peter der Suchenwirth, author of a 
hymn to the Virgin ;— Heinrich der Teichner, 
author of poetic aphorisms,;,;— Halb Suter of 
Lucerne, famous for his ballad of ** The Battle 
of Sempach ” ; — and two Mastersingers, Mus- 
catbluth, and. Heinrich von Miglin. Two al- 
legorical poems also grace the century : “+ Gott 
Amor, or the Lore of Love,” and “The Chase, 
a Poem on Love.” 

In the poetic catalogue of the fifteenth cen- 
tury the most distinguished names are Heinrich 
von der Neuenstadt, author of the romance of 
‘A pollonius of Tyre’’;—Hans von Bithel, author 
of «The Seven Wise Masters ’’?;— Hermann von 
Sachsenheim, author of the romance of “The 
Moorish Princess ”’; — ‘Veit Weber, the Swiss 
ballad-singer ;—Sebastian Brant, author of “« The 
Ship of Fools” (edition of Basel, 1494), upon 
which Geiler von Kaisersberg wrote sermons in 
Latin, and preached them in German ;—Kaspar 
von der Roen, who rewrote most of “¢ The Book 
of Heroes ”’ ;— and three dramatic writers, Hans 
Rosenbliit, a Nuremberg painter, Hans Folz, a 
Nuremberg barber, both authors of sundry 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
te ree ere ce ei SE ae 


183 


Shrove-tide plays;—and Theodorich Schern- 
berg, a priest, who wrote the solemn mystery 
of “The Apotheosis of Pope Joan, or the Play 
of Frau Jutta,” the grandest drama Germany 
had yet wondered at. No less than five and 
twenty personages are introduced; the most 
remarkable of which are eight Devils, Lillis, 
the Devil’s mother, three Angels, Christ, the 
Virgin Mary, Pope Basilius, four Cardinals, a 
Roman Senator, and Death. The scene changes 
from Hell to Heaven, from Earth to Purgatory. 
The first scene is in Hell. The devils hold 
counsel how to lead Jutta into some deadly sin 
against the church. A priest seduces her, and 
she elopes with him to Paris, where, disguised 
as a man, she studies theology. From Paris 
she goes to Rome; is made Cardinal in one 
scene, and Pope in the next. This strange 
anomaly in the apostolic succession calls down 
the vengeance of Heaven; and an angel is sent 
to her to ascertain whether she prefers eternal 
perdition, or humiliation and repentance. She 
promises the latter. Death enters, and, after a 
long disputation, she dies in child-bed, and a 
devil bears her away to Hell, where she is tor- 
mented by Lucifer and his attendants, in the 
vain hope that she will deny God. She prays 
to the Virgin for mercy ; and finally an angel 
descends and conducts her up to Heaven. * — 
To the close of the fifteenth century belongs 
also the renowned ‘‘ Reineke Fuchs’’ of Hein- 
rich von Alkmaar. 

IV. From 1500 to 1600. The sixteenth cen- 
tury was the golden age of the Mastersingers. 
These poets were for the most part mechanics, 
who had incorporated themselves into guilds or 
singing schools, and beautified their daily toil 
by the charms of song. 


‘* As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic 
rhyme, 

And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s 
chime, 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flower 
of poesy bloom 

In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.” 


The corporation boasted of great antiquity ; 
dating from a very early though rather indefinite 
period, far back in the Middle Ages. It was ori- 
ginally called the Corporation of the Twelve 
Wise Masters. The Mastersingers flourished 
chiefly in the southern cities of Germany, and in 
the sixteenth century Nuremberg was the great 
metropolis of their song-craft. The following 
sketch of their art is from the ‘“ Retrospective 
Review,” Vol. X., p. 113.t 

‘‘In the fourteenth century, while Germany 
was kept in continual agitation by the feuds 
and broils of rival princes and barons, there 
sprang up among the inhabitants of the towns, 
who devoted themselves to commerce and the 


* See BouteRwEK. Geschichte der Poesie und Bered- 
samkeit. Vol. IX., p. 363. 

t See also Lays of the Minnesingers, p. 309, and Bov- 
TERWEK’S Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit, Vol. 
Tp: 270: 


a 


184 


arts, the first perceptible germ of those muni- 
cipal orders, which for so long a time rendered 
prosperous and flourishing the incorporated ci- 
ties of that country ; and which, in England, 
even at this day, is a remarkable feature among 
our popular institutions. Already in the thir- 
teenth century, the masons in all parts of Ger- 
many had formed themselves into a strict cor- 
poration, which with uniform laws and cere- 
monies received into its bosom apprentices, com- 
panions, and masters; and which, throughout 
all Europe, erected to the Divinity those sublime 
temples which have since been denominated 
Gothic. In the fourteenth century, all the arts 
and trades imitated the example of the masons, 
by dividing themselves into different societies ; 
and, as moral bodies, took part in the adminis- 
tration of public affairs, and deliberated in mu- 
nicipal council upon laws for their internal 
regulation. These incorporated mechanics usu- 
ally met together on holidays; and, after the 
disposal of civil business, either read, in the 
long winter evenings, the chronicles of their 
country, or the ancient Nordic poems and ero- 
tic ballads. These readings could hardly fail 
to suggest in many the idea of entertaining the 
company with some composition of their own. 
And there can be little doubt, that the readings 
of these assembled artisans were the main cause 
that awakened in many a bosom the dormant 
spirit of poetry, in that unlettered age. 

“The elementary step towards organization 
being thus imperceptibly compassed, they pro- 
ceeded quite naturally to select the most excel- 
lent from among their company, and, by com- 
mon consent, established a poetic corperation 
under the name of Master-singers. Adopted 
in a particular city, the genius of the German 
population soon fastened on the fascinating nov- 
elty, and bore it onwards. The intimate, uni- 
form, and constant relations, which subsisted 
between the artisans of those times and those 
countries, materially hastened its dissemination, 
and rendered it universal. The birthplace of 
this poetic phenomenon was Mentz. Thence 
it passed rapidly into the other cities of Ger- 
many, particularly Augsburg and Nuremberg. 
The masters of Mentz, to give celebrity to their 
new institution, taught their pupils that this 
school of Magistral Song was founded from an- 
cient time, by very noble and illustrious per- 
sons, — and they named the following : — 

“1. Walter, Lord of the Vogelweide ; 2. 
Wolfgang Eschenbach, cavalier or knight; 3. 
Konrad Marner, cavalier; 4. H. Frauenlob, of 
Mentz, and, 5. H. von Miglin, of Mentz, theo- 
logicians; 6. M. Klingsohr; 7. M. Starke Papp; 
and five honorable burghers, namely, 8. Bar- 
tholomew Regenbogen, a blacksmith; 9. The 
Roman of Zwickau; 10. The Chancellor, a 
fisherman ; 11. Konrad of Wurtzburg ; and, 12. 
Stoll, senior. 

‘They aflirmed, moreover, that the Emperor 
Otho the First, in the year 962, cited these 
twelve to appear at the University of Pavia. 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


There they were publicly examined by the pro- 
fessors, in the presence of a multitude of learned 
persons, and acknowledged masters in their art. 
On this occasion, Otho presented these masters 
and their academy with a diadem of gold, to 
adorn and crown him who should come off the 
victor in song. The documents relative to these 
transactions were preserved for seven hundred 
years in the archives of Mentz, whence they 
were taken and carried into Alsace, at the time 
of the Smalkaldic war. 

‘“‘It is easy to perceive that this history is an 
artful invention of the founders of the Magistral 
Song, to give more importance and sanctity to 
their corporation. The singers of Augsburg 
and Nuremberg had, notwithstanding, each of 
them their own protomasters,— twelve, also; 
but they dated from more recent times, and did 
not clash with the preéminence of Mentz: on 
the contrary, they mentioned the masters of that 
school in their songs always with profound re- 
spect. 

‘Be that as it may, we have indicated with 
great historical precision the epoch in which 
this sect originated, whose aim was to promote 
the development of music and poetry among 
the German people. ‘To accomplish this, the 
Masters of the Song assembled together on holi- 
days, generally in the evening, either in the 
halls of the arts, or in the churches, and there 
performed their poetico-musical exercises. 

“It was their custom, by written placards, 
handsomely ornamented, and exposed in all the 
public places, to invite the lovers of the fine 
arts to these assemblies ; and the ceremony was 
arranged as follows. The concurrents for the 
distinction of Master placed themselves, one 
after the other, in a high chair, whose elevation 
gave it the appearance of a cathedral throne. 
By the side of the concurrent sat four judges, — 
Mercker, — one of whom was to pronounce upon 
the subject of the song; to the second belonged 
its prosody ; the rhymes to a third; and a fourth 
kept an account of its melody. So that, to ar- 
rive at the mastership, it was not simply requi- 
site to be a good poet, but the candidate must 
set his verses to music, and sing them too! 

‘“‘On mounting the rostrum, the performer 
first briefly complimented the masters and the 
audience. He then set forth the subject of his 
poem, —its particular form, whether of three, 
five, or seven strophes,—the quality of the 
rhymes, or verses, —and lastly, the melody he 
proposed to adopt. Of all this the judges kept 
an exact account. In this manner, one after 
the other, the contending parties sang their 
compositions from the chair; and when they 
had all finished, the judges began to examine, 
from hand to hand, the poem of each competi- 
tor, in the quadruple relation already pointed 
out. 


ordinary president of the assembly, if he did 
not happen to be among the concurrents ; but 
if otherwise, one of the ancient masters; and 
gave in their judgment to him. 


The president 


This examination over, they called the. 


a 


Srenanacunsstbeiohespeesienseetionsienemaneenenda remnant ne 


CR AAS I Nn 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


185 


hes 


then ascended in cathedram, having at each 
side two judges, and proceeded, with a loud, 
intelligible voice, to announce the judgment. 
This comprehended, first, the adjudication of 
the crown to the most distinguished poet; then, 
that of the garland to the next best; and final- 
ly, the penal sentence against those who had 
neglected the rules of the art. At the sound 
of trumpets and other instruments, the two vic- 
tor poets now approached the president, who 
placed upon their heads the insignia of their 
triumph, amid the shouts of the acclaiming au- 
ditory. The bursar went his rounds with a 
bag, into which ail who had incurred a pen- 
alty, dropped it acquiescingly, as he passed 
along. This was the signal for the society to 
separate, which they now did, with a hand- 
some renvoy to the audience; and its members, 
in good harmony, repaired either to one of 
their cafés, or some public room. There, seat- 
ed at the festive board, their only themes po- 
etry and the fine arts, they passed the brimming 
beaker in quick succession.; and improvisation, 
in those rhymed couplets which are called 
knittelverse, became the order of the night. 
Woe to him who had not always a rhyme at 
his fingers’ ends, or some burlesque idea to 
compensate for it! for he would have been the 
butt of the company. 

‘Such were the singular customs of the Mas- 
tersingers; but yet more singular than these 
customs were the laws upon which they ground- 
ed their judgments. It would be foreign to 
the purpose of an article like the present, to 
particularize the many strange regulations and 
absurdities of their poetic code; but it may be 
remarked, that they fettered the freedom of the 
Muse with every impediment that an ingenious 
fancy could devise.* They had thirty-two laws 
for the minutie of composition, which it was 
compulsory on each candidate to observe; and 
to the infraction of any one of these was an- 


* “Every song or poem, for instance, had its given num- 
ber of rhymes and syllables, prescribed and limited by the 
master; and every singer, poet, or judge, was obliged to 
count them upon his fingers. The song (Bar) was confin- 
ed to three, five, or seven stanzas, or verses (Gesetze), 
which were divided into two principal strophes (Stodlen), 
each finishing with a crotchet, and sung to the same air; 
then followed the antistrophe (Abgesang), in a different 
melody; and, ordinarily, the song terminated with a stro- 
phe, set to the same melody as the two former. The 
rhymes, or verses, employed in these songs, or poems, 
were of seven sorts. They had their dumb or mute rhymes, 
called Stumpfe Reime; sounding rhymes, or Klingende 
Reime ; sounding and beating rhymes, Klingende Schlag- 
reime; modes, or blank verses, Weisen, oder einfache 
Verse; pauses, Pausen; coronets, Krénlein; and their 
mute, beating rhymes, or Stumpfe Schlagreime. To each 
and all of these verses were assigned their several stations 
in the poem, and often under such hampering restrictions 
as must have been very prejudicial to the sense. Neither 
was it allowable to change this arbitrary location, under 
any color of poetic license; for the principal merit in these 
compositions was their punctilious adaptation to a me- 
chanical standard, from which any signal departure was 
punished by fine and ap ae ine par for the prize.’? 


nexed a penalty, often as fanciful as the law it- 
self. With such obstacles to the attainment of 
perfection, even upon their own principles, a 
freedom from faults was almost altogether im- 
possible; consequently, those performers who 
numbered the fewest errors were crowned as 
conquerors. Deducting these aberrations of the 
victors, the next business was to count the 
faults of the vanquished; and every syllable 
in excess of such deduction was expiated by a 
small pecuniary fine, the product of which went 
towards the entertainments, and similar ex- 
penses.” All the certaminal or master songs 
were performed in the high German language, 
from which no deviation was tolerated under 
any circumstances. Nor was the plea of his 
own particular provincial idiom of any service 
to the offending singer. If he was ignorant 
of the Teutonic language, he was desired to go 
back and study in the received standards: — 
these were the Bibles of Wittemberg, Nurem- 
berg, and Frankfort, and the public records of 
the lordships and principalities of the empire. 
It ought to be mentioned here, that the harmo- 
nies or tunes of the Mastersingers were of 
high antiquity, and held in great reverence 
by that extraordinary body. They are said, 
indeed, to have preserved, traditionally, the 
ancient melodies of the Minnesingers, or love- 
minstrels; more especially those which were 
supposed to belong to the twelve founders of 
the school of song. According to some writ- 
ers, there were not less than four hundred of 
these melodies ; and their names were singular 
enough. There was the Feilweis, or Melo- 
dy of the File; the Preiswets, or Melody of 
Praise ; Zarte Buchstabenweis, the Tender 
Melody of Letters; Geschwinde Pflugweis, the 
Quick Melody of the Plough. Besides these, 
the High Allegro Melody of Praise, the Hard 
Melody of the Field, the Long Tail of the 
Swallow, and the Long, Double Harmony of 
the Dove, were among their constant and fa- 
miliar favorites. In the certaminal exercises, 
the singers were confined to a rigorous obser- 
vation of the ancient metres as well as notes 
of these melodies. But the composition of 
original airs was not, on that account, discour- 
aged; and many of these, in manuscript, are 
to be found in the library of Traubot at Leip- 
zig, and in that of Vienna, and others. 

*‘Such rules and institutions, it is evident, 


* “This syllabical assessment of the penalties was another 
peculiar feature in the institution of the Mastersingers; 
and, from the impossibility of a strict adherence, on the 
part of any performer, to such a vexatious canon of com- 
position, must have been a very material and equally cer- 
tain source of revenue. E’xempli gratid: a verse too long, 
or too short, received its punishment syllable by syllable ; 
a word too hard, or too soft, —a note too high, or too low, 
—a change of measure, or of melody, —a pause omitted, 
or introduced, —a strophe more, or less, than the regula- 
tion, —rhythm violated, — rhyme neglected, — and twenty 
other such mechanical minutie, paid their forfeit accord- 


ing to the syllabic tariff.’’ s 
‘ P 


were little calculated to kindle the flame of 
poetry in ordinary bosoms. And if these 
meetings of the United Artisans did not pro- 
duce any first-rate geniuses, where is the won- 
der? Has even one, among all the literary 
academies of cultivated Europe, been able to 
achieve more? The Society of the Master- 
singers has not been wanting, for all this, in 
many excellent consequences. Music and me- 
tre constituted its essential elements, and civ- 
ilization felt her march quickened by their in- 
fluence. It preserved, too, among the people 
recollections of antiquity, which else had un- 
doubtedly perished; and called forth that pa- 
triarcho-biblical spirit, which rendered so ven- 
erable the burgher families and artisans of the 
cities of Germany; nay, more, universalized 
the high German idiom, and made it the lan- 
guage of the people. In the midst of its many 
curious arrangements, and fantastical and use- 
less formalities, it had the peculiar merit to be- 
come the guardian of its native tongue, and trans- 
mit it pure through the deflux of barbarous ages.”’ 

The greatest poet of this period is Hans 
Sachs, the son of a barber, and by trade a cob- 
bler. He was born in Nuremberg in 1494, and 
died there in 1575 at the age of eighty-two. 
Eight years before his death, he took an inven- 
tory of his poetic stock, and found that he had 
written, between the years 1514 and 1567, the 
immense number of 6181 pieces; namely, 
4200 Mastersongs; 208 comedies and trage- 
dies; 1700 comic tales; 73 miscellaneous ly- 
rics; in all, thirty-four folio volumes of manu- 
script, of which three have been published 
(Nuremberg, 1558-61). His writings are 
marked by shrewdness, good sense, and moth- 
er wit; and the portrait of him, by Hans Hoff- 
mann, has a mingled expression of intelligence, 
drollery, and good nature. Adam Puschmann, 
his contemporary and friend, describes him, in 
a song upon his death, as seen in a vision on 
Christmas eve: “In the midst of the garden 
stood a fair summer-house, wherein there was 
a hall paved with marble, with beautiful es- 
cutcheons and figures bold and daring; and 
round about the hall were windows, through 
which were seen the fruits in the garden with- 
out; and in the middle, a round table covered 
with green silk ; whereat sat an old man gray 
and white, and like a dove ; and he had a great 
beard, and read in a great book with golden 
clasps.” * 

The other poetic names of this century are 
few in number. The most distinguished are 
Martin Luther, Johann Fischart, Ulrich von 
Hutten, Bartholomew Ringwaldt, Joachim Be- 
litz, Heinrich Knaust, Paul Schede, Peter De- 
naisius, Ambrose Metzger, and Georg Hager. 
These, and a few others, are writers of songs 
and spiritual poems, which, with the anonymous 
popular ballads, make the chief part of the poe- 
try of the period. 


* Ertacu. Volkslieder der Deutschen. Vol. I. p. 69. 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


V. From 1600 to 1700. This is, perhaps, 
the darkest period in German poetry. The 
distractions of the Thirty Years’ War were 
fatal to literature. The old romantic spirit was 
entirely gone, and the little intellectual energy 
which remained was employed on the imita- 
tion of foreign models. The language, too, was 
much corrupted by the admixture of foreign 
words. Epic poetry had almost entirely disap- 
peared; and lyric poetry, particularly that of 
the church, affords the most favorable speci- 
mens of the poetic talent of the age.. The 
principal poets of this period are Jacob Ayrer, 
author of thirty tragedies and comedies and 
thirty-six Shrove-tide plays, in one of which, 
Priam, Ulysses, and Achilles are represented as 
suffering with the gout, and choose Hans Sachs 
to accuse Queen Podagra before the court of 
Jupiter, where Petrarch appears as her advo- 
cate ; — Martin Opitz, author of various didac- 
tic, descriptive, and dramatic poems, and many 
translations ;— Simon Dach ;— Paul Flemming; 
— Andreas Gryphius, author of seven tragedies 
in rhymed Alexandrines ; — Paul Gerhardt ; — 
Johann Klai, author of legendary melodramas ;— 
Hofmann von Hofmannswaldau ;—Johann Rist; 
— Andreas Tscherning ; — Kaspar von Lohen- 
stein ; — and Friedrich von Canitz. From these, 
and some twenty other poets of the seventeenth 
century, few translations have been made into 
English. The reader will find, however, nu- 
merous extracts from them in the collections of 
Matthisson and Erlach.* 

VI. From 1700 to 177 We at length be- 
gin to emerge from the Black Forest of German 
literature, “whence issuing, we again behold 
the stars.”’ This first half of the eighteenth cen- 
tury is marked by a better and more national 
taste. ‘The more congenial influence of Eng- 
lish writers gains steadily upon that of the 
French; while the study of the ancient classic 
models becomes more and more apparent, and 
the language advances in purity, copiousness, 
and vigor. 

The poets of this period are usually divided 
into groups or schools, as the Swiss, the Saxon, 
the Hamburg, and the Berlin schools. This 
division, though rather arbitrary, may conven- 
iently be followed here; but, as the literary 
history of the period will be given more com- 
pletely in the biographical sketches accompany- 
ing the extracts, it will be necessary to mention 
only some of the most distinguished names in 
the several schools. 1. The Swiss school; 
Haller, Bodmer, Breitinger, and Gessner. 2. 
The Saxon ; Gottsched, Gellert, Gartner, Licht- 
wer, Giseke, Kreuz, Weisse, and Cronegk. 
3. The Hamburg; Hagedorn, Kramer, and 
Klopstock. 4. The Berlin; Gleim, Kleist, Uz, 
Ramler, and Lessing. 


* Lyrische Anthologie, von Friepricu MMATTHIssoN. 
20 vols. Ziirich: 1803-7. 12mo.— Volkslieder der Deut- 
schen, durch FrireprRicH Kari von Ernacn. 4 vols. 
Mannheim : 1834-5, 8vo. 


i 


EE a AEE ae eR a On NY TO st OY NID ET OINTMENT RO ETON TET a 


= 


VII. From 1770 to the present time. This 
is the last and most important period of Ger- 
man literary history ; illustrious with the names 
of Herder, Wieland, Goethe, and Schiller, 
and many others, which, though subordinate 
here, would have been of the highest distinc- 
tion in any former age. This period is divided 
into three subdivisions. First, the Storm and 
Pressure Period (Sturm-und-Drang-Periode), 
so called from the restless spirit at work in lit- 
erature, the best exponents of which are Schil- 
ler’s ‘‘ Robbers,’’ and Goethe’s ** Gotz von Ber- 
lichingen.” This period extends from 1770 to 
1794. Second, the union of Goethe and Schil- 
ler, the Schlegel and Tieck school, and the 
modern Romanticists. This period extends from 
1794 to about 1813. Third, the most recent 
period, from 1813 to 1844, embracing the patri- 
otic poets of the War of Liberation, as Schenk- 
endorf, Korner, and Rickert, the writers of the 
Destiny dramas, as Werner, Miiller, and Grill- 
parzer, and the living poets, as Uhland, Freilig- 
rath, Auersperg, Herwegh, Hoffmann von Fal- 
lersleben, and others. 

Such is, in the briefest view possible, this 
wide and important portion of the field of Ger- 
man culture which lies between the present 
day and the middle of the last century. Here 
are the dwellings of Goethe, and Schiller, and 
Lessing; there the farms of Voss, and Herder, 
and Jean Patl; and yonder the grave-yard, 
with Matthisson making an elegy, and other 
sentimental poets leaning with their elbows on 
the tomb-stones. And then we have the old 
and melancholy tale,—the struggle against 
poverty, the suffering, sorrowful life, the, ear- 
ly, mournful death, — still another confirmation 
of the fact, that men of genius too often resem- 
ble the fabled son of Ocean and Earth, who by 
day was wafted through the air to distribute 
corn over the world, but at night was laid on 
burning coals to render him immortal. 

One important portion of German poetry still 
remains to be noticed, — the great mass of Pop- 
ular Songs, of uncertain date, and by unknown 
authors. The ancient German ballads are cer- 
tainly inferior, as a whole, to the English, Dan- 
ish, Swedish, and Spanish; but the German 
popular songs, blooming like wild-flowers over 
the broad field of literature from the fifteenth 
century to the present time, surpass in beauty, 
variety, and quantity those of any other coun- 
try. Among their thousand sweet and mingled 
odors criticism often finds itself at fault, as the 
hunter’s hounds on Mount Hymettus were 
thrown off their scent by the fragrance of its 
infinite wild-flowers. They exhibit the more 
humble forms of human life, as seen in streets, 
workshops, garrisons, mines, fields, and cottages ; 
and give expression to the feelings of hope, joy, 
longing, and despair, from thousands of hearts 
which have no other records than these. 

Many collections of these songs have been 
made, among which those of Eschenburg, Gorres, 
Wolf, Bardale, Zarnach, Meinert, Erlach, Busch- 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


ing, and Von der Hagen may be particularly 
mentioned. But the most popular collection of 
all is that published by Arnim and Brentano, 


A youth ona swift steed comes riding up to the 
castle of the empress, bearing in his hand a 
beautiful ivory horn adorned with precious 
stones and little silver bells, which a fairy has 
sent to the empress as a reward for ker purity. 
He leaves the horn in her hand, saying: 


‘One pressure of your finger, 
One pressure of your finger, 
And all these bells around 
Will breathe a sweeter sound 
Than e’ér from harp-string rang, 
Than e’er a woman sang.”’ 


‘¢T know not how to praise this book as it 
deserves,” says Heine.t ‘It contains the most 
beauteous flowers of the German mind; and he, 
who would become acquainted with the Ger- 
man people in their most love-inspiring aspect, 
must study these traditionary songs. At this 
moment the ‘ Wunderhorn’ lies before me, and 
it appears as if I were inhaling the fragrance 
of the German linden. The linden plays a 
Jeading character in these songs; lovers com- 
mune beneath its evening shade; it is their fa- 
vorite tree, perhaps because the linden leaf 
bears the shape of the human heart. This re- 
mark was once made to me by a German poet 
who is my greatest favorite, namely, — myself. 
Upon the title-page of the volume is a boy 
blowing a horn, and when a German in a 
strange land looks upon it for any length of 
time, the most familiar notes seem to greet his 
ear, and he is almost overcome with homesick- 
ness; as was the Swiss soldier who stood sen- 
tinel on the Strasburg tower, and when he 
caught the herdsman’s note, flung down his 
pike, swam across the Rhine, but was soon re- 
taken, and shot as a deserter. The ‘Knaben 
Wunderhorn’ contains the most touching song 
upon it, a song full of beauty. 

‘In these popular ballads there is an inde- 
scribable fascination. The poets of Art strive to 
imitate these productions of Nature, as men 
concoct artificial mineral-waters. Yet, when 
by chemical process they have discovered the 
component parts, the all-important something 
escapes them still, namely, the sympathetic 
power of Nature. In these songs one feels the 
heart-beatings of the German peogée ; here re- 
veals itself all the sombre joyousness, all the 
idle wisdom of the nation; here German anger 
drums its measure, here German jest pipes its 
notes, and here German love blends its kisses ; 
here drop the generous wines, and here, the 
unaffected tears of Germany; the latter are oft 


* Des Knaben Wunderhorn. Alte Deutsche Lieder ge- 
sgammelt von L. A. v. ARNIM und CLEMENS BRENTANO. 3 
vols. Heidelberg: 1808-19. 8vo. 


+ Letters Auxiliary to the History of Modern Polite Lit- 
erature in Germany. 
by G, W. Haven. 


By Hernricn Herne. Translated 


Boston: 1836. i6mo. 


under the title of “The Boy’s Wonder-horn.”’ * 


more costly than the former, for iron and salt 
are there commingled. 

“Jt is, for the most part, wanderers, vaga- 
bonds, soldiers, travelling scholars, and journey- 
men,” who composed such songs. The greater 
part, however, we owe to the journeymer. How 
ofien, in my pedestrial journeys, have I asso- 
ciated myself with this last class of travellers, 
and remarked, how, when they were excited 
by any unusual event, they would improvisate 
a snatch of native song, or whistle aloud in the 
free air! Even the little birds that rested upon 
the branches listed to the song, and when an- 
other Jad, with knapsack and wanderer’s staff, 
came sauntering by, the little birds whistled the 
fragment in his ear, then he adjoined the want- 
ing lines, and the song was finished. The words 
fall from heaven upon the lips of such a wan- 
derer, and he has only to speak them forth, and 
they are sweeter than all the beautiful poetic 
phrases which we delve from the depths of our 
hearts.” 

In conclusion, it may be remarked, that what 
Thomas Fuller said of the Bible may also be 
said of German literature: ‘“‘ Wheresoever its 
surface doth not laugh and sing with corn, there 
the heart thereof within is merry with mines, 
affording, where not plain matter, hidden mys- 
teries.” - But until recently a great portion of 
the English public perceived only the hidden 
mysteries, and not the laughing and singing of 
the corn. They seemed to think that German 
literature consisted only of ghost-stories, senti- 
mental novels, and mystic books of philosophy. 
They started back in terror from the appalling 
spectre of a German metaphysician, as Dante 
from the form of Lucifer, when he beheld it 
looming through the misty atmosphere, and, 
like a windmill, whirling in the blast : 

“ Verilla regis prodeunt tnfernt 
Verso di noi; peréd dinanzi mira, 
Disse ’1 maestro mio, se tu’! discerni. 
Come quando una grossa nebbia spira, 
O quando I’ emisperio nostro annotta, 
Par da lungi un mulin che ’1 vento gira, 
Veder mi parve un tal dificio allotta.’? 
Many still form their idea of this literature 
from a poor translation of “The Sorrows of 
Werther ’’; others fromsome of Hoffmann’s wild 
tales. Not finding these to their taste, they lose 
all patience; call the whole literature silly, 
rhapsodical, absurd, and immoral; and finally 
exclaim, with Danton in the French Assembly, 
‘“¢ Gentlemen, in future let us have prose and 
decency!” 

Before closing, it may be well to explain ina 
few words a form of speech that has been of 
late years much used in literary criticism, name- 
ly, the convenient expressions, Objectivity and 
Subjectivity. Objectivity is the power of looking 


* “Tn many of the German states, mechanics, after they 
have finished their apprenticeship, are obliged to wander 
through the country for two or three years, as alluded to in 
the text, and to sojourn for a longer or shorter period in the 
different cities and towns, in the capacity of journeymen, 
under the masters of their respective guilds.” 


caisiinl a chubeeteeemenimeseeschanieemmaemdaemes eens poe usher Uicoidiedandicdaaidndeohishdihtieessetnannicndaadeconblaiaedinianhabdibeiadaamnadeanaecnmaeneateammmneaneomemasiatatide eae 


GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


upon all things as objects of art. The objective 
writer is an artist, wh, forgetful of himself, sees 
only the object before him. All scenes and per- 
sons are described without betraying any of the 
describer’s own pecuharities. The author is not 
seen in his book. He never speaks in his own 
person, nor is the reader reminded of him. 
Shakspeare and Scott are, perhaps, the most ob- 
jective of writers. Their heroes are not portraits 
of themselves, but of objects out of themselves. 
In the same way, the old classic writers are for 
the most part objective. Subjectivity, on the 
other hand, ts the power by which a writer 
stamps himself on all he writes, and gives it 
the coloring of his own mind. The author is 
never lost sight of in his work. We hear 
always the same voice, though somewhat coun- 
terfeited; see always the same face, though 
partially concealed under various masks. Most 
modern writers are subjective. Like Snug, the 
joiner, in “The Midsummer Night’s Dream,” 
they let half the face be seen through the lion’s 
neck, and say, “I one Snug the joiner am!” 
or, like Moonshine in the same play, exclaim : 
“‘ All that I have to say is, to tell you that the 
lantern is the moon; J, the man in the meon; 
this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, 
my dog.” Such are the expressions, Objectivity 
and Subjectivity ; from which the not very trans- 
parent mixture has been formed, called Subjec- 
tive- Objectivity. This is the desirable power of 
seeing ourselves as others see us. Launce, in 
“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” seems to 
have a confused notion of it, when he says: 
“Tam the dog;—no, the dog is himself, and 
I am the dog ;—O, the dog is me, and I am 
myself: — Ay, so, so.” 


In addition to the works already cited, for a 
more complete history of German literature, 
the reader is referred to Madame de Staél’s 
“6 Allemagne ’;——Franz Horn’s ‘ Poesie und 
Beredsamkeit der Deutschen,” 3 vols., Berlin, 
1822—4, 8vo.;— Taylor’s “ Historic Survey 
of German Poetry,’ 3 vols., London, 1830, 
8vo. ;—— Gervinus, ‘* Geschichte der Poetischen 
National-Literatur der Deutschen,” 
Leipzig, 1840-3, 8vo.; an excellent analysis 
of which may be found in the “ North Ameri- 
can Review,” for January, 1844 ;— Menzel’s 
‘German Literature,” translated by C. C. Fel- 
ton, 3 vols., Boston, 1840, 12mo.; — Peschier’s 
‘¢ Histoire de la Littérature Allemande,”’ 2 vols., 
Paris, 1836, 8vo. ; — Henry and Apffel’s  His- 
toire de la Littérature Allemande,”’ Paris, 1839, 
8vo. Vast stores of the German literature of the 
Middle Ages may be found in the publications 
of the * Literarischer Verein,” in Stuttgart, and 
the “ Bibliothek der gesammten Deutschen Na- 
tional-Literatur,”’ which was commenced in 
1839, by Basse, in Quedlinburg. See also Mail- 
ath and KoOffinger’s ** Koloczaer Codex alt- 
deutscher Gedichte,” Pesth, 1817, and Grimm’s 
* Altdeutsche Walder,’ 3 vols., Cassel, 1813 —- 
16, 8vo, 


— 


5 vols., 


PER eto Oe Cm NGO REES VIttox & 


. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SONG OF OLD HILDEBRAND. 


I wave heard say, that Hildebrand and Am- 
elung agreed to go on a warlike expedition. 
These Eyencn made ready their horses, pre- 
pared their war-shirts, and girded on their chain- 
hilted swords. 

As they rode to the meeting of heroes, Hil- 
debrand, Herbrand’s son (he was one of the 
wise, and questioned in few words), said to his 
companion: “If thou wilt tell me who was 
thy father, and of what people thou art sprung, 

I will give thee three garments.’ 

‘“¢T am a child of the Huns,’ answered Ame- 
lung, ‘and our old people have told me that 
my shen s name was Hildebrand. In former 
times he came from the East, flying the enmity 
of Otto-asa, and put himself with Theodoric 
and his blades. 

‘¢ He left behind, in the land, a bride in 
child-bed, and a child without snheviinnce: and 
went to the South with Theodoric, thee he 
stood many brunts. 

‘‘ He was a man without connexions, not a 
match for Otto-asa ; but he was a good Siidier: 
while he strove under Theodoric, Reulured do- 
mains, was his people’s father, and dear to 
brave men. I do not believe that he is liv- 
ing.” 

‘¢ My worthy god Irmin in heaven above,’ 
quoth Hildebrand, ‘¢do not let me fight with so 
near a kinsman! ; Then he untwisted golden 
bracelets from his arm, and imperial rings, which 
his king had given him, saying: “This Mi give 
thee, not without good. will ; a am thy ihe 
Hadctand, co 

Amelung answered : 
gifts taken, tit for tat. 


“ With willing soul be 
Thou art not of his age. 
Craftily thou seekest to deceive me: but I will 
convict thee out of thine own mouth. Thou 
art so advanced in years, that thou must be old- 
er than he. And shipwrecked men told me, 
that he died by the Wendel-sea,* in the West. 

Then Hildebrand answered: ‘I well see 
thou hast in thy breast no Lord God, and carest 
naught for his kingdom. Go now, so God be 
willing,” said Hildebrand ; ‘I would we were 
parted. Sixty summers have I wandered out 
of my country, and sometimes I have joined 
archers, but in no borough did they ever fasten 
my legs; and now my nearest kinsman would 
aim his battle-axe at my neck, or I must bind 
his legs. Yet you may now easily, if your 


* The Sea of Venice, the Adriatic, 


valor is up, win the spoils of the dead from one 
you should venerate, if you have any sense of 
right. He would be a base Ostrogoth,’”’ con- 
tinued Hildebrand, ‘*who should refuse thee 
battle, seeing thou so greatly desirest it. Good 
commoners, he judges which it is who flinches 
in the field, and which it is who ought to have 
our two coats of mail.’’ 

Then they let fly their ashen spears with 
such force that they stuck in the shields. 
Then they struck together their stone axes, and 
uplifted hostilely their white shields, till their 
loins and bellies quivered. 

But the lady Utta rushed in between them: 
‘<7 know,” said she, ‘¢ the cross of gold which 
I gave eee for his shield; this is my Hilde- 
brand. You, Amelung, poate your sword ; 
this is your gees - 

Then she led both champions into her hall, 
and gave them meal and wine and many em- 
braces. 


—_$-—— 


FRAGMENT OF THE SONG OF LOUIS 
THE THIRD. 


THEN took he shield and spear, 
And quickly forward rode ; 
Willing to wreak revenge 
Against his gathering foae: 


Erelong he saw from far 

The Nonian force approach : 

“ Thank God!” said he aloud: 
He saw what he desired. 


The king rode bravely on, 
And sang a Frankish hymn, 
And all his people joined : 
‘“¢ Kyrieleison.”’ 


The song was sung ; 

The fight begun : 

The blood shone in the cheeks 
Of the merry Franks: 

But no blade of them all 
Fought so bravely as Ludovic. 


——o-—— 


FROM THE RHYME OF ST. ANNO 
Brrore St. Anno 
Six were sainted 
Of our holy bishops ; 
Like the seven stars, 


GERMAN POETRY. 


They shall shine from heaven. 

Purer and brighter 

Ts the light of Anno 

Than a hyacinth set in a golden ring. 
This darling man 

We will have for a pattern ; 

And those that would grow 

In virtue and trustiness 

Shall dress by him as at a mirror. 

As the sun in the air, 

Which goes between heaven and earth, 
Glitters to both : 

So went Bishop Anno 

Between God and man. 

Such was his virtue in the palace, 
That the empire obeyed him. 

He behaved with honor to both sides, 


And was counted among the first barons. 
At worship, in his gestures, 

He was awful as an angel. 

Many a man knew his goodness ; 

Hear what were his manners : 

His words were frank and open ; 

He spoke truth, fearing no man. 

Like a lion he sat among princes, 

Like a lamb he walked among the needy. 
To the unruly he was sharp, 

To the gentle he was mild. 

Widows and orphans 

Praised him always. 

Preaching and praying 

Nobody could do better. 

Happy was Cologne 

To be worthy of such a bishop. 


NECOND PERTOD.=—CENTURIES XL 


MINNESINGERS. 


CONRAD VON KIRCHBERG. i. ; : ’ 

Our manly youths, — where are they now? 
Bid them up and with us go 

To the sporters on the plain : 

Bid adieu to care and pain 


Count Conrapd von KirncuBere was a Swa- 
bian, who lived in the latter part of the twelfth 
century. He was the author of several songs, 
and this is all that is known of him. 


May, sweet May, again is come, 
May that frees the land from gloom ; 
Children, children, up, and see 

All her stores of jollity ! 

On the laughing hedgerow’s side 
She hath spread her treasures wide ; 
She is in the greenwood shade, 
Where the nightingale hath made 
Every branch and every tree 

Ring with her sweet melody ; 

Hill and dale are May’s own treasures. 
Youths, rejoice! In sportive measures 
Sing ye! join the chorus gay! 
Hail this merry, merry May ! 


Up, then, children! we will go 
Where the blooming roses grow ; 

In a joyful company 

We the bursting flowers will see: 
Up, your festal dress prepare ! 
Where gay hearts are meeting, there 
May hath pleasures most inviting, 
Heart and sight and ear delighting. 
Listen to the birds’ sweet song : 


Now, thou pale and wounded lover ! 
Thou thy peace shalt soon recover. 
Many a laughing lip and eye 
Speaks the light heart’s gayety ; 
Lovely flowers around we find, 

In the smiling verdure twined, 

Richly steeped in May-dews glowing. 
Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing ! 
Sing ye! join the chorus gay ! 

Hail this merry, merry May ! 


O, if to my love restored, — 

To her, o’er all her sex adored, — 

What supreme delight were mine! 

How would care her sway resign ! 

Merrily in the bloom of May 

Would I weave a garland gay. 

Better than the best is she, 

Purer than all purity ; 

For her spotless self alone 

I will praise this changeless one ; 

Thankful or unthankful, she 

Shall my song, my idol be. 
Youths, then join the chorus gay ! 
Hail this merry, merry May ! 


—y— 


Hark ! how soft it floats along ! 


Courtly dames, our pleasures share ! 


Never saw I May so fair ; 

Therefore dancing will we go. 

Youths, rejoice ! the flowerets blow! 
Sing ye! join the chorus gay! 
Hail this merry, merry May! 


. 


HEINRICH VON RISPACH. 


Herrnrich von Rispacu, or the Virtuous 
Clerk, flourished in the latter part of the twelfth 
century, and lived as late as 1207, as he was 


nih ert Arms ACA a eet 


Dentin An APO NA stein nn NN NEES gn eee eR SASS AVE 


one of the combatants at the poetical battle of 
the Wartburg, which took place in that year. 


THE woodlands with my songs resound, 
As still I seek to gain 

The favor of that lady fair 
Who causeth all my pain. 


My fate is like the nightingale’s, 
That singeth all night long, 

While still the woodlands mournfully 
But echo back her song. 


What care the wild woods, as they wave 
For all the songster’s pains ? 

Who gives her the reward of thanks 
For all her tuneful strains ? 


? 


In dull and mute ingratitude 
Her sweetest songs they hear, 
Their tenants roam the desert wild, 
And want no music there. 


eis 


WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH. 


Wotrram yon Escuenspacu, one of the 
most voluminous poets of the Middle Ages, 
belonged to a noble family of the Upper Pala- 
tinate. He lived in the latter part of the 
twelfth century, and the first part of the thir- 
teenth. But little is known of his private 
life, except that he supported himself by his 
poetical genius, and the liberality of the princes 
at whose courts he was entertained. arly in 
the thirteenth century, he was a dependent of 
Hermann, the landgrave of Thuringia. To- 
wards the close of his life he returned to the 
castle of his ancestors, and about the year 1228, 
died and was buried in the church of our Lady 
of Eschenbach. 

Wolfram von Eschenbach is more renowned 
for long narrative poems than for amorous dit- 
ties. Besides his traditional fame, as one of the 
champions in the poetic tourney at the Wart- 
burg, his poems of “ Parcival,’’ ‘‘ Titurel,” and 
*¢ William and Kiburg ”’ have given him a lofty 
place among the German bards. The poem of 
‘‘ Parcival”’ treats of the Saint-Gréal, or Holy 
Grail, a relic in the form of a vase, made of a 
single emerald, and containing the holy sacra- 
ment, or, according to other traditions, the blood 
of the Saviour, collected by Joseph of Arima- 
thea, and intrusted to the care of angels, who 
had long held it suspended in the air, beyond 
the sight of mortals. Titurel built a temple, 
according to a design traced by the hand of 
God, which contained the consecrated vase, 
and became the abode of a monastic and chiv- 
alrous order, who took the name of Templars. 
These persons were charged with the duty of 
watching over the relic, guarding the edifice, 
and protecting the kingdom. The king of Saint- 
Gréal was at the same time the ecclesiastical 


MINNESINGERS. 


chief. The election of the king was determined 
by the will of God, the name of the chosen 
monarch being written miraculously on the 
vase itself. Parcival, one of the Knights of the 
Round Table, owed his elevation to a similar 
intimation of the divine will. 

When sin had made great progress in the 
West, the Saint-Gréal was ordered by the Al- 
mighty to be transferred to the East. Parcival 
was at this time king of Saint-Gréal. The 
vase, the temple, the kingdom, and the order 
of defenders were all transported, in a single 
day, to India. A Christian tribe, who had pre- 
served their religion in its primeval purity, 
lived there, surrounded by pagans, under the 
government of the renowned but mysterious 
Prester John. This treasure, according to the 
ancient traditions, had been in the possession 
of Titurel before Parcival, although the poem 
which bears his name was composed at a later 
period. 

Another epic poem of Eschenbach is on the 
subject of William and Kiburg; the latter was 
the wife of William of Orange, whose sister 
had married Louis Je Débonnaire, the son of 
Charlemagne. These poems, as Eschenbach 
left them, did not form a complete whole, but 
were afterwards arranged and completed by 
other poets. Eschenbach was received into the 
ranks of chivalry, as he takes good care to in- 
form us; and it was in the character and qual- 
ity of knight that he appeared at the poetic 
combat of the Wartburg. Like most cavaliers 
of the age, it is stated that Eschenbach could 
neither read nor write. <A local tradition, in- 
forms us, that he was visited in the chamber he 
occupied at Eisenach, in the house of one 
Gottschalk, by the familiar spirit of Klinsor 
the magician, who had arrived at Eisenach 
through the air, and taken lodgings with a 
warm citizen named Hellegrave, or Count of 
Hell. This malicious demon wrote on the 
wall of Eschenbach’s chamber words signifying 
that the poet was no better than a layman, 
which meant in those days an ignoramus. The 
host of Eschenbach, in his zeal for the repu- 
tation of his guest, caused the stone on which 
the inscription was written to be taken out of 
the wall and thrown into the neighbouring 
stream of the Horsel; but the room is still 
called ‘“‘ the dark chamber.”’ 

In consequence of the defect above mention- 
ed in Eschenbach’s education, —a serious one, 
it must be confessed, for a poet, — he was com- 
pelled to employ a reader, when he had occa- 
sion to make use of books, and to dictate to an 
amanuensis, whenever he composed. His poems 
generally were imitations of the Romance or 
Provengal literature, in which the spirit of 
chivalry was first breathed into verse. These 
poems sometimes took the form of a monologue, 
and sometimes that of a conversation with his 
characters, one of whom, a special favorite of 
the poet, was Dame Aventure. 

As a poet, Wolfram betrays more of his own 


individual character than is common in the 
poets of an early age. Many significant allu- 
sions occur in his works to his amours, success- 
ful or unsuccessful. He blames those who at- 
tempt to sing of love without having felt its 
ardors. In “ Parcival,’’ he complains at times 
of the mischievous god, and launches his re- 


proaches against some hard-hearted fair one 


who had refused to listen to his wooings. His 
minor poems, however, breathe a satisfied spirit, 
and hint strongly that all the dames to whom 
his courtesies were offered did not turn a deaf 
ear to his prayers. In the poem of “ Parcival,”’ 
however, he shows more of the inspiration of 
chivalry and devotion than of love. He de- 
scribes the untaught and simple youth of his he- 
ro, his chaste love, his innocence, his fidelity, 
and his trust in God. The practice of these 
virtues exposes him to great misfortunes, but 
also prepares him for the highest dignity, that 
of being king of the Saint-Gréal in the para- 
disaical country of the early Christians. 

The poem of “ William and Kiburg”’ bears 
a strong resemblance to the ancient épopée. 
The style is pure, vigorous, and concise, and 
the tone of the poem has less of the romantic 
exaltation and enthusiasm than was common at 
the time. The descriptions of battles are mi- 
nute and faithful, and show the ready skill of 
one who has seen, and perhaps taken part in, 
actions similar to those he delineates. The 
love and constancy of William and Kiburg are 
fully and characteristically represented; and 
her heroic defence of the castle, during her 
husband’s absence, is told with epic animation. 

But of all his poems, that of “ Titurel”’ con- 
tributed the most to his renown, as is proved 
by the numerous copies of it that were made 
during a series of ages. Many other produc- 
tions of note, in the early periods of the German 
language, have been attributed to him, —as, for 
example, ** The Adventures of Wolfdietrich,” in 
the ‘“¢ Heldenbuch,’ —just as a great number of 
epic compositions by nameless bards among the 
early Greeks were popularly assigned to the 
mighty name of Homer. 


Wou tp I the lofty spirit melt 
Of that proud dame who dwells so high, 
Kind Heaven must aid me, or unfelt 
By her will be its agony. 
Joy in my soul no place can find : 
As well might I a suitor be 
To thunderbolts, as hope her mind 
Will turn in softer mood to me. 


Those cheeks are beautiful, are bright 

As the red rose with dewdrops graced ; 
And faultless is the lovely light 

Of those dear eyes, that, on me placed, 
Pierce to my very heart, and fill 

My soul with love’s consuming fires, 
While passion burns and reigns at will; 

So deep the love that fair inspires! 


GERMAN POETRY. 


But joy upon her beauteous form 
Attends, her hues so bright to shed 
O’er those red lips, before whose warm 
And beaming smile all care is fled. 
She is to me all light and joy; 

I faint, I die, before her frown ; 
Even Venus, lived she yet on earth, 

A fairer goddess here must own. 
While many mourn the vanished light 

Of summer, and the sweet sun’s face, 
I mourn that these, however bright, 

No anguish from the soul can chase 
By love inflicted: all around, 

Nor ‘song of birds, nor ladies’ bloom, 
Nor flowers upspringing from the ground, 

Can chase or cheer the spirit’s gloom. 
Yet still thine aid, beloved, impart ; 

Of all thy power, thy love, make trial 
Bid joy revive in this sad heart, 

Joy that expires at thy denial : 
Well may I pour my prayer to thee, 

Beloved lady, since ’t is thine 
Alone to send such care on me ; 

Alone for thee I ceaseless pine. 


—_4—_— 


THE EMPEROR HENRY. 


Ir is doubtful which Henry this is. Pischon 
hesitatingly calls him Henry, sixth emperor of 
| that name, and the son of Frederic Barbarossa. 
If he was so, he died in 1197. 


I Greet in song that sweetest one 
Whom I can ne’er forget, 
Though many a day is past and gone 
Since face to face we met. 
Who sings this votive song for me, 
Or man or woman, he or she, 
To her, my absent one, shall welcome be. 


Kingdom and lands are naught to me, 
When with her presence weighed ; 
And when her face no more I see, 
My power and greatness fade ; 
Then of my wealth I reckon none, 
But sorrow only, for mine own: 
Rising and falling, thus my life moves on. 
He errs, whose heart will not believe 
That i might yet be biest, 
Though never crown again had leave 
Upon my head to rest : 
This loss I might supply ; but when 
Her love was gone, what had I then ? 
Nor joy, hope, solace could I know again. 


NS 


WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. 


WALTHER VON DER VoGELWEIDE, one of the 
most distinguished of the Minnesingers, was 


born in the latter half of the twelfth century, of 
a noble family belonging to the Upper Thurgau. 
The name Vogelweide (Bird-meadow) appears 
to have been taken from that of their castle. 
The poet led a wandering life; sometimes at the 
court of Frederic, the duke of Austria and Sti- 
ria; then kindly received by Philip Augustus, 
king of France; then remaining long at the 
magnificent court of the Landgrave of Thurin- 
gia, the great patron of the poets of his age, who 
instituted the poetical contest, called the War 
of the Wartburg, in which Walther took part. 
A work is still preserved, called “« The Wart- 
burg War,” consisting of the alternate songs 
of the bards who took part in this poetical joust. 
Tradition places the date of this tuneful tour- 
ney in the year 1207, the most brilliant epoch of 
ancient German poetry, not only for the illus- 
trious names that have been handed down to 
our day, but for the impulse given to the ancient 
national and heroic poetry by unknown min- 
strels. Hermann, landgrave of Thuringia, had 
gathered round his court many of the most fa- 
mous Minnesingers, who had celebrated in lays 
and ballads the warlike deeds of his martial 
house. [Heinrich von Ofterdingen appears as 
the champion of the Austrian prince, throws 
down the gauntlet to all the poets, and offers to 
maintain the virtues of his hero against all the 
singing tribe, under penalty of being hanged in 
case of defeat. Walther, as court poet of the 
Thuringian prince, accepts the challenge, and 
enters the lists against Heinrich von Ofterdin- 
gen. Walther regrets that he is obliged to de- 
clare against the Duke of Austria and his brave 
cavaliers; then he praises the King of France, 
Philip Augustus, in whose reign the poetry of 
the North of France rivalled the glory of the 
Provencal muse, as the poet could testify from 
his own knowledge, for he had crossed the 
Rhine and visited the banks of the Seine. But 
in the course of the contest he partially recants, 
and sets the gracious duke above the monarch, 
calling him the sun; but the landgrave he com- 
pares to the brightness that precedes the sun. 
Ofterdingen complains of Walther, accuses him 
of playing an unfair game, and resorts to Klin- 
sor of Hungary to sustain the supremacy of 
Austria. The other champions call for Stemp- 
fel of Eisenach, who stands ready with the hal- 
ter; but Ofterdingen is protected by the land- 
gravine, who intercedes in his defence. — The 
place of this scene was the great hall of the 
Wartburg castle, —a hall that still exists, and 
is shown as a monument of the joust. 

After the arrival of Frederic the Second in 
Germany, Walther revisited the court of Vienna, 
where he was kindly received by Leopold the 
Seventh. In the contests between the temporal 
and spiritual powers, the poet showed himself an 
ardent friend of the empire, though he bewailed 
the bloody quarrels, and described them as accom- 
panied by awful signs in the sky. These quar- 
rels began with the excommunication of Otho, 
and ended only with the deposition of Frederic 


. Se 25 


Pr, 


MINNESINGERS. 
SS a TI eis 


the Second, and the annihilation of the Hohen- 
staufen family; an event which Walther did 
not live to witness. The apparent cause of 
these conflicts was the promise made by Fred- 
eric to undertake a crusade immediately upon 
his elevation ; a promise he was unable to keep, 
on account of domestic wars. The heart of 
Walther was divided between two great de- 
sires; the reéstablishment of the universal do- 
minion of the German-Roman empire, and the 
power and majesty of his temporal chief. Since 
1187, the Holy Sepulchre had been in the hands 
of the infidels, and Walther many times entreat- 
ed the emperor to undertake the crusade he had 
promised at his coronation. Pressed by the 
importunities of Walther, the emperor finally 
resoived, in spite of many unfavorable circum- 
stances, to embark at Otranto ; but, falling sick, 
he was compelled to return, and encounter a 
new excommunication from the pope. Walther 
censures the bulls fulminated from the Vatican. 
The crusade, however, on which Walther’s 
heart was set, at length came to pass, and the 
poet had the satisfaction and joy to bow, with 
his great emperor, at the tomb of the Saviour, 
redeemed from the infidels. 

From this time forth, the poet’s “life seemed 
to him rich and noble, because his sinful eyes 
had seen the Holy Land.’ The Emperor 
Frederic had made a triumphal entry into Jeru- 
salem, at the head of his faithful Germans, on 
the 27th of March, 1229; the following Sunday 
he appeared in the church of the Holy Sepul- 
chre, and, taking the crown from the altar, 
placed it upon his own head. During this cer- 
emony, the Germans sang a chant, and the 
grand-master of the Teutonic order pronounced 
a discourse in German. Walther was probably 
present at this spectacle, and saw the desire of 
his soul fulfilled, —the chief of the German 
empire and of the Christian world crowned 
with glory on the most sacred spot on earth. 

No later events are mentioned in the poems 
of Walther, and the swan of ancient Germany 
appears to have died a short time after. His 
voice had resounded, as he says himself, more 
than forty years. 

Walther seems to have adopted all the habits 
and manners of the wandering minstrels of the 
times. He travelled from court to court, gen- 
erally received with honor, tarrying with the 
German princes who protected the arts of poet- 
ry and music, and sometimes at foreign courts, 
and was welcomed everywhere. He made no 
scruple to accept pensions and entertainments 
for his services. ‘It is true,” says Raczynski,* 
“that knights possessing fiefs received presents 
of dresses, armor, and horses, and a great num- 
ber of knights-errant, as well as bards and 
troubadours, resorted to the tourneys for this 
kind of alms; but the latter accepted whatev- 
er was offered them, particularly second-hand 
clothes. Walther boasts of never having taken 


* Histoire de l’Art Moderne en Allemagne. 


ln ee 


194 GERMAN POETRY. 


— —= 


any such present. He sings his ballads, accom- 
panying himself with the violin. He played 
this instrument also to euliven the dance, in 
imitation of the Dukes of Austria, Leopold and 
Frederic, who sung and managed the ball them- 
selves.’’ The proud and chivalrous baron and 
fiddler, Volker of the Nibelungenlied, did the 
same at the nuptials of Chrimhild. 

But Walther sang not for princes alone. 
Love formed the theme of many a gentle ditty 
chanted by the bard, until late in life. He sings 
of the fair one’s cruelty, by whose side he be- 
comes like a feeble child; even a refusal, ac- 
companied by her angelic smile, makes him 
happy. He paints her beauties with brilliant 
colors, and prefers the sight of her cheeks, 
clothed _with the peach’s downy hue, to the 
contemplation of the empyrean and the celestial 
ear. Her praise of his poetry puts him in an 
ecstasy ; and she it is, who inspires him to say, 
that “he who possesses the love of a noble 
woman holds all vice in scorn.” Thus had 
love exalted the soul of Walther. 

Walther’s residence at the courts of princes, 
his superior genius, the dignity of his poetry, 
the cutting satire which he knew how to use 
with great effect, and his vehement patriotism 
gave him a powerful influence. His poems 
were the favorites of the emperor and the prin- 
ces. His chief desire is the honor and repose 
of his country and of Christianity. The dis- 
union of the temporal and spiritual powers, and 
the universal degeneracy of all classes and all 
ages, are the cause of his sorrows, and the 
theme of his perpetual complaints. He vene- 
rates the pope, as the spiritual head of the Chris- 
tian religion; but he disapproves of the abuse 
of papal power. Among the vices of his time, 
the one which meets with his severest repre- 
hension is that of immoderate drinking. 

When old age approaches, Walther piously 
fixes his thoughts upon the region beyond the 
grave. ‘In this valley of tears, every joy de- 
parts, like the fleeting tints of the flowers, and 
dries up like the grass of the field.” And 
therefore he lifts his eyes towards eternal fe- 
licity. His poems assume a graver character, 
and the gloomy feelings and dark anticipations, 
common to old men, often find utterance in 
them. He was deeply versed in the history of 
the saints. He had travelled much, and the old 
heroic spirit of Germany breathes with manly 
vigor in his patriotic songs. For Walther was 
a true poet; his voice was heard with respect 
and admiration, and he stood among the fore- 
most men of his age. 

There is a tradition that Walther was buried 
beneath, a tree, within the precincts of the Min. 
ster at Wurtzburg, and that he directed in his 
will that the birds should be fed at stated times 
on his tomb. ‘This is the subject of one of the 
pictures recently executed at Munich, which is 
thus described by Raczynski, in‘ his great’ work 
on German art. ‘The picture in the middle of 
the second wall shows us the figure of the poet 


reclining on the tomb. About it are flying little 
birds, which the children of the choir are feed- 
ing. This picture, executed by a modern artist 
with great simplicity, is the most pleasing of all. 
The idea is taken from an old tradition. Wal- 
ther, according to all the testimonies, died at 
Wirtzburg; his tomb was found in the court 
of the new Minster, surrounded by the luxuri- 
ant vegetation. A tree with heavy branches 
bent over the tombstone, and in its foliage were 
sporting thousands of little birds, drawn thither 
by the water and the food which, according to 
the last will of Walther, were daily placed upon 
his tomb. At a later period, this birds’ food 
was altered by the monks into small loaves for 
themselves, on the anniversary of the poet’s 
birth. An epitaph in Latin verse explains this 
pious legacy.” 

The poems of Walther have been published 
by Lachmann in the original text (Berlin, 1827 
— 28), and translated into modern German by 
Simrceck and Wackernagel. 


Wuen from the sod the flowerets spring, 
And smile to meet the sun’s bright ray, 

When birds their sweetest carols sing, 
In all the morning pride of May, 

What lovelier than the prospect there ? 

Can earth boast any thing more fair ? 

To me it seems an almost heaven, 

So beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is 
given. 


But when a lady chaste and fair, 
Noble, and clad in rich attire, 

Walks through the throng with gracious air, 
As sun that bids the stars retire, — 

Then, where are all thy boastings, May ? 

What hast thou beautiful and gay, 

Compared with that supreme delight ? 

We leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that 
lady bright. 


Wouldst thou believe me, — come and place 
Before thee all this pride of May ; 
Then look but on my lady’s face, 
And which is best and brightest say : 
For me, how soon (if choice were mine) 
This would I take, and that resign, 
And say, ‘ Though sweet thy beauties, May, 
I’d rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay!” 


’T was summer, — through the opening grass 
The joyous flowers upsprang, 

The birds in all their different tribes 
Loud in the woodlands sang : 

Then forth I went, and wandered far 
The wide green meadow 0’er; 

Where cool and clear the fountain played, 
There strayed I in that hour. 


Roaming on, the nightingale 
Sang sweetly in my ear ; 

And by the greenwood’s shady side 
A dream came to me there ; 


MINNESIN 


Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers 
Of sparkling hue we see, 

Close sheltered from the summer heat, 
That vision came to me. 


All care was banished, and repose 
Came o’er my wearied breast, 

And kingdoms seemed to wait on me, 
For I was with the blest. 


My spirit soared on high, 
And in the boundless joys of heaven 
Was rapt in ecstasy, — 
E’en then, my body revelled still 
In earth’ s festivity ; 
And surely never was a dream 
So sweet as this to me. 


| Yet, while it seemed as if away 
| 
| 
| 


Thus I dreamed on, and might have dwelt 
Still on that rapturous dream, 

When, hark! a raven’s luckless note 
(Sooth, ’t was a direful scream ! ) 

Broke up the vision of delight, 
Instant my joy was past : 

O, had a stone but met my hand, 
That hour had been his last! 


Very little is known of this poet. He lived 
in the first half of the thirteenth century. 


My lady dearly loves a pretty bird, 
That sings, and echoes back her gentle tone; 
Were I, too, near her, never should be heard 
A songster’s note more pleasant than my own; 
Sweeter than sweetest nightingale Id sing. 
For thee, my lady fair, 
This yoke of love I bear: 
Deign thou to comfort me, and ease my sorrow- 


ing. 


Were but the troubles of my heart by her 
Regarded, I would triumph in my pain; 
But her proud heart stands firmly, and the stir 
Of passionate grief o’ercomes not her disdain. 
Yet, yet I do remember how before 
My eyes she stood and spoke, 
And on her gentle look 
My earnest gaze was fixed: O, were it so once 
more ! 


——~ 
HEINRICH VON MORUNG 
| 
Hast thou seen 
My heart’s true queen 
At the window gazing ; 
Her whose love 
Can care remove, 

All my sorrows easing? 
Like the sun at first uprising, 
She was shrouded, 

And o’erclouded 


Was my spirit, — now rejoicing. 


Is there none 
Whose heart can own 
A generous, kindly feeling ? 
Let him aid me 
Find that lady 
Who from me is stealing ; 
That her beauteous smile may cheer me 
Ere I go; 
For love and woe 
To the silent grave fast bear me. 


Then upon 
My burial-stone 
Men shall write how dearly 
She was prized, 
And I despised, 
I that loved sincerely ; 
Then the passing swain shall see 
My complaining, 
Her disdaining ; 
Such sad fate she dealt to me. 


—— 


BURKHART VON HOHENFELS. 


Tus poet also lived in the first half of the | 


thirteenth century. Many of his poems were 
published by Bodmer. 


Like the sun’s uprising light 
Shines that maid, before whom fade 
Other charms, however bright ; 

As the stars at break of day, 

Late so brilliant, fade away. 


When my spirit light had flown 
Wanton forth in pleasure’s quest, 
Then those beaming eyes have shone 
O’er the rover’s path, and led 

Home to her from whom it sped. 


When again its wing it took 
Falcon-like for joy to soar, 
Ne’er the gentle spell it broke ; 
Soon again it sought its home 
In that breast it wandered from. 


O’er it fear was ever coming 

Lest its mistress, at the thought 
That for other loves ’t was roaming, 
Vengeful all its joys might blight ; 
Therefore back it winged its flight. 


oe 


GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN. 


GotTrRizD von Nrren also belongs to the 
early part of the thirteenth century. Some of 
his songs were published by Bodmer, and others 
by Benecke in his “ Erginzung der Sammlung 
von Minnesingern.”’ In a war with the Bish- 
op of Costnitz, he and his brother were taken 
prisoners by the martial prelate. 


SS SESE CTT SD SS SS | ESTERS Ea 


GERS. 195 | 


Up, up! let us greet 
The season so sweet! 
For winter is gone, 
And the flowers are springing, 
And little birds singing, 
Their soft notes ringing, 
And bright is the sun! 
Where all was dressed 
In a snowy vest, 

There grass is growing, 
With dewdrops glowing, 
And flowers are seen 

On beds so green. 


All down in the grove, 
Around, above, 

Sweet music floats ; 
As now loudly vying, 
Now softly sighing, 
The nightingale ’s plying 

Her tuneful notes, 
And joyous at spring 
Her companions sing. 
Up, maidens, repair 
To the meadows so fair, 

And dance we away 


This merry May! 


Yet, though May is blooming, 
And summer is coming, 

And birds may sing, 
What boots me the joy, 
If my fair, too coy, 

This heart will wring ; 
If that auburn hair, 
Those eyes so fair, 
Those lips so smiling, 
Are only beguiling 

And piercing my heart 

With witching art? 


eons 


DIETMAR VON AST. 


Dietmar von Ast, Aist, or E:st, in the 
Thurgau, belongs to the twelfth, or, at the latest, 
to the beginning of the thirteenth century. In 
point of literary merit, he is one of the best of 
the Minnesingers. Some of his pieces are giv- 
en by Pischon, Vol. I. p. 570. 


By the heath stood a lady 
All lonely and fair ; 
As she watched for her lover, 
A falcon flew near. 
‘¢ Happy falcon !”’ she cried, 
*‘ Who can fly where he list, 
And can choose in the forest 
The tree he loves best! 


‘¢ Thus, too, had I chosen 
One. knight for mine own, 

Him my eye had selected, 

Him prized I alone: 


GERMAN POETRY. 


But other fair ladies 
Have envied my joy ; 
And why ? for I sought not 
Their bliss to destroy. 


‘As to thee, lovely summer, 
Returns the birds’ strain, 
As on yonder green linden 
The leaves spring again, 
So constant doth grief 
At my eyes overflow, 
And wilt not thou, dearest, 
Return to me now? 


“Yes, come, my own hero, 
All others desert ! 
When first my eye saw thee, 
How graceful thou wert ; 
How fair was thy presence, 
How graceful, how bright ! 
Then think of me only, & 
My own chosen knight!” 


THERE sat upon the linden-tree 
A bird and sang its strain ; 
So sweet it sang, that, as I heard, 
My heart went back again: 
It went to one remembered spot, 
I saw the rose-trees grow, 
And thought again the thoughts of love 
There cherished long ago. 


A thousand years to me it seems 
Since by my fair I sat, 
Yet thus to have been a stranger long e 
Was not my choice, but fate : 
Since then I have not seen the flowers, 
Nor heard the birds’ sweet song ; 
My joys have all too briefly passed, 
My griefs been all too long. 


————_——— 


CHRISTIAN VON HAMLE. 


Noruine is known of the history of this po- 
et, except that he flourished about the middle 
of the thirteenth century. 


Wouvtp that the meadow could speak ! 
And then would it truly declare 
How happy was yesterday, 
When my lady-love was there ; 
When she plucked its flowers, and gently pressed 
Her lovely feet on its verdant breast. 


Meadow, what transport was thine, 
When my lady walked across thee, 
And her white hands plucked the flowers, 
Those beautiful flowers that emboss thee ! 
O, suffer me, then, thou bright green sod, 
To set my feet where my lady trod ! 


Meadow, pray thou for the ease | 
Of a heart that with love is panting ! 


eric the Second. 
part in one of the crusades. 


O’ercome, my heart to her bows down; 
Yet Heaven protect thee, lady, still! 

O, were those roseate lips my own, 

I might defy e’en age’s chill ! 


And so will I pray, that, her feet 
On thy sod my lady planting, 
No wintry snows may ever lie there, 
And my heart be green as your vesture fair. 


-——_9-—— 


-RUDOLPH VON ROTHENBERG. 


Tus poet sprang from a noble family of the 
same name in the Aar-gau, in the time of Fred- 
He appears to have taken 


A sTRANGER pilgrim spoke to me, 
Unquestioned, of my lady bright : 

He told me of her beauty rare, 

How kind she was, how courteous, fair ; 
A tale it was of soft delight, 

That o’er my heart came pleasantly. 

“« Heaven grant my love a happy day!” 
Each other greeting thus denied, 

Still does my spirit fondly say, 

Ever, at morning’s earliest ray ; 
And, ne’er forgot, at eventide, 

My kind “ goodnight’ I constant pay. 


Almost by reason was my frame 
Deserted, when I left her last, 
When fair she beamed upon my eye, 
Bright as the glowing evening sky ; 
Joy in her favor was o’ercast 
By sorrowing thoughts that o’er me came. 


She bade me, when I from her went, 
My sorrowing song to her convey ; 
And I would pour it now to her, 
Could I but find a messenger, 
Who, bearing to her hand the lay, 
Might gracefully my song present. 


And should one herald fail, away 


Straight would I send a thousand more ; 


And should they all convey the song, 
And dwell in concert soft and long 

Upon the strain, — perhaps that hour 
A thankful word my toil might pay. 


—y— 


HEINRICH HERZOG VON ANHALT. 


Tus prince, surnamed “the Fat,” was a poet 
of considerable distinction in his time. He 


died in, 1267. 


Stray! let the breeze still blow on me 

That passed o’er her, my heart’s true queen! 
Were she not sweet as sweet can be, 

So soft that breeze had never been. 


- a ay ee) 


MINNES 


Col 


TuHIs 
His de: 


Dorg 


A 


Td 
Ont 
And ¥ 
Hath banis®™* 
And I, too, wou 
Were the load of pining care away ; 
Were my lady kind, my soul were light, 
Joy crowning joy would raise its flight. 


2 


The flowers, leaves, hills, the vale, and mead, 
And May with all its light, 

Compared with the roses, are pale indeed, 
Which my lady bears; and bright 
My eyes will shine, as they meet my sight, 

Those beautiful lips of rosy hue, 

As red as the rose just steeped in dew. 


—— 


STEINMAR. 


Tuis poet belongs to the middle of the thir- 
teenth century. He sprang from a family in 
the Zirich-gau, or the Tyrol. 


Wirn the graceful corn upspringing, 
With the birds around me singing, 
With the leaf-crowned forests waving, 
Sweet May-dews the herbage laving, 
With the flowers that round me bloom, 
To my lady dear I’ll come : 

All things beautiful and bright, 

Sweet in sound and fair to sight; 
Nothing, nothing is too rare 

For my beauteous lady fair ; 
Every thing Lgl 
ye my lad 


2 


| 


Conra® Med in the 
latter part o ae entury. » He died 
in 1287. His poems are very numerous, and 
have much merit. 


Srx how from the meadows pass 
Brilliant flowers and verdant grass! 
All their hues now they lose: o’er them hung, 
Mournful robes the woods invest, 
Late with leafy honors dressed : 
Yesterday the roses gay blooming sprung, 
Beauteously the fields adorning ; 
Now their sallow branches fail : 
Wild her tuneful notes at morning 
Sung the lovely nightingale ; 
Now in woe, mournful, low, is her song. 


Nor for lily nor rose sighs he, 
Nor for birds’ sweet harmony, 
He to whom winter’s gloom brings delight: 
Seated by his leman dear, 
He forgets the altered year ; 
Sweetly glide at eventide the moments bright. 
Better this than culling posies ; 
For his lady’s love he deems 
Sweeter than the sweetest roses ; 
Little he the swain esteems 
Not possessing that best blessing, —love’s de- 
light. 


Be 


OF BRAND 


Po ee “| 
POETRY. 


AGatin appears the cheerful May, 
On many a heart its joy it pours, 
A thousand flowers their sweets display, 
And what more blooming than the bowers? 
Sweet is the various music there, 
New clad in leaves the wild woods are, 
And many a pensive heart this hour to joy re- 
stores. 


And all the live-long day I'll strive 
For favor in my lady’s eyes ; 
And must I die in gloom, nor live 
To win and wear that peerless prize, 
Yet am [I still consoled to know 
That she the death-wound doth bestow, 
That from her rosy lips the fatal sentence flies. 


Make room unto my loved lady bright, 
And let me view her body chaste and fair ; 
Emperors with honor may behold the sight, 
And must confess her form without compare. 
My heart, when all men praise her, higher 
swells ; 
Still must I sing how far the maid excels, 
And humbly bow toward the region where she 
dwells. 


O lady-love, be thou my messenger ! 
Say, I adore her from my inmost soul, 

With faith entire, and love no maid but her ; 
Her beauties bright my senses all control ; 
And well she might my sorrowing fears beguile : 

If once her rosy lips on me would smile, 
My cares would all be gone, and ease my heart 
the while. 


Two bitter woes have wounded me to death ; 
Well may ye ween, all pleasures did they 
chase ; 

The blowing flowers are faded on the heath ; 
Thus have I sorrow from her lovely face. 
’T is she alone can wound my heart and heal : 

But if her heart my ardent love could feel, 
No more my soul would strive its sorrows to 
conceal, 


ae a 


THE CHANCELLOR, 


Tue name of the person designated by this 
title is unknown. An ancient ballad of “The 
twelve old Masters,” calls him “a fisher in 
Steiermark.”’ 


Wuo would summer pleasures try, 

Let him to the meadows hie. 

O’er the mountain, in the vale, 
Gladsome sounds and sights prevail : 

In the fields fresh flowers are springing, 
In the boughs new carols singing, 
Richly in sweet harmony 
There the birds new music ply. 


This is all thine own, sweet May ! 
As thy softer breezes play, 
Snow and frost-work melt away. 


Old and young, come forth! for ye 
Winter-bound again are free ; 

Up! ye shall not grieve again. 

Look upen that verdant plain, 

Its gloomy robe no more it wears ; 
How beauteously its face appears ! 
He who ’mid the flowers enjoys 

The sweetness of his lady’s eyes, 
Let him cast his cares away, 

And give the meed of thanks to May. 


From the heart’s most deep recess, 
Hovering smiles, intent to bless, 
Gather on my lady’s lips; 

Smiles, that other smiles eclipse ; 
Smiles, more potent, care-dispelling, 


Than the bank with flowers sweet-smelling, 


Than the birds’ melodious measures, 
Than our choicest woodland treasures, 
Than the flower-besprinkled plains, 
Than the nightingale’s sweet strains ; 
Fairer, sweeter, beauty reigns. 


——)-—-— 


HEINRICH HERZOG VON BRESLAU. 


to 1299. 
has been much admired. 


POET. 
To thee, O May, I must complain, — 
O Summer, I complain to thee, — 


And Meadow, dazzling bright to see! 
To thee, O Greenwood, thee, O Sun, 


Of all the pain my lady’s scorn 
Relentlessly inflicts on me. 

Yet, would ye all with one consent 

Lend me your aid, she might repent : 


me back content! 


MAY, &c. 
What is the wrong? 
what ; 


POET, 
She lets my fancy feed on bliss 5: 
But when, believing in her love, 
I seek her passion’s strength to prove, 
She lets me perish merciless ; 
Ah! woe is me, that e’er I knew 


MAY. 
I, May, will straight my flowers command, 
My roses bright, and lilies white, 
No more for her their charms expand. 


MINNESINGERS. 


Henry, the fourth of that name, entitled Her- 
zog Heinrich von Pressela, reigned from 1266 
His poem, *“ The Poet’s Complaint,” 


And thee, thou flower-bespangled Plain, — 


And thee, too, Love, my song shall be 


Then, for kind heaven’s sake, hear, and give 


Stand forth and tell us 


Unless just cause be shown, we hear thee not. 


Her from whose love such misery doth ensue ! 


SUMMER, 
And I, bright Summer, will restrain 


The birds’ sweet throats; their tuneful notes 


No more shall charm her ear again. 


PLAIN. 
When on the Plain she doth appear, 
My flowerets gay shall fade away ; 
Thus crossed, perchance to thee she’ll turn 
again her ear. 


MEAD. 

And I, the Mead, will help thee too ; 
Gazing on me, her fate shall be, 

That my bright charms shall blind her view. 


Wood. 
And I, the Greenwood, break my bowers 
When the fair maid flies to my shade, 
Till she to thee her smile restores. 


SUN. 
I, Sun, will pierce her frozen heart, 
Till from the blaze of my bright rays 
Vainly she flies, —then learns a gentler part. 


LOVE, 
I, Love, will banish instantly 

Whatever dear and sweet I bear, 
Till she in pity turn to thee. 


POET. 
Alas! must all her joys thus flee ? 

Nay, rather I would joyless die, 
Tow great soe’er my pain may be, 


LOVE. 
Seek’st thou revenge ? — saith Love, — then at 
my nod 
The paths of joy shall close, so lately trod. 


POET. 
Nay, then,—O, leave her not thus shorn of bliss! 
Leave me to die forlorn, so hers be happiness. 


9 


ALBRECHT VON RAPRECHTSWEIL. 


Or this poet nothing is known. 


OncrE more mounts my spirit gay, 
Once more comes the bloom of May ; 
See! upon the branches spring 
Green buds, almost opening, 

And the nightingale so fair 

Sings herself to slumber there. 
Honored be the songstress dear, 
She who trains the branches here ; 
Ever may she happy be. 

Who inspires the birds and me 
With this gladsome gayety. 


She has angel loveliness ; 
Would she deign my heart to bless, — 
She that sends me health and joy, — 

Blest above all bliss were I, 


ooo SSS SSS a 


a ig aC tee Cie ll a Aili hI RO la A A aa 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Heaven would then be mine on earth, 
For in her lies all my mirth. 

With each lovely color she 

Decks her fair face daintily ; 

Red, and white, and auburn there 
Blend their beauties rich and rare ; 
And embosomed in her mind 

All things fair and pure we find. 


Oo 


ULRICH VON LICHTENSTEIN. 


Ixgich von LicuTENSTEIN, a celebrated 
inesinger about the middle of the thirteenth 
tury, has left the romance, “ Frauendienst ”’ 
dy-service) ; a curious and interesting pic- 

, of his age. It is in reality the chivalric 

of the author; ‘‘ having served,” he says, 
‘\irty-three years as a true knight, when he 
wrote his book.’’ — He was educated in the 
chivalric virtues by the Margrave Henry of 
Austria, who taught him to talk of the ladies, 
to ride on horseback, and to write soft verses. — 
This romance is a series of wild adventures, il- 
lustrated by ‘* dance-songs,”’ ** watch-songs,” &c. 


‘‘ Lapy beauteous, lady pure, 

Lady happy, lady kind, 

Love, methinks, has little power, 

So proud thy bearing, o’er thy mind. 
Didst thou feel the power of love, 
Then would those fair lips unclose, 
And be taught in sighs to move.” 


| «¢ What is love, then, good sir knight? 
Is it man or woman? say; 
Tell me, if I know it not, 
How it comes to pass, I pray. 
Thou shouldst tell me all its story, 
Whence, and where, it cometh here, 


9 


That my heart may yet be wary. 


“‘ Lady, love so mighty is, 
All things living to her bow ; 
Various is her power, but I 
Will tell thee what of her I know. 
Love is good, and love is ill, 
Joy and woe she can bestow, 
Spreading life and spirit still.”’ 


“ Can fove banish, courteous knight, 

Pining grief and wasting woe, 

Pour gay spirits on the heart, 

Polish, grace, and ease bestow ? 
If in her these powers may meet, 
Great is she, and thus shall be 
Her praise and honor great.” 


“‘ Lady, I will say yet more : 
Lovely are her gifts, her hand 
Joy bestows, and honor too ; 
The virtues come at her command, 
Joys of sight and joys of heart 
She bestows, as she may choose, 
And splendid fortune doth impart.” 


‘© How shall I obtain, sir knight, 
All these gifts of lady-love ? 
Must I bear a load of care ? 
Much too weak my frame would prove. 
Grief and care I cannot bear ; 
Can I, then, the boon obtain ? 
Tell me, sir knight, then, how and where.”’ 


‘“‘ Lady, thou shouldst think of me 
As I of thee think, — heartily : 
Thus shall we together blend 
Firm in love’s sweet harmony, — 
Thou still mine, I still thine.” 


‘¢ Tt cannot be, sir knight, with me ; 
Be your own, I'll still be mine.” 


ee 


GOESLI VON EHENHEIM, 


Tus poet, of whom only a few verses re- 
main, belongs to the first half of the thirteenth 
century. 


Now will the foe of every flower 
Send forth the tempest of his rage ; 
List! how his winds the battle wage, 
And blow the fields and woodlands o’er ! 
Him naught withstands: his giant power 
Tears from the plat the rose away, 
And withers up each floweret gay ; 
So sharp his rage is to devour. 
For this the meads are sorrowing, 
The birds are dumb, no longer song 
Bursts the mute groves and hills among, 
Chilled by cold shows ;—yet still my love I 
sing, 


———o—=— 


THE THURINGIAN, 


Tur name of this poet is unknown. He 
has been supposed by some to be the Land- 
grave of Thuringia, the patron of the Minne- || 
singers at the beginning of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, and by others to be the same as Christian 
von Lupin. | 


Tue pleasant season must away, 
The song of birds no more 
Must echo from the verdant spray ; 
Chill frost asserts its power. 
Where now is gone thy bloom, 
Thy flowers so fair ? 
The verdant pride of mead and grove, 
The leaf-crowned forest, where ? 
In the whitening frost their bloom is lost, 
And gone are their joys as the things that were. 


Nor frost nor snow o’er me have power 
E’er since my heart hath known 

Those laughter-loving lips, whose charms, 
Just like a rose new-blown, 


eee ————— So zi 


MINNESINGERS. 


Seee=oS en 
ee eee 


More sweet each passing hour, 
The last outvie ; 
So lovely shines that lady fair, 
Of deathless memory, 
Whose form so bright is my heart’s delight, 
Like the eastern day to the watching eye. 


—_¢—. 


WINCESLAUS, KING OF BOHEMIA. 


Tuts king belongs to the middle of the thir- 
teenth century. Two songs and a watch-song 
by him have been preserved. 


Now that stern winter each blossom is blighting, 
And birds in the woodlands no longer we hear, 
I will repair to a scene more inviting, . 
Nor will he repent who shall follow me there. 
Instead of the flowers the plain so adorning, 
Beautiful fair, ones shall bloom like the morning; 
QO, what a vivid and glorious dawning ! 
Sweet smiles, sprightly converse, the drooping 
heart cheer. 


Dares any one now, as in joy he reposes, 
His happy hours crowned by the smiles of 
the fair, 
Still love and lament for the summer’s past 
roses ? 
Ill, then, deserves he a blessing so rare. 
Mine be the joys which his heart cannot meas- 
ure ; 
Might I behold but my heart’s dearest treasure, 
Forgotten were all in that exquisite pleasure, 
H’en the tale I once told thee, — forgive it, 
my fair! 


Beautiful one, to my heart ever nearest, 
The solace of joy that remaineth to me 
Rests in thy favor, thou brightest and dearest, 
Me shall thy beauty from misery free ; 
Long may it cheer me, to happiness guide me, 
And O might it be, when thou smilest beside me, 
In that blessed moment such joy might betide 
me, 
To touch those bright lips as they smile up- 
on me! 


y= 


LUTOLT VON SEVEN. 


LuirHoLp von SavenE, or Liitolt von Seven, 
was the lord of Hagenau. He died about 1230. 


In the woods and meadows green, 
May shines forth so pleasantly, 
That the lovely prospect there 
Joy enough might bring to me: 
But I covet for my mind 
Solace none, 
Save this alone, 
That my lady should be kind. 
26 


20 


Happy, whom the song of birds 
Gladdens, and the bloom of May ; 
He may take his fill of each, 
Freely revel and be gay : 
He may take his choice of joy; 
Flowers fresh springing, 
Birds sweet singing, 
All in loveliest harmony ! 


Me my lady’s favor glads 
More than flowerets red or fair ; 
Song I want not, for her grace 
Frees me from each pining care. 
Well, then, may her noble smile 
Pleasure give, 
Pain relieve, 


And my heart of grief beguile. 
—_—>— 


JOHANN HADLOUB. 


Jouann Haptovs, a native of Ztrich, lived 
at the end of the thirteenth century. With 
him and two or three contemporaries closes the 
line of true Minnesingers, and for a long time 
also the poetic fame of Germany. He was the 
friend of Rudiger von Manesse, the judicious 
patron and protector of the Minnesingers, whose 
poems he collected and copied. This collection, 
embracing works of one hundred and thirty-six 
Minnesingers, was published by Bodmer and 
Breitinger. 


F4r as I journey from my lady fair, 
I have a messenger who quickly goes, 
Morning, and noon, and at the evening’s close ; 
Where’er she wanders, he pursues her there. 
A restless, faithful, secret messenger 
Well may he be, who, from my heart of hearts, 
Charged with love’s deepest secrets, thus de- 
parts, 
And wings his way to her ! 
’'T is every thought I form that doth pursue 
Thee, lady fair ! 
Ah! would that there 
My wearied self had leave to follow too ! 


I saw yon infant in her arms caressed, __, 
And as I gazed on her my pulse beat high: 
Gently she clasped it to her snowy breast, 
While I, in rapture lost, stood musing by : 
Then her white hands around his neck she flung, 
And pressed it to her lips, and tenderly 
Kissed his fair cheek, as o’er the babe she hung. 


And he, that happy infant, threw his arms 
Around her neck, imprinting many a kiss ; 
Joying, as I would joy, to see such charms, 
As though he knew how blest a lot were his. 
How could I gaze on him and not repine ? 
‘Alas!’ I cried, * would that I shared the bliss 
Of that embrace, and that such joy were mine!” 


202 GERMAN POETRY. 


Straight she was gone; and then that lovely 
child 
Ran joyfully to meet my warm embrace : 
Then fancy with fond thoughts my soul be- 
guiled ; — 
It was herself! O dream of love and grace ! 
I clasped it, where her gentle hands had pressed, 
I kissed each spot which bore her lips’ sweet 
trace, 
And joy the while went bounding through my 
breast. 


—_—)--——_ 


WATCH-SONGS. 


Tur watch-song was a species of ballad, 
cultivated by the Minnesingers, representing 
stolen interviews between the lover and his 
mistress. They begin génerally with a parley 
between the knight and the warder of the cas- 
tle where his lady-love is dwelling, and end 
with the reluctant parting of the lovers. 


THE sun is gone down, 
And the moon upward springeth, 
The night creepeth onward, 
The nightingale singeth. 
To himself said a watchman, 
“Is any knight waiting ° 
In pain for his lady, 
To give her his greeting? 
Now, then, for their meeting!” 


His words heard a knight, 
In the garden while roaming: 
‘¢ Ah! watchman,” he said, 
“Is the daylight fast coming, 
And may I not see her, 
And wilt not thou aid me?” 
“ Go, wait in thy covert, 
Lest the cock crow réveillé, 
And the dawn should betray thee.” 


Then in went that watchman 
And called for the fair, 
And gently he roused her: 
“ Rise, lady! prepare! 
New tidings I bring thee, 
And strange to thine ear; 
Come, rouse thee up quickly, 
Thy knight tarries near ; 
Rise, lady ! appear!” 


“ Ah, watchman! though purely 
The moon shines above, 
Yet trust not securely 
Tht feigned tale of love : 
Far, far from my presence 
My own knight is straying ; 
And sadly repining, 
I mourn his long staying, 


And weep his delaying.” 


«“ Nay, lady ! yet trust me, 
No falsehood is there.” 


Se 


Then up sprang that lady 
And braided her hair, 

And donned her white garment, 
Her purest of white ; 

And, her heart with joy trembling, 
She rushed to the sight 
Of her own faithful knight. 


I nearp before the dawn of day 
The watchman loud proclaim : 
“If any knightly lover stay 
In secret with his dame, 
Take heed, the sun will soon appear ; 
Then fly, ye knights, your ladies dear, 
Fly ere the daylight dawn! 


«‘ Brightly gleams the firmament, 
In silvery splendor gay, 
Rejoicing that the night is spent, 
The lark salutes the day: 
Then fly, ye lovers, and be gone! 
Take leave, before the night is done, 
And jealous eyes appear!” 


That watchman’s call did wound my heart, 
And banished my delight : 
*¢ Alas! the envious sun will part 
Our loves, my lady bright! ” 
On me she looked with downcast eye, 
Despairing at my mournful cry, 


1? 


‘© We tarry here too long! 


Straight to the wicket did she speed : 
‘¢ Good watchman, spare thy joke ! 
Warn not my love, till o’er the mead 
The morning sun has broke : 
Too short, alas! the time, since here 
I tarried with my leman dear, 
In love and converse sweet.” 


‘¢ Lady, be warned! on roof and mead 
The dewdrops glitter gay ; 
Then quickly bid thy leman speed, 
Nor linger till the day ; 
For by the twilight did I mark 
Wolves hying to their covert dark, 
And stags to covert fly.” 


Now by the rising sun I viewed 
In tears my lady’s face : 
She gave me many a token good, 
And many a soft embrace. 
Our parting bitterly we mourned ; 
The hearts, which erst with rapture burned, 
Were cold with woe and care. 


A ring, with glittering ruby red, 
Gave me that lady sheen, 
And with me from the castle sped 
Along the meadow green ; 
And whilst I saw my leman bright, 
She waved on high her ’kerchief white : 
* Courage ! To arms!”’ she cried. 


srs aiSseteeesemmeeeaneniemecioeeeeseeeeeete ae a ey 


THE HELDENBUCH. , 203 


ee 


Reminds me of her love; Her ruby ring, and blithely sing, 
In the field of blood, with mournful mood, “« Lady, I fight for thee!” 
I see her ’kerchief move; 


{ 
In the raging fight each pennon white Through foes I hew, whene’er I view : 


THE HELDENBUCH, OR BOOK OF THE HEROES. 


29 


Tuts is the title of a collection of old Ger- denbuch”’ is the collection of poems, as it was 
man poems, embodying a great variety of na- reproduced under this title by Kaspar von der 
tional traditions, from the time of Attila and  Roen, consisting of four parts. The following 
the irruption of the German nations into the | analysis of these poems is given by Carlyle.* | 
Roman Empire. They were written at differ- | “¢¢The Hero-Book, which is of new cor- 
ent times, by various poets, the oldest of them rected and improved, adorned with beautiful | 
belonging to the Swabian period. Among their! Figures. Printed at Frankfurt on the Mayn, | 
authors, the names of Heinrich von Ofterdingen | through Weygand Han, and Sygmund Feyera- 
and Wolfram von Eschenbach are enumerated. | bend. | 
Some of the old poems were remodelled in “6¢ Part First saith of Kaiser Otnit and the || 
1472, by Kaspar von der Roen, a Frank, and the | little King Elberich, how they with great peril, | 
oldest printed copies give the revised text. An | over sea, in Heathendom, won from a king his | 

{ 
| 
| 
| 
| 
} 


edition was published at Berlin, in 1820~—25, | daughter (and how he in lawful marriage took 
under the title of ““Der Helden Buch, in der | her to wife).’ 
Ursprache, herausgegeben von Friedrich Hein- “From which announcement the reader al- 
rich von der Hagen, und Anton Primisser.’’ | ready guesses the contents: how this little 
It forms the second and third volumes of | King Elberich was a Dwarf, or Elf, some half- 
“‘ Deutsche Gedichte des Mittelalters,” the first | span long, yet full of cunning practices and 
volume of which appeared in 1808. the most helpful activity; nay, stranger still, 
The first part contains the poem of “ Gu- | had been Kaiser Otnit of Lampartei or Lom- 
drun,’’ consisting of 6824 lines; ‘“ Biterolf and | bardy’s father, — having had his own ulterior 
Dietlieb,” consisting of 13510 lines; ‘*The | views in that indiscretion: how they sailed 


9 


Great Rose-garden,” consisting of 2464 lines; | with Messina ships into Paynim land; fought 
and a part of the “ Heldenbuch” of Kaspar von | with that unspeakable Turk, King Machabol, 
der Roen. The second. part contains the re- | in and about his fortress and metropolis of 
mainder, together with fragments of “The Song | Montebur, which was all stuck round with | 
of Hildebrand.” Christian heads; slew from seventy to a hun- 
The poem of “Gudrun” is made up of a/| dred thousand of the Infidels at one heat; saw 
variety of shorter pieces, and consists of three | the lady on the battlements; and at length, 
parts. The first relates the adventures of Ha- | chiefly by Dwarf Elberich’s help, carried her 
gen, son of Siegebant, the king of Ireland, | off in triumph; wedded her in Messina; and 
who was stolen by a griffin, and grew up in| without difficulty, rooting out the Mahometan 
the forests; and then, returning home a stout | prejudice, converted her to the creed of Mother 
and stately hero, succeeded to the throne of | Church. The fair runaway seems to have been 
Ireland. The second relates the adventures | of a gentle, tractable disposition, very different 
of Hagen’s beautiful daughter Hilde, who is | from old Machabol; concerning whom it is 
wooed and carried off by King Hetel of Hege- | here chiefly to be noted, that Dwarf Elberich, 
lingen. The third and most important part | rendering himself invisible on their first inter- 


relates the fortunes of Gudrun, the daughter of | view, plucks out a handful of hair from his 
Hetel and Hilde, who is betrothed to Herwig of | chin; thereby increasing to a tenfold pitch the 
Seeland, but isseized and borne away into cap- | royal choler; and, what is still more remark- 
tivity by Hartmut, king of Normandy. Under | able, furnishing the poet Wieland, six centuries 
all her trials she remains faithful to Herwig ; | afterwards, with the critical incident in his 
and at last, after several years of endurance, is | ‘Oberon.’ As for the young lady herself, we 
rescued by her brother Ortwin, and her lover, | cannot but admit that she was well worth sail- 
whom she thereupon martties. ing to Heathendom for; and shall here give 
The poems of “ Biterolf and Dietlieb”’ and | the description of her, as she first appeared on 
“The Great Rose-garden’’ come within the | the battlements during the fight, in a version 
circle of the adventures of the Nibelungen. | as verbal and literal as the plainest prose can 
Many of the personages are the same in both; | make it. Considered as a detached passage, it 
and the battles are but the preludes to the “ Ni- | is perhaps the finest we have met with in the 
belungen Noth,” with which they have the clos- | ‘ Heldenbuch.’ 
est connexion. 
But what is usually understood by the “ Hel- * CaRLYLE’s Miscellanies, Vol. II., pp. 326-333. 


= 


. 


“«¢ Her heart burnt (with anxiety) as beautiful 
just as a red ruby, like the full moon her eyes 
(eyelings, pretty eyes) gave sheen. Herself 
had the maiden pure well adorned with roses, 
and also with pearls small. No one there com- 
forted the maid. She was fair of body, and in 
the waist slender; right as a (golden) candle- 
stick well fashioned everywhere : her two hands 
P proper, so that she wanted naught; her little 
nails fair and pure, that you could see yourself 
therein. Her hair was beautifully girt with 
noble silk (band) fine; she let it flow down, 
the lovely maidling.. She wore a crown with 
jewels, it was of gold so red: for Elberich the 
very small the maid had need (to console’ her). 
There in front of the crown lay a carbuncle- 
stone, which in the palace fair even as a taper 
seemed ; on her head the hair was glossy and 
also fine, it shone as bright even as the sun’s 
sheen. The maid she stood alone, right sad 
was her mind; her color it was pure, lovely as 
| milk and blood: out through her pure locks 
i shone her neck like the snow. Elberich the very 
small was touched with the maiden’s sorrow.’ 

‘* Happy man was Kaiser Otnit, blessed 
with such a wife, after all his travail ; — had 
not the Turk Machabol cunningly sent him, in 
revenge, a box of young dragons, or dragon- 
eggs, by the hands of a caitiff Infidel, contriver 
of the mischief; by whom in due course of 
time they were hatched and nursed, to the in- 
finite woe of all Lampartei, and ultimately to 
the death of Kaiser Otnit himself, whom they 
swallowed and attempted to digest, once with- 
out effect, but the next time too fatally, crown 
and all! 

“© Part Second announceth (meldet) of Herr 
Hugdietrich and his son Wolfdietrich; how 
they, for justice’ sake, oft by their doughty acts 
succoured distressed persons, with other bold 
heroes that stood by them in extremity.’ 

“ Concerning which Hugdietrich, Emperor 
of Greece, and his son Wolfdietrich, one day 
the renowned Dietrich of Bern, we can here 
say little more than that the former trained 
himself to sempstress’ work, and for many 
weeks plied his needle, before he could. get 
wedded and produce Wolfdietrich ; who, com- 
ing into the world in this clandestine manner, 
was let down into the castle-ditch, and like 
Romulus and Remus nursed by a wolf, whence 
his name. However, after never-imagined ad- 


f 

b | ventures, with enchanters and enchantresses, pa- 
y ! . . a 

¥ || gans and giants, in all quarters of the globe, he 
j | finally, with utmost effort, slaughtered those 


x 


Lombardy dragons; then married Kaiser Otnit’s 
widow, whom he had rather flirted with before ; 
and so lived universally respected in his new 
| empire, performing yet other notable achieve- 

ments. One strange property he had, some- 
times useful to him, sometimes hurtful: that his 
breath, when he became angry, grew flame, red 
| hot, and would take the temper out of swords. 
We find him again in the ‘ Nibelungen,’ among 


GERMAN POETRY. 


tious, yet still invincible man ; on which ocea- 
sion, though with great reluctance, he is forced 
to interfere, and does so with effect. Dietrich 
is the favorite hero of all those Southern fic- 
tions, and well acknowledged in the Northern 
also, where the chief man, however, as we 
shall find, is not he, but Siegfried. : 

“© ¢ Part Third showeth of the Rose-garden 
at Worms, which was planted by Chrimhild, 
King Ghibich’s daughter ; whereby afterwards 
most part of those Heroes and Giants came to 
destruction and were slain.’ 

“In this Third Part, the Southern or Lom- 
bard Heroes come into contact and collision 
with another as notable Northern class, and 
for us much more important. Chrimhild, 
whose ulterior history makes such a figure in 
the ‘ Nibelungen,’ had, it would seem, near the 
ancient city of Worms, a Rose-garden, some 
seven English miles in circuit; fenced only by 
a silk thread; wherein, however, she main- 
tained twelve stout fighting men; several of 
whom, as Hagen, Volker, her three brothers, 
above all the gallant Siegfried, her betrothed, 
we shall meet with again: these, so unspeak- 
able was their prowess, sufficed to defend the 
silk-thread Garden against all mortals. Our 
good antiquary, Von der Hagen, imagines that 
this Rose-garden business (in the primeval Tra- 
dition) glances obliquely at the Ecliptic with 
its Twelve Signs, at Jupiter’s fight with the 
Titans, and we know not what confused skir- 
mishing in the Utgard, or Asgard, or Midgard, 
of the Scandinavians. Be this as it may, 
Chrimhild, we are here told, being very beau- 
tiful, and very wilful, boasts, in the pride of 
her heart, that no heroes on earth are to be 
compared with hers; and hearing accidentally 
that Dietrich of Bern has a high character in 
this line, forthwith challenges him to visit 
Worms, and, with eleven picked men, to do bat- 
tle there against those other twelve champions 
of Christendom that watch her Rose-garden. 
Dietrich, in a towering passion at the style of the 
message, which was ‘surly and stout,’ instantly 
pitches upon his eleven seconds, who also are 
to be principals; and witha retinue of other 
sixty thousand, by quick stages, in which ob- 
stacles enough are overcome, reaches Worms, 
and declares himself ready. Among these 
eleven Lombard heroes of his are likewise 
several whom we meet with again in the ‘ Ni- 
belungen’; beside Dietrich himself, we have 
the old Duke Hildebrand, Wolfhart, Ortwin. 
Notable among them, in another way, is Monk 
Ilsan, a truculent, graybearded fellow, equal to 
any Friar Tuck in ‘ Robin Hood.’ 

“The conditions of fighg are soon agreed on: 
there are to be twelve successive duels, each 
challenger being expected to find his match ; 
and the prize of victory is a Rose-garland from 
Chrimhild, and ein Helssen und ein Kiissen, that 
is to say virtually, one kiss from her fair lips, 
to each. But here, as it ever should do, pride 
gets a fall; for Chrimhild’s bully-hectors are, 


| King Etzel’s (Attila’s) followers ; a staid, cau- 
_ 


THE HELDENBUCH. 


205 


rE ae 


in divets ways, all successively felled to the 
ground by the Berners; some of whom, as old 
Hildebrand, will not even take her kiss when 
it is due: even Siegfried himself, most reluc- 
tantly engaged with by Dietrich, and for a 
while victorious, is at last forced to seek shelter 
_in her lap. Nay, Monk IIsan, after the regular 
fight is over, and his part in it well performed, 
calls out, in succession, fifty-two ogher idle 
champions of the Garden, part of them giants, 
and routs the whole fraternity ; thereby earn- 
ing, besides his own regular allowance, fifty- 
two spare garlands, and fifty-two several kisses; 
in the course of which latter, Chrimhild’s 
cheek, a just punishment as seemed, was 
scratched to the drawing of blood by his rough 
beard. It only remains to be added, that King 
Ghibich, Chrimhild’s father, is now fain to do 
homage for his kingdom to Dietrich ; who re- 
turns triumphant to his own country ; where, 
also, Monk IIsan, according to promise, distrib- 
utes these fifty-two garlands among his fellow- 
friars, crushing a garland on the bare crown 
of each, till ‘the red blood ran over their ears.’ 
Under which hard, but not undeserved treat- 
ment, they all agreed to pray for remission of 
Ilsan’s sins: indeed, such as continued refrac- 
tory he tied together by the beards, and hung 
pair-wise over poles; whereby the stoutest 
soon gave in. 
“«* So endeth here this ditty 
Of strife from woman’s pride: 
God on our griefs take pity, 
And Mary still by us abide!’ 

*¢In Part Fourth is announced (gemelt) of 
the little King Laurin, the Dwarf, how he en- 
compassed his Rose-garden with so great man- 
hood and art-magic, till at last he was van- 
quished by the Heroes, and forced to become 
their Juggler, with,’ &c., &c. 

“ Of which Fourth and, happily, last Part we 
shall here say nothing; inasmuch as, except 
that certain of our old heroes again figure there, 
it has no coherence or connexion with the rest 
of the ‘Heldenbuch’; and is simply a new 
tale, which, by way of episode, Heinrich von 
Ofterdingen, as we learn from his own words, 
had subsequently appended thereto. He says: 

*** Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
This story hath been singing, 
To the joy of princes bold: 
They gave him silver and gold, 
Moreover pennies and garments rich: 
Here endeth this book, the which 
Doth sing our noble Heroes’ story : 
God help us all to heavenly glory!’ 

‘Such is some outline of the famous ‘ Hel- 
denbuch’; on which it is not our business here 
to add any criticism. The fact that it has so 
long been popular betokens a certain worth in 
it; the kind and degree of which is also in 
some measure apparent. In poetry,‘the rude 
man,’ it has been said, ‘requires only to see 
something going on; the man of more refine- 
ment wishes to feel; the truly refined man 
must be made to reflect.’ For the first of these 


classes our ‘ Hero Book,’ as has been apparent 
enough, provides in abundance; for the other 
two scantily ; indeed, for the second not at all. 
Nevertheless, our estimate of this work, which, 
as a series of antique traditions, may have | 
considerable meaning, is apt rather to be too | 
low. Let us remember that this is not the 
original ‘ Heldenbuch’ which we now see; but 
only a version of it into the knight-errant dia- 
lect of the thirteenth, indeed, partly of the 
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with all the 
fantastic monstrosities, now so trivial, pertain- 
ing to that style; under which disguises the 
really antique earnest groundWork, interesting 
as old Thought, if not as old Poetry, is all but 
quite obscured from us. But antiquarian dili- 
gence is now busy with the ¢‘ Heldenbuch’ also, 
from which what light is in it will doubtless be 
elicited, and here and there a deformity re- 
moved. Though the Ethiop cannot change his 
skin, there is no need that even he should go 
abroad unwashed.”’ 


I.—OTNIT. 
SIR OTNIT AND DWARF ELBERICH. 


“Ir thou wilt seek the adventure, don thy ar- 
mor strong ; 

Far to the left thou ride the towering rocks 
along : 

But bide thee, champion, and await, where 
grows a linden-tree ; 

There, flowing from the rock, a well thine eyes 
will see. 


‘“‘ Far around the meadow spread the branches 
green, 

Five hundred armed knights may stand beneath 
the shade, I ween. 

Below the linden-tree await, and thou wilt 
meet full soon 

The marvellous adventure; there must the 
deed be done.” 


And now the noble champion to a garden did 
he pass, 

Where all with lovely flowers sprinkled was 
the grass ; 

The birds right sweetly chanted, loud and merry 
they sung : 

Rapidly his noble steed passed the mead along. 


Through the clouds with splendor .gleamed the 
sun so cheerfully ; 
And suddenly the prince beheld the rock and 
the linden-tree. 

To the ground the earth was pressed, that saw 
the champion good ; 

And there he found a foot-path small, with 
little feet was trod. 


Quickly rode the fearless king along the rocky 
mount, 
Where he viewed the linden-tree standing by 


the fount: 
R 


206 GERMAN POETRY. 


The linden-tree with leaves so green was laden 
heavily ; 
On the branches many a guest chanted merrily: 


Many a duel sang the birds, with loud and joy- 
ous cheer. 

Then spake the noble emperor, “ Rightly did I 
speer.”’ 

Up spake the champion joyfully, “The linden 
have I found”’ ; 

By the bridle took his steed, and leaped upon 
the ground. 


By the hand the noble courser led the cham- 
pion stout, * 

And eagerly he looked the linden-tree about : 

He spake: “No tree upon the earth with thee 
may compare.’’ — 

He saw where in the grass lay a child so fair. 


Much did the hero marvel who that child 
might be: 

Upon his little body knightly gear had he ; 

So rich, no princess’ son nobler arms might 
bear ; 

Richly were they dighted with gold and dia- 


monds fair. 


And as the child before him lay all in the grass 
so green, 

Spake Otnit, “‘ Fairer infant in the world may 
not be seen. 

I rode to seek adventures all the murky night, 

And along with me J ‘Il bear thee, thou infant 
fair and bright.” 


Lightly he weened the child to take, and bear 
him o’er the plain, 

But on his heart he struck him with wondrous 
might and main ; 

That loudly cried Sir Otnit, writhing with pain 
and woe, 

«¢ Where lies thy mighty power hid? — for full 
weighty was the blow.” 


Forced by the hero’s strength, he knelt upon 
his knee : 

«Save me, noble Otnit, for thy chivalry ! 

A hauberk will I give thee, strong, and of won- 
drous might : 

Better armor never bore champion in the fight. 


«Not eighty thousand marks would buy the 
hauberk bright. 

A sword of mound [’ll give thee, Otnit, thou 
royal knight : 

Through armor, both of gold and steel, cuts 
the weapon keen ; 

The helmet could its edge withstand ne’er in 
this world was seen. 


«¢ Better blade was never held in hero’s hand : 

I brought it from afar, Almary hight the land: 

‘T was wrought by cunning dwarfs, clear as the 
clearest glass: 


| I found the glittering falchion in the mountain 


Zeighelsass.”’ 


SSE SAE Sa pean SIU AAA Vp ORM Rl ryan ee PDO tia ates alee ata i SHES ALES 9S sa BEES a 


II. —- WOLFDIETRICH. 
WOLFDIETRICH’S INFANCY. 


In the moat the new-born babe meanwhile in 
silence lay, 

Sleeping on the verdant grass, gently, all the 
day ; & 

From the swathing and the bath the child had’ 
stinted weeping : 

No one Aiw or heard its voice in the meadow 
sleeping. 


But, prowling for his prey, roved a savage wolf 
about ; 

Hens and capons for his young oft in the moat 
he sought: 

In his teeth the infant suddenly he caught; 

And to the murky forest his sleeping prey he 
brought. 


Unto a hollow rock he ran the forest-path 
along : 

There the two old wolves abode, breeding up 
their young : 

Four whelps, but three days old, in the hollow 
lay ; 

No wiser than the child they were, for they 
never saw the day. 


The old wolf threw the babe before his savage 
brood ; 

To the forest had he brought it, to serve them 
for their food : 

But blind they were, and sought about their 
mother’s teat to gain ; 

And safely lay the infant young, sleeping in 
the den. 


WOLFDIETRICH AND THE GIANTS. 


Rapipty the Greeks pursued, all the day, until 
the night: 

Hastily the heroes fled, while their steeds had 
strength and might ; 

To the forest green they hied them, there lay 
they all concealed, , 

Till the morning chased the night, and the 
rising sun revealed. 


Down they laid them on the grass gently to 
repose 

(But long they rested not, for with terror they 
arose) : 

Their bloody armor they unlaced, their wea- 
pons down they laid ; 

By a fountain cool they rested, beneath a lin- 
den’s shade. 


But one did keep his armor on; Wolfdieterich 
he hight ; 

Would not lay down his weapons, nor unlace 
his helmet bright ; 

Silently he wandered through the forest wide, 

And left his weary champions by the fountain’s 
side. 


(ee On ————————————————————————————— a poenerne ——— 


oe RS ST SEE TE TG 


Twelve giants found the knights all on the 
grass reclined : 

Silently did creep along those sworn brothers 
of the fiend ; 

In their hands huge iron poles and falchions 
did they hold; 

Naked and unarmed, they seized and bound the 
heroes bold. " 

Quick they sent the tidings to the castle of 
Tremound : 

Glad was Palmund, giant fierce, when he saw 
the champions bound ; 

Cast them in a dungeon dark; heavily he 
chained them : 

Of their woe and sad mischance there to God 
they plained them. 


Scornfully fierce Palmund spake with bitter 
taunt : 

*¢ Alfan in the field ye conquered; but where 
is now your vaunt? 

Would I had in prison dark King Hughdie- 
trich’s son ! 

He should feed on bread and water, in a dun- 
geon all alone.” 


But now Wolfdieterich back to the fountain 
sped, 

Beneath the linden’s shade, where he weened 
the kemps were laid: 

All around he sought them: wofully he cried, 

“Alas, that e’er I left them by the fountain’s 
side!” 


He threw him on the grass, and sighed in 
mournful mood ; 

Many a blow upon his breast struck the hero 
good ; 

Loudly on their names he called, the forest all 
around : 

Up the giants started, when they heard his 
voice resound. 


‘Arise, and seize your weapons!’ Palmund 
cried aloud 3 
‘Quickly to my prison bring that champion 


proud.”’ 

Many falls they caught, running down the 
mountain, 

Ere they viewed Wolfdieterich standing by the 
fountain. 


Giant Wilker led them on; before the king he 
sprung, 

Stamping on the grass with his pole of iron 
long: 

“¢ Little Sake !”? he shouted, “straight thy fal- 
chion yield ; 

Captive will I lead thee quickly o’er the field.” 


‘Proudly I Lure my weapon from all the Gre- 
cian host ; 
No hand but this shall wield it, for all thy 


taunting boast ; 


207 


If thou wilt gain the blade, hotly must thou 
fight : 

Come near, and shield thee well; I defy thee, 
monstrous wight! ”’ 


WOLFDIETRICH AND WILD ELSE. 


WueEn soundly slept Sir Bechtung, came the 
rough and savage dame, 

Running where the hero stood watching by the 
flame : 

On four feet did she crawl along, like to a 
shaggy bear: 

The champion cried, “ From savage beasts why 
hast thou wandered here ?”’ 


Up and spake the hairy Else: “ Gentle I am 
and mild : 

If thou wilt clip me, prince, from all care I 
will thee shield ; 

A kingdom will I give thee, and many a spa- 
cious land; 

Thirty castles, fair and strong, will I yield to 
thy command.” 


With ,horror spake Wolfdieterich: “Thy gifts 
will I not take, 

Nor touch thy laithly body, for thy savage 
kingdom’s sake : 

The devil’s: mate thou art, then speed thee 
down to hell; 

Much I marvel at thy visage, and I loathe thy 
horrid yell.” 


She took a spell of grammary, and threw it on 
the, knight : 

Still he stood, and moved not (I tell the tale 
aright) : 


She took from him his falchion, unlaced his 


hauberk bright : 
Mournfully Wolfdietrich cried, “Gone is all 
my might. 


“Tf my faithful kemps eleven should from their 
sleep awake, 

How would they laugh, that woman’s hand 
could from me my weapon take! 

Scornfully the knights would say, that, like a 
coward slave, 

My falchion I had yielded, this wretched life 


to save.’’ 


But vain were his laments; for through the | 


forest dark, 

With arts of witching grammary, a pathway 
she did mark : 

Following through the woods, with speed along 
he passed ; 

For sixty miles he wandered, till he found the 
Else at last. 


‘Wilt thou win me for thy wife, hero young 


and fair? ”’ 
Wrathfully Wolfdieterich spake with angry 
cheer : 


— 


| THE HELDENBUCH. 
Peer ml. a ai ae a a ee Oi ea teh 


1 chee a ae eae 


Pa TE is i Nerd SR I ee se eae ee 


Te 


“Restore my armor speedily; give back my 
weapon bright, 

Which thou with witching malice didst steal 
this hinder night.” 


“Then yield thy gentle body, thou weary 
wight, to me; 

With honors will I crown thy locks right glo- 
riously.”’ 

‘¢ With the devil may’st thou sleep; little care 
I for my life: 

Well may I spare the love of such a laithly 
wife.”’ 


Another spell of might she threw upon the he- 
ro good ; 

Fearfully she witched him; motionless he stood : 

He slept a sleep of grammary, for mighty was 
the spell : 

Down upon his glittering shield on the sod he 
fell. 


All above his ears his golden hair she cut; 

Like a fool she dight him, that his champions 
knew him not: 

Witless roved the hero for a year the forest 
round ; 

On the earth his food he gathered, as in the 
book is found. 


THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 


Now roved Wolfdieterich, the prince without a 
peer, 

Around the murky forest, witless for a year; 

But God his sorrows pitied, when he saw the 
hero shent ; 

Quickly to the ugly witch message did he send. 


An angel bright before her suddenly she viewed : 

‘¢ Say, wilt thou bring,” he questioned, ‘to his 
death the hero good? 

God has sent his sond, to warn thee, woman 
fell ; 

If thou wouldst save thy life, quickly undo the 
spell.” 


When the threatening message the savage wo- 
man heard, 

And that at God’s supreme command the angel 
had appeared, 

Raprdly she sped her where roved the champion 

Around the murky forest, witless and alone. 


There, naked, like an innocent, run the hero 
bold: 

Straight the spell of grammary from his ear she 
did unfold : 

His wits he soon recovered, when the spell 
was from his ear, 

But his visage and his form were black and foul 
of cheer. 


“Wilt thou win me for thy wife? gentle hero, 
say.” 
Speedily he answered to the lady, ‘ Nay ; 


Never will I wed thee, here I pledge my fay, 
Till in holy fount thy sins are washed away.” 


“Son of kings, O, care thee not! 
love wilt gain, | 

Soon, baptized in holy fount, will I wash _me 
clean : ce 

In joy and sweet delight merry shalt thou be, 

Though now my body rough and black with 
loathing thou dost see.” 


If thou my — 


‘¢ No, since my knights are lost, not for woman’s 
love I long, 

When wild about the woods drove me thy 
magic strong.” 

‘“‘T’o thy brothers hied they, gentle hero, hark! 

But heavily they chained them; threw them 


in dungeon dark.” 


“‘How may I woo thee in the woods? lady, 
quickly speak ; 

Or how embrace thy hairy form, or kiss thy 
bristly cheek?” 

‘Fear not: I will guide thee safely to my 
realm ; 

Give thee back thy falchion, thy hauberk, and 
thy helm.” 


By the hand she led Wolfdietrich unto the for- 
est’s end; 

To the sea she guided him; a ship lay on the 
strand : 

To a spacious realm she brought him, hight the 
land of Troy. 

«Wilt thou take me to thy wife, all around 
thou shalt enjoy.” 


To a rich and gorgeous chamber she led the 
wondering knight: 

There stood a well of youth, flowing clear and 
bright ; 

The left side was full cold, but warmly flowed 
the right: 

She leaped into the wondrous well, praying to 
God of might. 


Rough Else, the mighty queen, in the baptism 
did he call 

Lady Siegheminn,? the fairest dame of all. 

Her bristly hide she left all in the flowing tide: 

Never gazing champion lovelier lady eyed. 


Her shape was formed for love, slender, fair, 
and tall, 

Straight as is the taper burning in the hall; 

Brightly gleamed her cheeks, like the opening 
rose : 

Wondering stood Wolfdieterich, and forgot his 
pains and woes. 


«¢ Wilt thou win me to thy love? gentle hero, 
say.” 

Quickly spake Wolfdieterich,— “ Gladly, by 
my fay ; 


1 The name is compounded of sieg, victory, and minne, 
love, 


= 


near, 
of cheer.’’ 


thou wilt be, 
In the flowing fountain bathe thee speedily ; 


appear.” 


forsooth. 
In his arms, with gentle love, 
maid ; 


her bed. 


—— 


HORNS. 


month of May, 
blossomed gay. 
green : 


Was seen. 


Round his spreading antlers was wound the 


glittering gold; 


Full of joy and marvel, gazed on the stag the 


hero bold: 

"T was done with arts of magic, by a giant fierce 
and wild, 

With subtle sleights to win to his bed Dame 
Sieghminn mild. 


And when Wolfdieterich beheld the noble deer, 

Hearken how the hero spake to his gentle peer: 

‘Await thou, royal lady ; my meiny soon re- 
turns ; 


With my hounds I ’ll hunt the stag with the 
golden horns.” 


To their palfreys speedily the king and his 
meiny flew: 

Through the woods they chased the stag, with 
many a loud halloo. 

But silently the giant came where the lady lay ; 

With the tent he seized her, and bore the prize 
away. 


O’er the sea he brought the dame, to a distant 
land, 


Where, deep within a forest, his castle strong 
did stand. 


Though for half a year they sought all around 
that lady fair, 


They never found the castle where she lay in 
| woe and care. 
27 


THE HELDENBUCH. 209 | 


Mirror of ladies lovely, fain would I lay thee 


But, alas! my form is laithly, and black am I 
To the loving youth she said, “If beauteous 


Fair thy visage will become, as before a year ; 
Nobly, champion bold and brave, will thy form 


Black and foul he leaped into the well of youth, 
But white and fair he issued, with noble form, 


did he clip the 


Merrily he kissed the dame, as she led him to 


WOLFDIETRICH AND THE STAG WITH GOLDEN 


Tury sped them to the forest in the merry 
When for the glowing summer the fruit-trees 
A gorgeous tent was pitched upon the meadow 


Straight a stag of noble form before the tent 


Around the forest hunted Wolfdietrich and his 
men } 

Down they brought the noble stag, and 
turned again : 

Merrily they spurred through the wood with 
speed, 

Where they left the gorgeous tent on the ver. 
dant mead. 


proudly 


4 


_ 


WOLFDIETRICH IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE. 


He led the weary pilgrim into the castle-hall, 

Where brightly burned the fire, and many a 
taper tall: 

On a seat he sat him down, and made him right 
good cheer: 

His eyes around the hall cast the hero without 
fear, 


With anxious care he looked for his lady bright, 

And he viewed the gorgeous tent once in the 
forest pight. 

Cheerfully the hero thought, « Rightly have I 
sped: 

In the perilous adventure God will be mine 
aid!”? 


From the glittering flame straight the champion 
sprung ; 

Sharply he eyed the tent, which the giant stole 
with wrong. 

Wondering, spake Sir Tressan, —‘“ Weary palm- 
er, stay ; 

Rest thee by the fire, for long has been thy 
Way.” 


Up and spake Wolfdieterich, — « Strange mar- 
vels have I seen, 

And heard of bold adventures, in lands where 
I have been; 

Once I saw an emperor, Otnit is his name, 

Would dare defy thee boldly, for mighty is his 


fame.”’ 


When he had spoke the speech to the giant old, 

Grimly by the fire sat him down the palmer 
bold; 

Waiting with impatience, long the time him 
thought 

Till into the glittering hall the supper-meat was 
brought. 


But to call them to their meat, loud did a horn 
resound : 

Soon entered many high-born men, and stood 
the hall around: 

In the giant’s courtly hall, winsome dwarfs ap- 
peared, 

Who the castle and the mount with cunning 
arts had reared. 


Among the dwarfs the gentle queen up to the 
deas was led: 

The palmer straight she welcomed, her cheeks 
with blushes red : 


R2 


= J 
OO 


210 


“‘ With that palmer will I sit at the board,”’ she 
cried : 

Soon they placed Wolfdieterich by the lady’s 
side. 


Suddenly Sir ee seen his teen bride. 
Ho! how soon Wolfdieterich his polars threw 


aside ! 

Out he drew his falchion: ‘‘Hold!” spake he 
wrathfully ; 

“That lovely bride of thine, Sir Giant, leave 
to me.”’ 


Dar’st thou fight me, silly swain?’’ cried Sir 
Tressan fierce ; 

“ But shame befall the champion who an un- 
armed knight would pierce! 

Dight thee in hauberk quickly ; and he who in 
the fight 

Strikes his opponent down, let him take the 
lady bright.” 


Glad was the palmer when he heard that thus 
the giant said. 

Speedily the cunning dwarfs upon the ground 
have laid, 

Right between the champions, three weighty 
coats of mail: 

‘¢ Palmer, choose in which thou wilt the giant 
fierce assail.’’ 


Here lay an ancient hauberk, fast was every 
ring ; 

There lay two of glittering gold, fit for the 
mightiest king: 

But soon the palmer seized the hauberk old and 
black. 

«6 Who bade thee take that hauberk old?” in 
wrath the giant spake. 


WOLFDIETRICH AND SIR BELLIGAN. 


*‘ Loox to thy foot, Sir Knight,” spake the hea- 
then Belligan ; 

‘Thou must leave it here to pledge, nor bear 
it hence again ; 

Fast unto the ground I will pin it with my 
knife ; 

Such is my skill and mastery: Christian, guard 
thy life!” 


The heathen threw the weapon rathly through 
the air; 

But cunningly Wolfdieterich leaped quickly 
from the chair, 

And down upon the sticks again he did alight: 

No bird in air had done it, to tell the truth 
aright. 


Foully cursed the pagan, when he had tint that 
throw, 

And to Mahomet, his god, he plained him of 
his woe : 


GERMAN POETRY. 


“Never will I leave thee, thou god of might 
and main, 

If thou wilt grant thy help, when I throw the 
knife again. 


“Who taught thee thus to leap? say, thou bold 
compeer.”’ 

But Sir Wolfdieterich spake with cunning 
cheer : 

‘Say no more, Sir Belligan : 
speech of thine ? 

With thy second throw, alas! I must lose this 
life of mine.”’ 


what boots that 


Again the heathen cried, ‘¢ That leap I learned 
of yore, 

From my noble master, Bechtung ; right won- 
drous was his lore. 

Say, is thy name Wolfdieterich, and art thou 
bred in Greece ? 

If thou be, thou shalt baptize me, and our en- 
mity shall cease.”’ 


But when the Christian knight his fear and 
terror viewed, 

‘¢ May knight be born of savage wolves?’”’ cried 
the champion good : 

«¢ Alas! my rank I must conceal ; 
shalt know my name, 

When thrice thy blows have missed. Come, 
renew the bloody game.” 


but thou 


Again with wrath the pagan heaved his hand 
on high; 

Again he threw the weapon, and prayed for 
victory : 

Two locks from the hero’s temple he cut with 
cunning skill, 

As if the shears had clipped them; but he did 
none other ill. 


Speedily Wolfdieterich cried to God his life to 
save. 

‘‘ Heathen hound, how cunningly a tonsure 
thou canst shave ! 

I shall need a priest no more, to shrive me of 
my sin; 

By the help of God on high, I hope the fight 


to win.”’ 


‘¢Have I not hit thee yet?” spake Belligan 
with wrath. 

«¢ Ay, thou hast shaved my crown, but done no 
other scath : 

As yet I bear no wound, then eee the other 
knife : 

If once again thy weapon miss, it’s I have 
gained the strife.” 


‘‘ Christian, guard thy heart!’ cried the hea- 
then king accursed ; 

‘Soon a bloody well from thy side shall burst. 

Keen is the inety weapon, and bears the name 
of Death! 

Thou need’st not guard thy life; thou hast 
breathed thy latest breath ”’ 


| 


THE HELDENBUCH. 


The Christian wound St. George’s shirt his 
body all about: 

Quickly passed the weapon keen through the 
buckler stout ; 

But from the wondrous shirt to the ground the 
knife did start, 

Shivered into splinters, nor touched the cham- 
pion’s heart. 


‘‘T have stood thy throws, Sir Belligan,”’ spake 
the knight aloud : 

‘“‘ Better I can cast than thou the knife, thou 
pagan proud !”’ 

‘¢ Boast not of thy cunning,” cried King Belli- 
gan ; 

‘Thy knives with magic art are dight, thou 
foolish Christian man.” 


Safe he thought his body ; but the knight bade 
him beware 

His right foot and his left eye, that the heathen 
cried, with care, 

‘¢ How may I guard them both? In this fearful 
stound, 

Save me from that Christian fell, with thy 
power, Sir Mahound !”’ 


Wolfdietrich quickly threw, the knife, and he 
heaved his hand on high ; 

He pinned the right foot on the chair, and 
laughing did he cry, 

‘My skill it is but little; much I feared thy 
flight, 

So I pinned thee to the chair: now thou canst 
not quit my sight.” 


The second knife he threw, and he hit him in 
the side : 

‘Heathen, thou must die, for all thy boast and 
pride.” 

Wofully spake Belligan, —‘ Knight without a 
peer, 

Quickly tell thy name, for much thy throws I 
fear.’ 


“Tam the king of Greece, Wolfdietrich is my 
name.”’ 

Trembling, cried the pagan, ‘‘Save me, thou 
knight of fame ! 

In the fount thou shalt baptize me, and teach 
me Christian lore: 

Save me, noble champion! I pray thee, throw 
no more.” 


“Thou must die, Sir Belligan ; many Christians 
hast thou shent : 
Alas! I view their bloody heads upon thy bat- 


tlement.”’ 
The pagan bade his meiny his gods before him 
bring : 


Vainly by their might he weened to quell the 
Grecian king. 


But over them Wolfdieterich signed the holy 
cross, ' 

And instantly the idols false broke down to 
dust and dross. 


211 


Up and spake fair Marpaly, — “‘ He works with 
magic sleight : 

Much I dread the malice of that Christian 
knight.” 


With sorrow cried Sir Belligan, “* Mahoun, help 
with thy might ! 

I will give thee to thy spouse Marpaly the 
bright.” 


Laughing, cried the champion, “A god full. 


strange is thine! 
Does he seek to spouse the dame ? but his mar- 
row he shall tine. 


“Guard thy heart, Sir King; I warn thee, 
guard it well; 

Quickly will I pierce it with this weapon fell ; 

If I fail asunder straight thy heart to cleave, 

This head upon the battlement, in forfeit, will 
I leave.” 


Speedily Wolfdieterich the third knife heaved 
on high: : 

Trembling stood Sir Belligan, ‘for he felt his 
death was nigh. 

The pagan’s heart asunder with cunning skill 
he cleft : 

Down upon the grass he fell, of life bereft. 


WOLFDIETRICH AND THE FIENDS. 


Wiru magic art all o’er the lake a broad bridge 
threw the dame; 
But onward as they rode, still narrower it be- 


came : 

In wonder stood the hero; to the maiden he 
"gan say, 

“‘ Damsel, truly tell, who has borne the bridge 
away?”’ 


‘¢ Little care I though thou drown,” cried Dame 
Marpaly. 

“Then graithe thee,’’ spake Wolfdieterich; 
‘¢’tis thou must plunge with me.” 

‘‘No harm the waves can do me; with magic 
am I dight.” 

‘¢ Then speed we to the castle back,”’ cried the 
Christian knight. 


Back the fearless hero turned his trusty horse ; 
But down the bridge was broken, by the lady’s 
magic force. : 

In his sorrow, cried the champion, ** Help, God, 

inthis my need! ‘ 
Say, how may we hither pass? damsel, right 
arede. 


From the courser Marpaly suddenly would fly. 

‘‘Stay thee here, thou woman fell! quickly 
must thou die.” 

Piteously she wept, prayed him her life to save. 

He tied her to his body fast, and plunged into 
the wave. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


In the name of God he leaped into the lake 
amain ; 

But the water suddenly was gone; on the mead 
he stood again. 

““Lady, say, how passed the waters? 
bloomed the mead so green?”’ 
‘Alas!’ she cried, ‘‘ thy God is strong, or dead 

thou sure hadst been. 


How 


“Let me pass, Wolfdieterich, for thy chivalry ! 

Knightly deed it were not, but evil treachery, 

If thy hand thou didst imbrue in gentle lady’s 
blood.” 

Straight her bonds he loosened, and she leaped 
from the courser good. 


Suddenly, upon the mead her garments down 
she threw, 

And showed her beauteous form to the won- 
dering champion’s view. 

_Her hands she clapped together, on the hero 

did she look, 

And straight, by arts of grammary, a raven’s 
form she took. 


High upon a tree perched the raven black. 

‘The devil’s fere thou art; to hell, then, speed 
thee back! 

Had I done thy will, by the foul fiend had I 
Jain.” 

He grasped his courser’s bridle, and away he 
rode amain. 


But suddenly around him a laithly fog she cast; 

Fouler it grew, and thicker still, as he onward 
passed ; 

And straight beside his courser stood a cham- 
pion fell ; 

A club the black man brandished, and seemed 
the hound of hell. 


Up and spake Wolfdieterich,—‘ Say, thou 
doughty knight, 

Why wilt thou give me battle? 
thee no despite.” 

But fiercely struck the monster on his helm a 
blow of might: 

‘Down he fell upon the mead, and saw nor day 
nor night. 


I have done 


Full of shame he rose again; his glittering 
shield he clasped, 

Run against the fiend of hell, and fast his fal- 
chion grasped : 

In the dreadful stour he took the monster’s life. 

Fondly he -weened the fight was done, nor 
thought of further strife. 


But suddenly two other fiends, fouler than the 
other, 

Brandished on high their iron clubs, to avenge 
their fallen brother. 

Down they struck him to the ground, in deadly 
swoon he fell; 

Gone was all his strength, and his face grew 
wan and pale. 


But God on high was with him: quickly he 
arose, a 
Run upon the hell-hounds, and struck: them 
mortal blows. 
When the two were dead, behold! by his side 

four others stood, 
And rushed upon the Christian, thirsting for his 
blood. 


Hotter was the battle, bolder the champion grew ; 

Quick his might o’ercame them; to the ground 
the fiends he threw ; 

Down he felled the four, dead lay they by his 
side ; 

But, alas! upon the plain, eight fouler he de- 
scried. 


The uncouth champions black upon the hero 
rushed ; 

With their weighty clubs of steel him to the 
ground they pushed; 

Mickle was his pain and woe; his force was 
well-nigh spent : 

Loudly of his sorrow to the heavens did he 
lament. 


Again he grasped his buckler, and from the 
plain arose ; 

Again, with his good falchion, he dealt them 
heavy blows, 

And all the evil hell-hounds rathly made he 
bleed ; 

Deep were the wounds his weapon carved ; 
dead fell they on the mead. 


But the battle was not over; he came in great- 
er pain; * 

Sixteen fouler fiends than they stood upon the 
plain ; : 

And as their clubs they wielded, the champion 
cried amain, 

«¢ When a fiend, alas! I vanquish, two fiercer 
come again.” 


Amongst the hell-hounds fierce he rushed, and 
thought to be awroke : 

With their iron clubs they struck him, that his 
helmet seemed to smoke. 

He feared his fatal hour was nigh; astcunded 
and dismayed, 

On the ground in crucial form he fell, and called 
to Heaven for aid. 


O’er him stood the foul fiends, and with their 
clubs of steel 

Struck him o’er the helmet, that in deadly 
swound he fell: 

But God his sorrow saw; to the fiends his sond 
he sent: 

From the earth they vanished, with howling 
and lament. 


And with them to the deep abyss they bote the 
sorceress fell : 

Loudly did she shriek, when they cast her into 
hell. 


The Christian hero thanked his God; from the 
ground he rose with speed ; 

Joyfully he sheathed his sword, and mounted 

on his steed. 


THE TOURNAMENT. 


Count Herman spurred his courser, and gal- 
lopped o’er the plain; 

With anger burned his heart, and he hoped the 
prize to gain: 

Against the Grecian hero he ran with envious 
force, 

But he could not stand the shock, and tumbled 
from his horse. 


Firmly sat Wolfdieterich, his shield repelled 
the spear, 

From his courser to the ground leaped he with- 
out fear ; 

But Sir Herman bowed full courteously to the 
unknown knight : 

‘Take the gold, thou champion, for I may not 
stand thy might.” 


‘“« Nay,”’ cried the king of Greece, ‘it must not, 
Count, be so, 

For first before the lady my power must I show.” 

A long and weighty spear he chose, as in the 
book is told ; 

And the spear a fathom in the ground thrust 
the hero bold. 


Amongst the knights resounded a loud, a joyful 
cry, 

When, withouten stirrups, on his steed he 
leaped on high. 

Count Herman on his courser mounted, full of 
care ; 

But through his shirt of mail ran the sweat of 
fear. 


O’er the court in full career the Grecian did 
advance, 

And above the saddle-bow he hit him with the 
lance : 

Little could the count withstand that thrust of 
might and main ; 

Fathoms eight it cast him down upon the plain. 


WOLFDIETRICH’S PENANCE. 


Srrictty Sir Wolfdieterich kept his holy state, 

But to cleanse -him of his sins he begged a pen- 
ance great: 

His brethren bade him on a bier in the church 
to lay, 

There to do his penance all the night until the 
day. 


When the night was come, to the church the 
hero sped: 

Sudden all the ghosts appeared who by his 

sword lay dead: 


THE HELDENBUCH. 


Many a fearful blow they struck on the cham- 
pion good ; 

Ne’er such pain and woe he felt when on the 

field he stood. ‘ 


Sooner had he battle fought with thousands in 
the field, 

Striking dints with falchions keen on his glit- 
tering shield. 

Half the night against the ghosts he waged the 
battle fierce :, 

But the empty air he struck, when he weened 

their breasts to pierce. 


Little recked they for his blows: with his ter- 
ror and his woe, 

Ere half the night was past, his hair was white 
as snow. 

And when the monks to matins sped, they found 
him pale-and cold: 

There the ghosts in deadly swoon had left the 
champion bold. 


IlJ.— THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 


FRIAR ILSAN IN THE GARDEN OF ROSES, 


’Monasrt the roses Staudenfuss trod with mickle 
pride ; 

With rage and with impatience, his foe he did 
abide ; 

Much he feared no Longobard would dare to 
meet his blade : 

But a bearded monk lay ready for the fight 
arrayed, 


‘‘ Brother Ilsan, raise thine eyes,” 
Hildebrand, 

‘Where, ’mongst the blooming roses, our 
threatening foe does stand : 

Staudenfuss, the giant hight, born upon the 
Rhine. 

Up, and shrive him of his sins, holy brother 
mine !”’ 


spake Sir 


“Tt’s I will fight him,” cried the monk ;. “ my 
blessing shall he gain ; 

Never ’mongst the roses shall he wage the fight 
again.” 

Straight above his coat of mail his friar’s cowl 
he cast, 

Hid his sword and buckler, and to the garden 
passed. 


Among the blooming roses leaped the grisly 
monk : 

With laughter ladies viewed his beard, and his 
visage brown and shrunk ; 

As he trod with angry step o’er the flowery 
green, 

Many a maiden laughed aloud, and many a 
knight, I ween. 


Up spake Lady Chrimhild, —‘‘Father, leave 
thine ire ! 

Go and chant thy matins with thy brothers 
in the choir.” 


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have, 
brave.’ 


Loudly laughed the giant, when he saw his 
beard so rough: 

* Should I laughing die to-morrow, I had not 
laughed enough : 

Has the kemp of Bern sent his fool to fight ?” 

‘¢ Giant, straight thy hide shall feel that I have 
my wits aright.”’ 


Up heaved the monk his heavy fist, and he 
struck a weighty blow, 

Down among the roses he felled his laughing 
foe. 

Fiercely cried Sir § 
devil’s priest ! 

Heavy penance dost thou deal with thy wrin- 
kled fist.” 


taudenfuss, “¢ Thou art the 


Together rushed the uncouth kemps; each 
drew his trusty blade ; 

With heavy tread below their feet they crushed 
the roses red ; 

All the garden flowed with their purple blood ; 

Each did strike full sorry blows with their 
falchions good. 


Cruel looks their eyes did cast, and fearful was 
their war, 

But the friar cut his enemy o’er the head a 
bloody scar ; 

Deeply carved his trusty sword through the 
helmet bright : 

Joyful was the hoary monk, for he had won 
the fight. 


They parted the two champions speedily asun- 
der: 

The friar’s heavy interdict lay the giant under. 

Up arose Queen Chrimhild, to Sir Ilsan has she 
sped, 

On his bald head did she lay a crown — roses 
red. 


Through the garden roved he, as in the merry 
dance ; 

A kiss the lady gave him, where madly he did 
prance. 

‘‘H[ear, thou lady fair; more roses must I 
have; 

To my two-and-fifty brothers I promised chap- 
lets brave. 


‘-4f ye have not kemps to fight, I must rob thy 
garden fair, 

And right sorry should I he to work thee so 
much care.” 

‘Fear not, the battle shalt thou wage with 
champions bold and true: 

Crowns and kisses may ’st thou gain for thy 
brothers fifty-two.’ 


“Gentle lady,” cried the monk, “roses must I | Up spake the queen, — ‘“‘ Monk Ilsan, see your 


GERMAN POETRY. 


chaplets ready dight ; 


“To deck my dusky cowl in guise right gay and | Champions two-and- -fifty stand waiting for the 


fight.” 

Ilsan rose, and donned his cowl, and run against 
them all ; 

There the monk has given them many a heavy 
fall. 


To the ground he felled them, and gave them 
his benison ; 

Beneath the old monk’s falchion lay twelve 
champions off renown : 

And full of fear and sorrow the other forty 
were ; 

Their right hand held they forth, begged him 
their lives to spare. 


Rathly ran the monk, ta the Queen Chrimhild 
he hied : 

‘Lay thy champions in the grave, and leave 
thy mickle pride ; 

I have dight them for their death ; I did shrive 
them and anoint them : 

Never will they thrive or speed in the task thou 
didst appoint them. 


‘When again thy roses blow, to the feast the 
monk invite.” 

The Lady Chrimhild gave him two-and-fifty 
chaplets bright. 

«¢ Nay, Lady Queen, remind thee! By the holy 
order mine, 

I claim two-and-fifty kisses from your lips so 
red and fine.” 


And when Chrimhild, the queen, gave him 
kisses fifty-two, 

With his rough and grisly beard full sore he 
made her rue, 

That from her lovely cheek ’gan flow thé rosy 
blood : 

The queen was full of sorrow, but the monk it 
thought him good. 


Thus should unfaithful maiden be kissed, and 
made to bleed, 

And feel such pain and sorrow, for the mischief 
she did breed. 


FRIAR ILSAN’S RETURN TO THE CONVENT. 


*¢ BROTHERS mine, approach! coronets I bring: 

Come, your bald heads will I crown, each one 
like a king.” 

He pressed a thorny chaplet on each naked 
crown, 

That o’er ‘their rugged visages the gory flood 
ran down. 


They sighed that all their prayers for his death 
had been in vain ; 

Loud they roared, but silently they cursed him 

in their pain. 


yt 


THE HELDENBUCH. 


Aes Pra. 


‘« Brothers we are,” so spake the monk, “then | Firmly in his hands he grasped a golden rein ; 


must ye have your share ; 
For me to bear the pain alone, in sooth it were 
not fair. 


‘See how richly ye are dight! beauteous still 
ye were ; 

Now ye are crowned with roses, none may with 
ye compare.” 

The abbot and the prior and all the convent 
wept, 

But no one, for his life, forth against him stepped. 


‘“‘Ye must help to bear my sins, holy brethren 
all; 

For if ye do not pray for me, dead to the ground 
ye fall.” 

A few there were who would not pray for 
Monk Ilsan’s soul : 

He tied their beards together, and hung them 
o’er a pole. 


Loud tliey wept, and long they begged, “ Broth- 
er, let us go; 

At vesper and at matins will we pray for you.” 

Ever since, where’er he went, they knelt, and 
feared his wrath ; 

Helped to bear his heavy sins, until "his wel- 
come death. 


IV._THE LITTLE GARDEN OF ROSES. 


KING LAURIN THE DWARF. 


Wirticu, the mighty champion, trod the roses 
to the ground, 

Broke down the gates, and ravaged the garden 
far renowned : 

Gone was the portals’ splendor, by the heroes 
bold destroyed ; 

The fragrance of the flowers was past, and all 
the garden’s pride. 


But as upon the grass they lay withouten fear, 

No heed they had of danger, nor weened their 
foe was near : 

Behold, where came a little kemp, in warlike 
manner dight ; 

A king he was o’er many a land, and Laurin 
was he hight. 


A lance with. gold was wound about, the little 
king did bear : 

On the lance a silken pennon fluttered in the air ; 

Thereon two hunting greyhounds lively were 
portrayed ; 

They seemed as though they chased the roe- 
buck through the glade. 


His courser bounded like a fawn, and the gold- 
en foot-cloth gay 

Glittered with gems of mound brighter than 
the day. 


And with rubies red his saddle gleamed, as he. 
pricked along the plain. 


In guise right bold and chivalrous in the stir- 
rups rich he stood : 

Not the truest blade could cut his pusens red as 
blood : 

Hardened was his hauberk in the gore of drag- 
ons fierce, 

And his golden bruny bright not the boldest 
knight might pierce. 


Around his waist a girdle he wore of magic 
power ; 

The strength of twelve the strongest men it 
gave him in the stour. 

Deeds of noble chivalry and manhood wrought 
the knight ; 

Still had he gained the victory in every bloody 
fight. 


Cunning he was, and quaint of skill, and, when 
his wrath arose, 

The kemp must be of mickle might could stand 
his weighty blows. 

Little was King Laurin, but from many a pre- 
cious gem 

His wondrous strength and power and his bold 
courage came. 


Tall at times his stature grew, with spells of 


grammary ; 

Then to the noblest princes fellow might he 
be: 

And when he rode, a noble blade bore he in his 
hand ; 

In many fights the sword was proved worth a 
spacious land. 


Silken was his mantle, with stones of mound 
inlaid, 

Sewed in two-and-seventy squares by many a 
cunning maid. 

His helmet, strong and trusty, was forged of the 
weighty gold, 

And when the dwarf did bear it, his courage 
grew more bold. 


In the gold, with many gems, a bright carbun- 
cle lay, 

That where he rode the darkest night was 
lighter than the day. 

A golden crown he bore upon his helmet bright ; 

With richer gems and finer gold no mortal king 
is dight. 


Upon the crown and on the helm birds sung 
their merry lay ; 

Nightingales and larks did chant their meas- 
ures blithe and gay ; 

As if in greenwood flying, they tuned their 
minstrelsy : 

With hand of master were they wrought, and 
with spells of grammary. 


On his arm he bore a gilded buckler bright ; 

There many sparhawks, tame and wild, were 
portrayed with cunning sleight, 

And a savage leopard ranging, prowling through 
the wood, 

Right in act to seize his prey, thirsting for their 
blood. 


THE COURT OF LITTLE KING LAURIN. 


Berore the hollow mountain lay a meadow 
green ; 

So fair a plain upon this world never may be 

seen : 

There with the fruit full many a tree was laden 
heavily ; 

No tongue e’er tasted sweeter, fairer no eye 
might see. 


All the night and all the day the birds full 
sweetly sung, 

That the forest and the plain to their measures 
loudly rung ; 

There they tuned their melody, and each one 
bore his part, 

That with their merry minstrelsy they cheered 
each hero’s heart. 


And o’er the plain were ranging beasts both 
wild and tame, 

Playing, with merry gambols, many a lusty 
game: 

On the noble champions fondly ’gan they 
fawn : 

Each morn, beneath the linden-tree, they sport- 
ed on the lawn. 


The meadow seemed so lovely, the flowers 
bloomed so fair, 

That he who had the plain in rule would know 
nor woe nor care. 

Up and spake the knight of Bern, — 
my heart doth rise, 

So full of joy the meadow, that I hold it para- 
dise.”’ 


* So high 


Up spake hero Wolfort,— ‘Bless him who 
brought us here! 

So fair a sight did ne’er before to mortal eye 
appear.” 

‘¢ Enjoy the scene, young kemps,”’ 
brand the proud ; 

‘Fair day should in the evening be praised 
with voice aloud.” 


cried Hilde- 


But Wittich spake a warning word, — “ Hark 
to my rede aright! 

The dwarf is quaint, and full of guile, then be- 
ware his cunning sleight ; 

Arts he knows right marvellous: 
low hill 

We follow, much I dread me, he will breed us 

dangerous ill.” 


if to his hol- 


GERMAN POETRY 


“Fear not,’? cried King Laurin; ‘doubt ‘not 
my faith and truth ; 

The meadow blithe your own shall be, and 
my treasures all, forsooth.”’ 

Proudly cried bold Wolfort, —‘“ Wittich, stay 
thee here; 

Enter not the hollow hill, if his treachery thou 


fear.”’ 

«‘ Never,” cried fierce Wittich; “here will I 
not stay.” 

In wrath he left his courser; without fear he 
sped away: 


Before the mountain-gate he run, there hung a 
horn of gold; 

Quick he blew a merry ae 
Sir Dietrich bold. 


loud laughed 


Soon toward the mountain sped the little knight, 

And with him all the heroes of high renown 
and might : 

King Laurin blew upon the horn a louder note, 
and shrill, 

From all the mountains echoing, and resound- 
ing on the hill. 


Quickly ran the chamberlain where he found 
the golden key, 

And threw the spacious portals open speedily : 

King Laurin led his guests through the golden 
gate ; 

There many dwarfs, alert and fair, their coming 
did await. 


When through another gate of steel the noble 
knights had passed, 

At the little king’s command, were closed the 
portals fast. 

A necromancer, old and sage, dwelt in the hol- 
low hill; 

Soon he dame fo Laurin, and asked his master’s 
will. 


‘Look upon those strangers 
knight ; 

‘‘Kemps they are of high emprise, and love 
the bloody fight : : 

Cast upon them, master mine, for the love of 
me, 

A magic spell, that none of them may the oth- 
ers see.” 


,” spake the little 


Upon the knights his magic charms cast the 
sorcerer fell ; 

None could behold his brothers, so mighty was 
the spell. 

Loudly cried Sir Wittich, “‘ Mark my counsel 
now ; 

I told ye that the little king would breed ye 


cares enow. 


«© What think ye now, Sir Wolfort?”’ spake the 
hero stern : 

‘“‘T warned ye all to shun the dwarf, and speed 

ye back to Bern.” 


EEE BS 


About the cavern roved they, in mickle woe 
and care: 

Fiercely to the king they cried, “Is this thy 
promised fare?” 


But up spake little Laurin: “Fear not, my no- 
ble guests ; 

All my courtiers shall obey quickly your be- 
hests.”’ 

Many a winsome dwarf was seen, graithed in 
rich attire ; 

Garments bright with gold and gems bore each 
little sire. 


From the gems full mighty strength had the 
dwarfish chivalry : 

Quaintly they danced, and on their steeds they 
rode right cunningly ; 

Far they cast the heavy stone, and, in their war- 
like game, 

They broke the lance, and tourneyed before 
the knights of fame. 


There many harpers tuned their lay, and played 
with mirth and glee, 

Loudly, in the royal hall, their merry min- 
strelsy. 

Before the table high appeared-four learned 
singing men, 

Two short, and two of stature tall, and sung in 
courtly strain. 


Soon to the table sped the king, and bade his 
meiny all 

Wait upon his noble guests, in the royal hall : 

“Chosen knights and brave they are,’’ he spoke 
with friendly cheer: 

Guile was in his heart, and cunning; but his 
treachery bought he dear. 


Similt, the lady fair, heard of the royal feasts : 

Of her meiny did she spier, ‘* Who are the 
stranger guests? ”’ 

“Noble knights of German birth,” spake a 
kemp of stature small ; 

“Laurin bids ye speed to court, for well ye 
know them alls” 


Quickly spake the lady, —‘ Up, my damsels 
fair ! 

Deck ye in your richest guise, for to court we 
will repair.” 


THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
<a i eee iene cS ao Sm nN 2 Slo Ss Rae El 


Soon they dight them royally in glittering array ; 
Full blithe they were to speed to court with 
Similt, the gentle may. 


There came many a minstrel, tuning his lay of 
mirth ; 

Shawms and trumpets shrill they blew, the 
sweetest on the earth. 

There full many a song was sung by learned 
singing men ; 

Of war and chivalrous emprise they tuned the 
noble strain. 


Now to court, in bright array, all the maids are 
gone, 

With many a knight not two feet long; one 
leaped, the other run ; 

Merry were they all: and before the lovely 
dame, 

Two tall, two little gleemen sung the song of 
fame. 


Before the queen they chanted the merry min- 
strelsy, 

And all who heard their master-notes dwelt in 
mirth and glee. 

There fiddlers quaint appeared, though small 
their stature were, 

Marching, two and two, before the lady fair. 


Similt into the palace came, with her little 
maidens all ; 

Garments they wore which glittered brightly 
in the hall, 

Of fur and costly ciclatoun, and brooches of the 

old: 

No Hale: guise in royal courts might mortal 

man behold. 


The gentle Lady Similt bore a golden crown; 

There full many a precious stone around the 
cavern shone ; 

But one before the others glittered gorgeously ; 

The wight who wore that noble gem ever blithe 
must be. 


And now the spell was ta’en away from the 
champions bold : 

Full glad they were when openly their feres 
they might behold. 

Right noble cheer was offered to the champions 
brave ; 

In royal guise the feast was held the whole day 
in the cave. 


THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 


Tue ‘“Nibelungenlied”’ is the greatest and 
most complete of all the German popular epics. 
The historical basis of the poem is found in 
the fifth and sixth centuries of the Christian 
era; and the name, Nibelungen, is said to be 


28 S 
SE || 


derived from an ancient and powerful Burgun- 
dian race, whose terrible downfall is the subject 
of the work. The traditions upon which it is 
founded are connected with the old Scandina- 
vian sagas, particularly the ‘ Wilkina-Saga.”’ 


1 ee Se ae 


It belongs partly to the same cycle of adven- 
tures, characters, and traditions as the “ Hel- 
denbuch,” and springs from the same great he- 
roic age of Germany. The present form of the 
poem is undoubtedly the work ofa single author, 
who, with a soundness of judgment and felicity 
of genius rarely equalled, combined the separate 
songs, sagas, and traditions relating to Attila and 
the Huns, and their connexions with the Bur- 
gundian tribe, into one beautiful and harmonious 
| whole ; and this poet, according to the conjec- 
| ture of William Schlegel, Von der Hagen, and 
others, was the Minnesinger, Heinrich von Oft- 
erdingen. The fabulous Klingsor of Hungary 
has also been mentioned, but his claims are 
feebly supported. 

The scene of the poem is on the Rhine and 
in Austria and Hungary. The poem opens with 
a description of Chrimhild, the principal heroine 
of the piece, her three brothers, King Ginther, 
King Ghernot, and ‘ Ghiseler the Young,” who 
held their court at Worms, on the Rhine, and of 
their principal warriors, Hagen of Tronek and 
Dankwart his brother, Ortwin and Eckewart 
and Ghere, and Folker of Alsace. The ominous 
dream of Chrimhild, which she told “ with 
fear’? to her mother, Dame Ute, and the inter- 
pretation by the latter, are then related. This 
dream, and the interpretation, which are after- 
wards terribly fulfilled, stamp the character of 
a solemn and mysterious destiny upon the whole 
poem. 

Then follows the adventure of Siegfried, the 
son of King Siegmund and Queen Siegelind, 
of Netherland. In his youth he has visited many 
lands, performing feats of arms and displaying 
all gentleness and courtesy of behaviour. Hav- 
ing thus been trained to the practice of every 
knightly virtue, when the time arrives that he 
shall be received into the order of chivalry, 
his father makes a splendid festival, and his 
mother distributes costly gifts. Having heard 
of the matchless beauty of Chrimhild, he re- 
solves to visit Worms to woo her; and arrives 
at the gate of this renowned city with great 
pomp and splendor. As he approaches with his 
attendants, King Gitinther inquires of Hagen 
who these strangers are; whereupon the old 
warrior relates the marvellous exploits of Sieg- 
fried, the conquest of the Nibelungen, the pos- 
session of the hoard, or treasure, the magic cap, 
| and the bathing in the dragon’s blood, which 
rendered him invulnerable save in a spot be- 
tween his shoulders, where a leaf fell upon him 
as he bathed. Siegfried is courteously received 
by Gunther and his knights, but his haughty lan- 
guage rouses the ire of the champions, and Ort- 
win and Hagen defy him. Their wrath, how- 
ever, is soon appeased, and Siegfried passes a 
whole year at Worms, taking part in all the rev- 
els ‘and joustings, and excelling all the Burgun- 
|| dian champions. But he has not yet seen the 
Lady Chrimhild, though she has stolen many a 
glance at him from the window. At length King 
Lidger of Saxony and King Liudgast of Den- 


ra ee 


GERMAN POETRY. 


mark threaten King Ginther with war, unless he 
will pay them tribute. Siegfried joins the Bur- 
gundian knights, drives the Saxons out of 
Hessia, conquers and captures King Liudgast ; 
whereupon a bloody battle follows, and, chiefly 
through the bravery of Siegfried, the mighty 
host of Danes and Saxons is defeated, and 
Liidger himself surrenders. Ghernot’s messen- 
gers carry to Worms the news of the victory. 
Chrimhild sends for one of them to her cham- 
ber at evening, to hear from him the tidings of 
Siegfried’s warlike deeds. The victorious army, 
returning with the captive kings, is received 
with joyful welcome. Gunther liberates the 
kings when they have sworn fealty to him, and 
prepares a high festival, to which, on Whitsun- 
day morning, five thousand guests or more as- 
semble. Chrimhild and her women are busy 
in making the most magnificent preparations 
for the mighty revel ; and she and her mother 
are commanded to grace it with their presence. 
And this is the first time that Siegfried be- 
holds Chrimhild. For twelve days the feast 
continues, and each day the hero sees the 
lady of his love. The kings are allowed to 
depart unransomed, and Siegfried also proposes 
to leave the court, but is easily persuaded by 
Ghiseler to remain. 

The fame of the beauty of Brunhild, a prin- 
cess of matchless strength in Iceland, moves 
King Gunther to seek to win her. He requests 
Siegfried to aid Shim in the doubtful enterprise, 
and promises him bis sister as a reward. Sieg- 
fried consents; takes with him the magic cap, 
which makes him invisible and gives him the 
strength of twelve men; and well it is for 
Gunther that such magical aid is at hand, for 
Brunhild is a terrible Amazon, who forces all 
her suitors to contend with her in the games 
of throwing the spear, leaping, and hurling the 
stone, under penalty of losing their lives in case 
of defeat. Chrimhild prepares them splendid 
garments, which cost her and her maidens seven 
weeks’ hard work to get ready ; and Ginther, 
Siegfried, Hagen, and Dankwart set out from 
Worms, embarking in a ship, which Siegfried 
pilots. On the twelfth day they reach the castle 
of Isenstein in the country of Brunhild. It is 
agreed that Siegfried shall appear in the char- 
acter of vassal to Giinther. They land in full 
view of a troop of fair women, among whom 
Brunhild stands; the castle is opened to receive 
them, and they enter, after having given up 
their arms, which old Hagen reluctantly con- 
sents to do. Brunhild approaches her guests, 
and inquires of Siegfried wherefore they have 
come. He replies, that his sovereign lord, King 
Gunther, is a suitor for her love. The condi- 
tions are explained, and the preparations for the 
contest speedily made. Siegfried returns to the 
ship, and puts on the tarn-cap, which makes 
him invisible. Brunhild arms herself, and 
the Burgundians very naturally begin to geta 
little frightened for their king. Old Hagen, 
even, grows nervous, and exclaims : 


THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 


‘“‘And how is’t now, King Giinther? here must you tine 
" your life! 
The lady you would gain, well may she be the devil’s wife.”’ 


By the aid of the invisible Siegfried, Gun- 
ther conquers Brunhild in each of the three 
trials, and she is compelled, by her own terms, 
to take him for her lord and master. As Brun- 
hild, before she consents to follow Ginther to 
Worms, calls her relatives and vassals together, 
Siegfried, to calm the fears of the Burgundians, 
assembles from the Nibelungen land a thousand 
heroes, and then Brunhild departs with Giin- 
ther. Siegfried is sent forward to Worms to 
announce their approach. Ute and Chrimhild 
receive the tidings joyfully, and make great 
preparations for their reception. Brunhild is 
royally welcomed, and all sit down to a mag- 
nificent feast, during which Siegfried reminds 
the king of his promise to give him his sister 
to wife. Giinther willingly keeps his word, and 
Siegfried and Chrimhild celebrate their mar- 
riage festival together with the king, that same 
night ; but Brunhild laments that her sister-in- 
law should marry beneath her rank, a mere 
vassal, and though Ginther assures her that 
he is a powerful monarch, she refuses to be 
satisfied. When they retire to their cham- 
ber, she renews her entreaties to be informed 
of the true reason of his giving his sister to 
Siegfried. A singular kind of quarrel follows 
this first matrimonial jar, in which the strength 
of the Amazon is more than a match for the 
king ; she ties his hands and feet together with 
her girdle, hangs him on a nail in the wall, and 
goes to sleep, leaving him to make the best he 
can of his very anomalous situation. The next 
day the unlucky monarch complains sorely to 
Siegfried, saying: 

‘With shame and woe I sped; 

I have brought the evil devil, and took her to my bed.”’ 


But Siegfried proves to be a friend in need, 
and by the aid of his tarn-cap subdues the 
strong-armed princess, depriving her, in the 
contest, of her ring and girdle, which he after- 
wards presents to his wife. Fourteen days of 
revelry having ended, the guests take their de- 
parture, loaded with presents.. 

Siegfried also now bethinks him of return- 
ing home: Arriving with Chrimhild at the cas- 
tle of Santen, where his parents dwell, they are 
magnificently received. Siegmund and Siege- 
lind are overjoyed with the beauty of their 
daughter. Siegmund resigns the kingdom into 
the hands of his son, who reigns in all honor 
for the space of ten years. Meantime a son is 
born to them, whom they name Ganther; a 
son is also born to Brunhild and Ginther, who 
receives the name of Siegfried, and is educated 
with the greatest care. But Brunhild has not 
yet forgotten that Siegfried is liegeman to her 
lord, and wonders that he renders so little ser- 
vice. At her request, Ganther invites Siegfried, 
Chrimhild, and Siegmund to Worms. The in- 
vitation is accepted, and they are received with 


219 


courtesy at the Burgundian court. Eleven days 
pass away in knightly pastimes, when a dispute 
takes place hetween the two queens with re- 
gard to the merits of their respective husbands ; 
Chrimhild saying that her lord excels the other 
champions as much as the moon the stars, 
while Brunhild’ places Giinther far above him, 
and declares that Siegfried is but his vassal. 
The dispute waxes warm, and Chrimhild swears 
she will enter the church before the queen, and 
be held in higher honor; but Brunhild ex- 
claims: ‘No! a vassal’s wife shall never go 
before a king’s”’; Chrimhild retorts and calls 
her opponent Siegfried’s leman, and enters the 
minster before the weeping Brunhild. Chrim- 
hild afterwards, being asked for proofs of the 
accusation, shows the girdle and ring which 
Siegfried had taken from Brunhild. The latter 
complains to her husband, who calls Siegfried 
to account, saying to him, “I am sore troubled ; 
my wife, Brunhild, hath told me a tale, that 
thou hast boasted of being the first to have her 
love; thus saith thy wife, Chrimhild.’ To 
which Siegfried replies, “If she hath spoken 
thus, it shall be the worse for her; before all 
thy men, I will swear by my high oath, that I 
have never said the thing.” 

And now the tragical part of the story begins. 
The death of Siegfried is plotted between Brun- 
hild and Hagen, and Gunther at last consents 
to the assassination. False messengers are sent, 
as if from King Litdger, to threaten war, and 
Siegfried’s aid is required. Hagen hypocriti- 
cally promises Chrimhild to defend her. hus- 
band, and draws from her an account of the 
fatal spot between his shoulders, where the 
dragon’s blood has not+hardened his skin ; she 
promises to embroider a cross over the place, 
and Hagen joyfully departs. But another em- 
bassy comes, announcing peace. A great hunt 
is prepared ; Siegfried takes leave of his wife, 
who is filled with anxiety while thinking of 
her conversation with Hagen. So they cross 
the Rhine; Siegfried enters a forest alone 
with his hound; makes great havoc with the 
wild beasts, and among other exploits catches 
a bear alive, who does a deal of mischief among 
the eatables. Hagen has treacherously omitted 
the wine, and Siegfried, thirsty with the labors 
of the chase, while stooping to drink from a 
spring, is stabbed by him in the back. The 
dead body is carried to the palace, and placed 


by the ferocious Hagen before the door of | 


Chrimhild’s chamber, where she finds it as she 
goes out to morning mass. She breaks forth in- 
to vehement lamentations, and charges the deed 
at once to the machinations of Brunhild and 
the hand of Hagen. The father of Siegfried 
and the Nibelungen champions are roused from 
sleep, and are only hindered by Chrimhild’s 
entreaties from avenging the murder on the 
spot. A sound of mourning is heard in all di- 
rections ; and when the test is tried, the blood 
flows from the wounds at the approach of Ha- 
gen, which shows him to be the murderer. 


| 


— 


ne pg ne 
Cra a a ED, TS A CT SG eT I ET EN 


220 


Siegfried is buried with great pomp, costly offer- 
ings are made for the repose of his soul, and his 
death is sorrowfully lamented. At the grave, 
Chrimhild causes the coffin, all studded with 
silver and gold and steel, to be broken open, 
that she may once more behold her husband. 

After the burial, Siegmund proposes to Chrim- 
hild to return with him; but by the urgent 
prayers of Ute, Ghernot, and Ghiseler, she is 
persuaded to remain in Burgundy, especially as 
she has no kindred in Nibelungen-land. Sieg- 
mund and his knights depart without taking 
leave. Chrimhild dwells at Worms, near the 
tomb of her husband, four years and a half, 
without speaking a word to Giinther and Ha- 
gen, who at last advises the king to be recon- 
ciled with his sister in order to obtain the 
Nibelungen treasure ; this is accomplished, but 
Chrimhild forgets not the crime of Hagen. 
The treasure is brought to the Rhine, twelve 
wagons passing twelve times to and fro, heav- 
ily laden, She is so liberal in her gifts, that 
Hagen’s fears are roused for the safety of the 
Burgundians, and he counsels the king to take 
the treasure from her; the king demurs, and 
the grim old warrior steals it himself, in the 
absence of the princess, and sinks it in the 
Rhine, whereby Chrimhild’s hate is still more 
increased. For thirteen long years after Sieg- 
fried’s death, she lives faithful to his memory, 
and ever mourning his loss. 

About this time it chances that Dame Hel- 
che, wife of Etzel, dies, and the pagan king 
looks about him for another. His friends ad- 
vise him to send into the Burgundian land and 
demand the proud widow, Dame Chrimhild. 
He has some scruples at first, since he is a 
pagan, but Rudiger of Bechlar puts them to 
rest and takes it upon himself to do the wooing. 
With a retinue of five hundred men, he passes 
through Vienna, where they are supplied with 
magnificent dresses, and goes to Bechlar to visit 
the wealthy Gotelind, his wife, and the young 
margravine, his daughter, and thence through 
Bavaria to the Rhine, where they are kindly re- 
ceived. Gunther favors the proposal of the em- 
bassy, but old Hagen, foreboding mischief, ad- 
vises against it. Chrimhild, too, who is still over- 
whelmed in sorrow, at first refuses to listen to 
the messengers, though supported by the pray- 
ers of her mother and her brothers; until Riidi- 
ger hints that he will fulfil her commands, and 
with all his men swears fealty to her. Now 
she consents, prepares for her journey, and 
departs with a train of a hundred maidens. 
Eckewart goes with her, and Ghiseler and 
Ghernot accompany her as far as the Danube, 
but Ginther goes only a short distance from the 
city. On the way, they are entertained by 
Bishop Pellegrin, the brother of Ute, and by 
Gotelind, the wife of Riidiger, and his daughter, 
the fair Dietelind. At Vienna, the nuptials of 
Chrimhild and Etzel are celebrated with festiv- 
ities that last seventeen days, and rich gifts are 


distributed ; but still Chrimhild’s eyes are filled. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


with tears at thinking of Siegftied. Finally 
they pass into the land of the Huns, where 
the noble Chrimhild is received with all honor- 
able observance into Etzel’s castle. 

Thirteen years Queen Chrimhild has dwelt 
in the land of the Huns. She has borne a son, 
named Ortwin, but still she longs to avenge the 
murder of Siegfried. By her entreaty, Etzel 
invites the Burgundians to visit his court. The 
good fiddlers Simelin and Warbelin bear the 
message, charged by Chrimhild not to leave 
Hagen of Tronek behind. Hagen and Rumolt 
dissuade from the journey with all their might, 
but to no purpose; the invitation is accepted, 
great preparations are made for the journey, and 
the messengers return with rich presents. Volk- 
er, the noble fiddler, joins the champions ; and, 
with the anxious forebodings of those who stay 
behind, the company set out. From this time 
forth, the Burgundians bear the name of Nibe- 
lungen. In twelve days they reach the Danube ; 
and there occurs the adventure with the mer- 
maids, from whom they receive an ominous warn- 
ing. At length, Hagen, his thousand knights, 
and nine thousand vassals, are all ferried over 
the river, and the boat is destroyed, that any cow- 
ard, who should wish to run away, may perish 
here. They continue their march, and by night 
are attacked by Else and Gelfrat. Arriving at 
Passau, they are hospitably entertained by Bish- 
op Pellegrin. As they approach Riidiger’s 
marches, he meets them, and conducts them to 
a feast, at which the margravine, his daughter, 
is betrothed to Ghiseler. After four days, they 
continue their journey, having received rich 
presents, Hagen taking the shield of Rudung, 
and Volker twelve rings for his hands. Ridi- 
ger accompanies the departing guests, and mes- 
sengers precede them to the land of the Huns ; 
Chrimhild hears of their coming with joy, and 
hopes that the hour of vengeance is at hand. 

As the heroes enter Etzel’s country, Dietrich 
of Berne meets them with his men, and warns 
them solemnly, but they will not return. Chrim- 
hild receives the Nibelungen with dissémbling 
heart, kisses Ghiseler and takes him by the hand, 
whereat old Hagen fastens his helmet tighter. 
Chrimhild taxes Hagen with his crime, and he 
hesitates not to confess it; she instigates her men 
to take vengeance on him, but the Huns with- 
draw in fear from the Nibelungen heroes. At 
evening they feast in a large and splendid hall. 
Hagen anticipates some evil design during the 
night, and, with Volker, undertakes to stand 
sentinel. As the night advances, the bold fid- 
dler, Volker, sees helmets shining, and says to 
Hagen, “I see armed people stand before the 
house; I think they mean to assail us.”’ But 
as the Huns approach, they see the mighty 
warders, and shrink from the conflict. In the 
morning, the guests go to the church, and Ha- 
gen, ever suspicious, makes them put on their 
armor. Etzel wonders at this, but Hagen in- 
forms him it is the custom in Burgundy to go 
armed three days, on high festivals. The morn- 


pera 


THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 


I te ia 


ing mass is succeeded by knightly games, in 
which Volker stabs a rich Hun through the body 
with his spear, An immense uproar follows, 
and a fierce battle is on the point of breaking 
out, but Etzel interferes and stops it. The Bur- 
gundians and the Huns sit at the banquet in 
arms. Chrimhild now applies to Dietrich, but 
without success, to avenge her on Hagen; but 
at last, by promises, she persuades Blédelin to 
undertake the deed. He attacks Dankwart with 
his men, who, having vainly urged him to desist 
from the fight, strikes off his head. Blédelin’s 
men then fall upon Dankwart’s vassals, and, 
being supported by two thousand Huns, slay 
them all, and Dankwart fights his way alone to 
the banqueting hall, where Etzel and many of 
the Christian host are feasting. He tells the tale 
to Hagen, who bids him guard the door that no 
Hun may escape, and begins the slaughter by 
citting off the head of Etzel’s son, Ortlieb, 
which rolls into Chrimhild’s lap. A terrible 
and bloody fight ensues, and the Burgundians 
throw seven thousand slain Huns out of the 
banquet hall. Chrimhild promises great treas- 
ures to him who shall kill Giinther. Iring of 
Denmark attempts it, but is struck to the ground 
by Ghiseler, and is compelled to hasten back 
to his friends; and when the battle is renewed, 
he falls by Hagen’s hand, and all who assail 
the old warrior meet with a like fate. Having 
fought till night, the kings propose a truce to 
Etzel; but as Chrimhild demands the surrender 
of Hagen, and Ghiseler haughtily refuses to de- 
sert a faithful friend, they are driven back into 
the hall, which Chrimhild causes to be set on 
fire. The heat of the conflagration so torments 
the heroes, that they have to quench their thirst 
with the blood of the slain; but in the morning 
six hundred brave men are still alive. The on- 
slaught is again renewed. Ridiger looks upon 
the scene of slaughter with sorrow and tears. In 
wrath he slays a Hun who reproaches him with 
doing nothing for Etzel; Etzel and Chrimhild 
then demand his aid as their vassal, and Chrim- 
hild reminds him that he has already sworn 
fealty to her in Worms. On their knees they 
implore him; slowly and reluctantly, and with 
a heavy heart, he at length consents, and pro- 
ceeds with his men to the attack. The Bur- 
gundians fall by Riidiger’s hand, until he and 
Ghernot slay each other in the fight. Ridiger’s 
men are all killed or wounded, and many of the 
wounded are drowned in the blood. Old Etzel 
bewails the death of Ridiger so loudly that the 
sound is like the roar of a lion. The lamenta- 
tion is heard by Dietrich and his men, who 
rush to the hall and demand the body of Ridiger, 
when the conflict is fiercely renewed by reason 
of Volker’s scoffing speech. Volker slays Die- 
trich’s nephew, Siegestab of Berne, and is him- 
self killed by bold Hildebrand. Wolfart and 
Ghiseler kill each other, and Hildebrand alone 
of Dietrich’s men remains. Hagen rushes upon 
him to avenge the death of Volker, but he es- 
capes with a wound. Dietrich sorrowfully arms 


pe eee 


221 


himself, reproaches Hagen and Gitnther with 
the woe they have brought upon him, and com- 
mands them to surrender as hostages. Hagen 
refuses with an oath, and a battle between them 
begins. Dietrich inflicts a deep wound on Ha- 
gen, overpowers him, and delivers him bound 
to Chrimhild, charging her to spare his life. 
Then he subdues Ginther, and gives him up in 
like manner to the queen. She takes a ferocious 
vengeance, by slaying them both; but old Hil- 
debrand, indignant at her cruelty, springs upon 
her and stabs her to the heart; and Dietrich 
and Etzel with bitter tears bewail these dire 
mischances, 

The Lament (die Klage) is an addition by a 
later hand. It contains the lamentations of Etzel, 
Hildebrand, and Dietrich over the dead, and 
Etzel’s penitential confession of his sin in apos- 
tatizing from the Christian faith, for which God 
has punished him. One after another the prin- 
cipal champions are taken up, and their deaths 
bewailed. 

This great romantic epic is a poem well cal- 
culated to rouse the enthusiasm of a people 
like the Germans. 
delight with which that old poem was studied, 
when, within the memory of man, the new- 
born nationality of German feeling rose to an 
unexampled pitch, and led to an excess of ad- 
miration for every thing that belonged to Ger- 
man antiquity, which is, perhaps, without a par- 
allel in modern times. This swelling enthusi- 
asm is, at present, somewhat abated; but the 
poem of the Nibelungen still maintains its hold 
upon the German mind, and is acknowledged 
by other nations to be a most interesting and 
remarkable monument of early Teutonic genius. 
Students of German literature must admit that 
the unknown author of this poem shows a bold 
hand in drawing characters, a deep and passion- 
ate feeling, a sense of just proportion, and a 
plastic power in moulding the rude materials 
of the old German language into metrical forms 
of considerable beauty and melody. The gi- 
gantic figures of the chivalrous heroic age are 
set before us in all their majestic proportions ; 
their passions are delineated with a tremendous 
strength of expression; and their superhuman 
deeds are told with a confidence equal to that of 
Homer, when he chants the resistless prowess of 
the godlike Achilles. The characters of Gunther, 
Siegfried, and Hagen are conceived and repre- 
sented with admirable distinctness and power; 
they move before us in the poem like so many 
living forms of more than mortal strength, brave- 
ty, and beauty. The poet is no less felicitous in 
the delineation of his heroines. Brunhild, with 
her Amazonian strength of will and strength 
of arm, which nothing short of the magic aid 
of the tarn-cap can conquer, and Chrimhild, 
with her feminine beauty and gentleness, her 
smiles, blushes, and tears, are represented with 
great tact, propriety, and consistency. The din 
of war, the terrible onset, the clash of shields, 


and the shivering of spears are described in the 
$2 


Nothing can exceed the ~ 


4 
ed 


222 


‘ Nibelungenlied’ with the graphic force and the 
sounding energy of verse which we so much 
admire in the Iliad. There is, too, in the poem, 
a minuteness of homely ‘details, an unshrinking 
readiness to go into the plainest and most un- 
poetical matters, as we should now regard them, 
which remind us often of the cooking in Achil- 
les’s tent, and the “domestic manufactures ’’ at 
the houses of Hector and Ulysses. When Gin- 
ther prepares to go a-wooing the terrible Brun- 
hild, the weaving, stitching, and sewing, the 
silks, and satins, and furs, the gold and em- 
broidery, that occupy the fair fingers of the 
ladies of the household, are an amusing illustra- 
tion of the fondness for finery, the passion for 
gorgeous costume, which marked the characters 
of the semi-barbarous barons who stormed to 
and fro in the Middle Ages. The poet re- 
mained unconsciously true also to the ancient 
maxim, that woman was ever the direful cause 
of war. A quarrel between the two heroines, 
Chrimhild and Brunhild, leads first to the as- 
sassination of the noble Siegfried. ‘The gen- 
tle Chrimhild cherishes henceforth in her 
heart nothing but a hoarded and ever increasing 
desire for revenge. The poet has ventured on 
the bold experiment of changing her mild and 
lovely character into one of fearful ferocity, yet 
all the stages of the transformation are marked 
by aclear poetic probability. She consents to 
marry Attila, or Etzel, king of the Huns, for 
the purpose of exacting from Hagen, and all the 
Burgundian court, a terrible retribution for her 
beloved and ever deplored Siegfried’s murder. 
Considering the wild passions that had their 
run unrestrained in the Middle Ages, and the 
poetical coloring which the creative imagin- 
ation in all ages lavishes upon its scenes to 
heighten their effect, we must admit that the 
bard of the Nibelungen has traced the changes 
in Chrimhild’s character with a hand at once 
delicate and masterly. The interest of the story 
rises to the very end. The most enthusiastic 
lover of battle-scenes must be satisfied with the 
deluge of blood which is shed after the arrival 
of the Burgundians in the land ofthe Huns. 
The terrible energy, with which these extraor- 
dinary passages are written, again reminds us 
of the Iliad, and of the bloody reyenge which 
Achilles takes for the death of Patroclus. 

The enthusiasm of the Germans for this sin- 
gular poem was perfectly natural. They did 
not hesitate to compare it with the Iliad, and 
some of the more extravagant worshippers of 
the Middle Ages ventured to place it even 
higher than the old Grecian epic. This, how- 
ever, is a claim which the cooler opinions of 
the present time promptly reject. With all its 
extraordinary merits of impersonation and de- 
scription, its fiery utterance of passion, its elab- 
orate arrangement and combination, its genuine 
epic sweep of incident and language, it falls far 
below the Iliad in variety, consistency, Just pro- 
portion, and completeness, and in melody of 
verse. The German language of the twelfth | 


a 


GERMAN 


Sr ep ge Tn nn SE ey ee es ee ee ei ea a 


‘ : & . 7 fn Peer 


i 
POETRY. : 


it 
i 


and thirteenth centuries is not to be compared 
for a moment with the richness, grace, and 
plastic beauty of the Greek, as it)flowed from 
the harmonious lips of Homer. Heinrich 
Heine, in his amusing letters on German litera- 
ture, translated by Mr. Haven, says: ‘For a 
long time nothing else was spoken of but the 
‘Nibelungenlied,’ and the classic philologists 
were not a little vexed when they heard this 
epos compared with the Iliad, and when it 
was even a contest which of the two were the 
more excellent. The public on that occasion 
looked precisely like a child whom some one 
asks, ‘Had you rather have a horse or a cake 
of gingerbread ?’ 

‘¢ Nevertheless, this ‘Nibelungenlied’ is a 
poem of nervous energy. A Frenchman can 
hardly form an idea of it, much less of the lan- 
guage in which it is written. It is a language 
of stone, and the verses are, as it were, rhyth- 
mical stone blocks. Here and there, from out 
the rifts, red flowers well forth like drops of 
blood, or the lank ivy trails downward like 
green tears. Of the giant passions that stir 
themselves in this poem, no idea whatever can 
be formed by a race of men so diminutive and | 
gentle as our own. Picture to yourselves a 
serene summer night; the stars pallid as silver, 
yet large as suns, stepping forth into the blue 
heavens; and all the gothic domes of Europe | 
giving themselves a rendezvous upon some 
illimitable plain. Lo! the Strasburg Minster | 


advances with calm and measured step; the 
Dome of Cologne, the Campanile of Florence, : 
the Cathedral of Rouen, and many others, fol- 
lowing in her train, and graciously paying.their 
court to Notre-Dame-de-Paris. True, their step 
is somewhat helpless, some among them limp 
a little by the way, and oftentimes one cannot 
but smile at their wavering; this smile, how- 
ever, soon ceases when we see their stormy 
passions kindling, and how they strive to mur- 
der one another. Notre-Dame-de-Paris raises, 
in desperation, both her stony arms to heaven, 
suddenly grasps a sword, and strikes from her 
body the head of the mightiest of all the domes. 
But no! even then you can form to yourself no 
idea of the leading characters of the ‘ Nibelun- 
genlied’; no tower is so high, and no stone so 
hard, as the wrathful Hagen and the revengeful 


Chrimhild.”’ 


tioned that Heinrich von Ofterdingen is sup- 
posed by many to be the author of the “ Nibe- 
lungenlied ” in its present form. A brief notice 
of his life is, therefore, here subjoined. He was | 
a native of Eisenach, and his life falls in the 
twelfth and thirteenth centuries. He is said to 
have passed a part of his youth in Austria, at 


the court of Leopold the Seventh. He held a | 
distinguished rank as a Minnesinger, and at | 


In the preceding analysis it has been men- 


court of Hermann, landgrave of Thuringia, sang 


THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 


223 


ee ah ON NE WE REESE Ss a Sl A in 


the praises of his emperor in the famous contest 
at the Wartburg, with Wolfram von Eschenbach 
for his opponent. Besides the « Nibelungen- 
lied”’ nothing remains of his poetry except 
some passages of the “* War of the Wartburg.” 
A part of the “Heldenbuch,” however, the 
** King Laurin,” is, with some confidence, at- 
tributed to him. In modern times, Novalis has 
made him the hero of the beautiful romance 
which bears his name. 


— 


FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
THE NIBELUNGEN. 


. 

Iv ancient song and story marvels high are told 

Of knights of high emprise and adventures 
manifold ; 

Of joy and merry feasting, of lamenting, woe, 
and fear, 

Of champions’ bloody battles, many marvels 
shall ye hear. 


A noble maid, and fair, grew up in Burgundy ; 

In all the land about fairer none might be : 

She became a queen full high ; Chrimhild was 
she hight ; 

But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade 
of might. 


For love and for delight was framed that lady 
oo ee 

Many a champion bold sighed for the gentle 
may : 

Full beauteous was her form, beauteous without 
“compare ; 

The virgin’s virtues might adorn many a lady 


fair. 


Three kings of might and power had the maid- 
en in their care, — 

King Giinther and King Ghernot (champions 
bold they were), 

And Ghiseler the young, a chosen, peerless 
blade : 

The lady was their sister, and much they loved 
the maid. 


These lords were mild and gentle, born of the 
noblest blood ; 

Unmatched for power and strength were the 
heroes good: 

Their realm was Burgundy, a realm of mickle 
might ; 

Since then, in the land of Etzel, dauntless did 
they fight. 


At Worms, upon the Rhine, dwelt they with 
their meiny bold ; 

Many champions served them, of countries 
manifold, 

With praise and honor nobly, even to their 
latest day, 

When, by the hate of two noble dames, dead 
on the ground they lay. 


Bold were the kings, and noble, as I before 
have said ; 

Of virtues high and matchless, and served by 
many a blade ; 

By the best of all the champions whose deeds 
were ever sung; 

Of trust and truth withouten fail ; hardy, bold, 
and strong. 


There was Hagen of Tronek, and Dankwart, 
Hagen’s brother 

(For swiftness was he famed), with heroes 
many other ; 

Ortwin of Metz, with Eckewart and Ghere, 
two margraves they ; 

And Folker of Alsace ; no braver was in his day. 


Rumolt was caterer to the king; a chosen 
knight was he; 

Sir Sindold and Sir Hunold bore them full 
manfully ; 

In court and in the presence they served the 
princes three, 

With many other knights ; bolder none might be. 


Dankwart was the marshal; his nephew Orte- 
win 

Was sewer to the king; 
win: 

Sindold held the cup the royal prince before : 

Chamberlain was Hunold: braver knights ne’er 
hatiberk bore. 


much honor did he 


Of the court’s gay splendor, of all the cham- 
pions free, 

Of their high and knightly worth, and of the 
chivalry, 

Which still they held in honor to their latest 
day, 

No minstrel, in his song, could rightly sing or 
say. 


One night the Queen Chrimhild dreamed her, 
as she lay, 

How she had trained and nourished a falcon 
wild and gay, 

When suddenly two eagles fierce the gentle 
hawk have slain: 

Never, in this world, felt she such bitter pain. 


To her mother, Dame Ute, she told her dream 
with fear : 

Full mournfully she answered to what the 
maid did spier : 

“The falcon whom you nourished, a noble 
knight is he; 

God take him to his ward! thou must lose him 
suddenly.” 


‘What speak you of the knight? dearest moth- 
er, say : 

Without the love of champion, to my dying day, 

Ever thus fair will I remain, nor take a wedded 
fere, 

To gain such’ pain and sorrow, though the 
knight were without peer.” 


| | 
ee ee ‘ 


es 


en we eer ee 


| 


“¢ Speak thou not too rashly,” her mother spake 
again ; 

“If ever in this world thou heartfelt joy wilt 
gain, 

Maiden must thou be no more; leman must 
thou have : 

God will grant thee for thy mate some gentle 
knight, and brave.” 


“QO, leave thy words, lady mother, nor speak 
of wedded mate! 
Full many a gentle maiden has found the truth 


too late ; 
Still has their fondest love ended with’ woe and 
ain : 
Virgin will I ever be, nor the love of leman 
gain.” 


In virtues high and noble that gentle maiden 
dwelt 

Full many a night and day, nor love for leman 
felt ; 

To never a knight or champion would she 
plight her truth, 

Till she was gained for wedded fere by a right 
noble youth. 


That youth he was the falcon she in her dream 
beheld, 

Who by the two fierce eagles dead to the 
ground was felled: 

But since right dreadful vengeance she took 
upon his foen ; 

For the death of that bold hero died full many 
a mother’s son. 


—— 


CHRIMHILD. 


Anp now the beauteous lady, like the rosy 
morn, 

Dispersed the misty clouds; and he, who long 
had borne 

In his heart the maiden, banished pain and 
care, 

As now before his eyes stood the glorious maid- 
en fair. 


From her broidered garment glittered many a 


em, 
And upon her lovely cheek the rosy red did 
gleam : 
Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady 
bright 


Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before 
his sight. 


And as the moon, at night, stands high the stars 
among, 

And moves the murky clouds above, with lustre 
bright and strong ; 

So stood before her maidens the maid without 
compare : 

Higher swelled the courage of many a cham- 
pion there. 


ioe ces tba ke tintin nn Se ea ei Seiten St A ra 


| 224 GERMAN POETRY. 


RE yah art weal se ALE Ste Leet ak, Nee ie es a ea 


And full of love and beauty stood the child of 
Siegelind, ; 

As if upon the parchment 
designed : 

He gained the prize of beauty from all the 
knightly train ; 

They swore that lady never a lovelier mate 
could gain. 


by master’s hand 


—- 


SIEGFRIED AT THE FOUNTAIN. 


In gorgeous guise the hero did to the fountain 
ride : 

Down unto his spurs his sword hung by his 
side ; 

His weighty spear was broad, of mighty length, 
and strong ; 

A horn, of the gold so red, o’er the champion’s 
shoulder hung. 


Of fairer hunting garments ne’er heard | say 


before : 

A coat of the black velvet the noble hero 
wore ; 

His hat was of the sable, full richly was it 
dight ; 


Ho, with what gorgeous belts was hung his 
quiver bright! 


A fleece of the panther wild about the shafts 
was rolled ; 

A bow of weight and strength bore the hunts- 
man bold : 

No hero on this middle earth, but Sir Siegfried, 
I avow, 

Without some engine quaint, could draw the 
mighty bow. 


His garment fair was made of the savage lynx’s 


hide ; 

With gold the fur was sprinkled richly on ev- 
ery side ; 

There many a golden leaf: glittered right gor- 
geously, 


And shone with brightest splendor round the 
huntsman bold and free. 


And by his side hung Balmung, that sword of 
mickle might ; | 

When in the field Sir Siegfried struck on the | 
helmets bright, 

Not the truest metal the noble blade with- 


stood : 
Thus right gloriously rode the huntsman good. 


If right I shall arede the champion’s hunting 
guise, 

Well was stored his quiver with shafts of won- 
drous size 3 

More than a span in breadth were the heads of 
might and main : 

Whom with those arrows sharp he pierced, 

quickly was he slain. 


— 


HAGEN AT THE DANUBE. 


Hacen of Tronek rode before the noble host, 

Guiding the Niblung knights, their leader and 
their boast : 

Now from his horse the champion leaped upon 
the ground ; 

Full soon unto an oak the courser has he bound. 


The ferryman he sought by the river far and 
wide : : 

He heard the water bullering closely by his 
side : 

In a fountain fair, sage women he espied, 

Their lovely bodies bathing all in the cooling 
tide. 


And when he saw the mermaids, he sped him 
silently ; 

But soon they heard his footsteps, and quickly 
did they hie, 

Glad and joyful in their hearts, that they ’scaped 
the hero’s arm: 

From the ground he took their garments, did 
them none other harm. 


Up and spake a mermaid, Hildburg was she 
hight : 

‘‘ Noble hero Hagen, your fate will I rede aright, 

At King Etzel’s court what adventures ye shall 
have, 

If back thou give our garments, thou champion 
bold and brave.” 


Like birds they flew before him upon the wa- 
tery flood, 

And as they flew, the mermaid’s form thought 
him so fair and good, 

That he believed full well what of his fate she 
spoke ; 

But for the hero’s boldness she thought to be 
awroke. 

‘¢ Well may ye ride,’’ she said, ‘to the rich 
King Etzel’s court ; 

I pledge my head in troth, that in more royal 
sort 

Heroes never were received in countries far 
and near, 

Nor with greater honors; then hie ye without 
fear.” 


Glad of their speech was Hagen, right joyous 
in his heart: 

He gave them back their garments, and sped 
him to depart: 

But when their bodies they had dight in that 
full wondrous guise, 

Rightly the journey to the Huns told the women 
wise. 


Then spake the other mermaid, Sighlind was 
her name: 
“J will warn thee, son of Aldrian, Hagen, thou 
knight of fame ; 
29 


THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 


For the garments fair, my sister loudly did she lie: 
Foully must ye all be shent, if to the Huns ye | 
hie. 


“Turn thee back, Sir Hagen, back unto the 
Rhine, 

Nor ride ye to the Huns with those bold feres 
of thine ; 

Ye are trained unto your death into King Et- 
zel’s land: 

All who ride to Hungary their death may they 


not withstand.’ 


Up and spake Sir Hagen, — “ Foully dost thou 
lie: 

How might it come to pass, when to the Huns 
we hie, 

That I, and all our champions bold, should to 
the death be dight?”’ 

The Niblung knights’ adventures they told un- 
to the knight. 


Lady Hildburg spoke:—* Turn ye back to 
_ Burgundy: 
None will return from Etzel, of all your knights 
so free ; 
None but the chaplain of the king; your cruel 
fate to tell, 
Back to Lady Brunhild comes he safe and well.’ 


Fiercely spake Sir Hagen to that prophetic 
maid, — 

‘Never to King Gunther your tidings shall be 
said, 

How he and all his champions must die at Et- 
zel’s court. 

How may we pass the Danube? ladies sage, 
report.” 


“Tf yet thou wilt not turn back to Burgundy, 

Speed ye up the river’s edge, where thou a 
house wilt see ; 

There dwells a ferryman bold; no other may’st 
thou find: 

But speak him fair and courteously, and bear 
my saw in mind. 


“He will not bring you over, for savage is his 
mood, 
If angrily ye call him, with wrathful words, 
and lewd: 
Give him the gold and silver, if he guides you 
o’er the flood : 
Ghelfrat of Bavaria serves the champion good. 


“¢ Tf he will not pass the river, call o’er the flood 
aloud, 

That your name is Amelrich: he was a hero 
proud, 

Who for wrath and enmity left Bavaria’s land: 

Soon will he ferry over from the further strand.” 


Hagen then dissped him from the mermaids 
wise : 

The champion said no more, but bowed in cour- 
teous guise : 


He hied him down the river, and on the further 
side 

The house of that proud ferryman quickly has 
he spied. 


Loud and oft Sir Hagen shouted o’er the flood: 

“¢Now fetch me over speedily,” so spake the 
hero good : 

“© A bracelet of the rich red gold will I give 
thee to thy meed : 

To cross the swelling Danube full mickle have 
I need.” 


Rich and right proud of mood was that ferryman 
bold ; 

Full seldom would he serve for silver or for 
gold: 

His servants and his hinds haughty of mind they 
were. 

Alone the knight of Tronek stood in wrath and 
care. 


With wondrous force he shouted, that, with the 
dreadful sound, 

Up and down the river did the waves and rocks 
rebound : 

« Fetch ye over Sir Amelrich, soon and speedily, 

Who left Bavaria’s land for wrath and enmity.” 


A weighty bracglet on his sword the hero held 
full soon, 

That to the sun the gold so red fair and brightly 
shone : 

He bade him bring him over to the noble Ghel- 
frat’s land : 

Speedily the ferryman took the rudder in his 
hand. 


O’er the swelling Danube rowed he speedily ; 

But when his uncle Amelrich in the boat he 
did not see, 

Fearful grew his wrath, to Hagen loud he 
spake, — 

«¢Leave the boat, thou champion, or thy bold- 
ness will I wreak.” 


Up he heaved the rudder, broad, and of mickle 
weight, 

And on the hero Hagen he struck with main 
and might; 

In the ship he felled him down upon his knee: 

Never such fierce ferryman did the knight of 
Tronek see. 


He seized asturdy oar, right wrathful was his 
mood ; 

Upon the glittering helmet he struck the cham- 
pion good, 

That o’er his head he broke the oar with all his 
might : 

But for that blow the ferryman soon to the 
death was dight. 


Up started hero Hagen, unsheathed his trusty 
blade, 

Grasped it strongly in his hand, and off he 
struck his head : 


G RY. | 


ERMAN POET 


Ce ee ee ae ee eee eee ocr e tree ee eee a ee eee eee oc ag earch eat ar yet RT PION 


Loudly did he shout, as he threw it on the 
ground ; ) 

Glad were the knights of Burgundy when they 
heard his voice resound. 


HAGEN AND VOLKER THE FIDDLER. 


’"T was then the hero Hagen across his lap he 
laid, 

Glittering to the sun, a broad and weighty blade ; 

In the hilt a jasper stone, greener than the grass: 

Well knew the Lady Chrimhild that Siegfried’s 


sword it was. 


When she beheld sword Balmung, woe and 
sorrow did she feel : 

The hilt was of the precious gold, the blade 
of shining steel : 

It minded her of all her woes: Chrimhild to 
weep began : . . 
Well, I ween, Sir Hagen in her scorn the sword 

had drawn. 


Volker, knight of courage bold, by his side sat he : 

A sharp and mighty fiddlestick held the hero 
fred ; 

Much like a glittering sword it was; sharp, and 
broad, and long : 

Fierce, without all fear, sat there the champions 
strong. 


Before the palace door Volker sat him ona 
stone ; 

Bolder and more knight-like fiddler ne’er shone 
the sun upon : 

Sweetly from his strings resounded many a lay ; 

And many thanks the heroes to the knight of 
fame did say. 


At first his tones resounded loudly the hall 
around ; 

The champion’s strength and art was heard in 
every sound: 

But sweeter lays, and softer, the hero now began, 

That gently closed his eyes full many a way- 
tired man. 


DEATH OF GUNTHER, HAGEN, AND CHRIMHILD. 


“¢'Trren I'll bring it to an end,” spake the noble 
Siegfried’s wife. 
Grimly she bade her meiny take King Ginther’s 


life. 

Off they struck his head ; she grasped it by the 
hair : 

To the woful kemp of Tronek the bloody head 
she bare. 


When the sorrowing hero his master’s head did 
see 

Thus to Lady Chrimhild spake he wrathfully : 

“Thou hast brought it to an end, and quenched 
thy bloody thirst ; 

All thy savage murders I prophesied at first. 


fara’ aia soon ESEanmnaaetve=rvrrPooreroeteemearmeeeet eee eee CEO Lene 


HALB SUTER. 


“The noble king of Burgundy lies weltering in 
his blood, 

With Ghiseler and Volker, Dankwart and 
Ghernot good. 

Where was sunk the Niblung treasure knows 
none but God and I: 

Never, thou fiend-like woman, that treasure 
shalt thou nigh.” 

“Foully hast thou spoken,”’ 
with eager word ; 

“But still T hold in my right hand Balmung, 
that noble sword, 

That bore my Siegfried dear, when by your 
treacherous deed 

Basely he was, murdered; nor shall you the 
better speed.”’ 


thus she spake 


From out the sheath she drew that blade so 
good and true ; 

She meant the noble champion with his life the 
deed should rue: 

Up she heaved the falchion, and off she struck 
his head. 

Loudly mourned King Etzel, when he saw the 
hero dead. 


He wept and mourned aloud: “O, woe! by 
woman’s hand 

Lies low the boldest champion, the noblest in 
the land, 

Who ever shield and trusty sword to the bloody 
combat bore ! 

Though he was my fiercest foe, I shall mourn 
him evermore.” 


Up and spake old Hildebrand,—‘+Thus she 
shall not speed ; 

She has dared to strike the champion dead, and 
it’s I will ’quite the deed: 


227 


Full oft he wrought me wrong, oft I felt his 
direful wrath ; 

But bloody vengeance will I have for the noble 
hero’s death.”’ 


Wrathfully Sir Hildebrand to Queen Chrimhild 
he hied : 

Grimly he struck his falchion all through the 
lady’s side: 

In sooth she stood aghast, when she viewed 
the hero’s blade : 

What might her cries avail her? On the ground 
the queen fell dead. 


There bled full many a champion, slaughtered 
on that day ; 

Among them Lady Chrimhild, cut in pieces, 
lay. 

Dietrich and King Etzel began to weep and 
mourn 

For their kemps and for their kindred who 
there their lives had lorn. 


Men of strength and honor weltering lay that 
morrow : 

All the knights and vassals had mickle pain 
and sorrow, 

King Etzel’s merry feast was done, but with 
mourning did it end: 

Thus evermore does Love with pain and sor- 
row send. 


What sithence there befell I cannot sing or 


say, — 
Heathens bold and Christians full sorely wept 
that day, 


With many a swain and lady, and many maid- 
ens young, — 

Here ends the tale adventurous, hight the Ni- 
blung song. 


THIRD, PERTOD.—CEN TURES XIV. 5 XV. 


HALB SUTER. 


Hap Suter was a native of Lucerne. Noth- 
ing further is known of his life. The song of 
“The Battle of Sempach ” was composed, prob- 
ably, not far from the date of the event, 1386. 
It was preserved in Tsschudi’s ‘“ Chronicle,”’ 
from which it has been several times repub- 
lished. 


THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH. 


"T was when among our linden-trees 
The bees had housed in swarms 


Then looked we down to Willisow, 
The land was all in flame ; 

We knew the Archduke Leopold 
With all his army came. 


The Austrian nobles made their vow, 
So hot their heart and bold, 

‘On Switzer carles we”ll trample now, 
And slay both young and old.” 


With clarion loud, and banner proud, 
From Zurich on the lake, 


i 


(And gray-haired peasants say that these In martial pomp and fair array, 
Betoken foreign arms), — Their onward march they make. 


ec inte Nt Nt AR EES A RR PGA AA OO 
ur ESI REINS VETS = SIS SSID ES 


«« Now list, ye lowland nobles all, — 
Ye seek the mountain strand, 

Nor wot ye what shall be your lot 
In such a dangerous land. 


“‘T rede ye, shrive ye of your sins, 
Before ye farther go ; 

A skirmish in Helvetian hills 
May send your souls to woe.”’ 

«¢ But where now shall we find a priest 
Our shrift that he may hear? ”’ 

“©The Switzer priest! has ta’en the field, 
He deals a penance drear. 


“ Right heavily upon your head 
He ’Il lay his hand of steel ; 

And with his trusty partisan 
Your absolution deal.” 


"T’ was on a Monday morning then, 
The corn was steeped in dew, 
And merry maids had sickles ta’en, 

When the host to Sempach drew. 


The stalwart men of fair Lucerne 
Together have they joined ; 

The pith and core of manhood stern, 
Was none cast looks behind. 


It was the lord of Hare-castle, 
And to the Duke he said, 

« Yon little band of brethren true 
Will meet us undismayed.” 


“© Hare-castle, thou heart of hare!” 
Fierce Oxenstern replied. 

“Shalt see, then, how the game will fare,” 
The taunted knight replied. 


There was lacing then of helmets bright, 
And closing ranks amain ; 
The peaks they hewed from their boot- 
points 
Might well-nigh load a wain.* 


/ 


And thus they to each other said, 
‘Yon handful down to hew 

Will be no boastful tale to tell, 
The peasants are so few.” \ 


The gallant Swiss Confederates there 
They prayed to God aloud, 

And he displayed his rainbow fair 
Against a swarthy cloud. 


1 All the Swiss clergy who were able to bear arms fought 
in this patriotic war. 

2 This seems to allude to the preposterous fashion, dur- 
ing the Middle Ages, of wearing boots with the points or 
peaks turned upwards, and so long, that in some cases they 
were fastened to the knees of the wearer with small chains. 
When they alighted to fight upon foot, it would seem that 
the Austrian gentlemen found it necessary to cut off these 
peaks, that they might move with the necessary activity. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Then heart and pulse throbbed more and 
more 
With courage firm and high, 
And down the good Confederates bore 
On the Austrian chivalry. 


The Austrian Lion? ’gan to growl, 

And toss his mane and tail ; 
And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt 
* Went whistling forth like hail. 


Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, 
The game was nothing sweet ; 

The boughs of many a stately tree 
Lay shivered at their feet. 


The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, 
So close their spears they laid; 

It chafed the gallant Winkelreid, 
Who to his comrades said, — 


“‘] have a virtuous wife at home, 
A wife and infant son ; 

I leave them to my country’s care, — 
This field shall soon be won. 


“¢These nobles lay their spears right thick, 
And keep full firm array ; 

Yet shall my charge their order break, 
And make my brethren way.” 


He rushed against the Austrian band, 
In desperate career, 

And with his body, breast, and hand, 
Bore down each hostile spear. 


Four lances splintered on his crest, 
Six shivered in his side ; 

Still on the serried files he pressed, — 
He broke their ranks, and died. 


This patriot’s self-devoted deed 
First tamed the Lion’s mood, 
And the four forest cantons freed 
From thraldom by his blood. 


Right where his charge had made a lane, 
His valiant comrades burst, 

With sword, and axe, and partisan, 
And hack, and stab, and thrust. 


The daunted Lion ’gan to whine, 
And granted ground amain; 

The Mountain Bull? he bent his brows, 
And gored his sides again. 

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, 
At Sempach, in the flight; 

The cloister vaults at Konigsfield 
Hold many an Austrian knight. 


EY ea See fe gee eremene ey Brae Pe ee EY 


3 A pun on the Archduke’s name, Leopold. 
4 A pun on the wrus, or wild-bull, which gives name to 
the canton of Uri. 


BONER. 229 


It was the Archduke Leopold, 
So lordly would he ride, 

But he came against the Switzer churls, 
And they slew him in his pride. 


The heifer said unto the bull, 
*¢ And shall. I not complain ? 

There came a foreign nobleman 
To milk me on the plain. 


‘One thrust of thine outrageous horn 
Has galled the knight so sore, 

That to the churchyard he is borne, 
To range our glens no more.” 


An Austrian noble left the stour, 
And fast the flight ’gan take ; 

And he arrived in luckless hour 
At Sempach on the lake. 


He and his squire a fisher called 
(His name was Hans von Rot), 

*‘ For love, or meed, or charity, 
Receive us in thy boat!” 


Their anxious call the fisher heard, 
And, glad the meed to win, 

His shallop to the shore he steered, 
And took the fliers in. 


And while against the tide and wind 
Haus stoutly rowed his way, 

The noble to his follower signed 
He should the boatman slay. 


The fisher’s back was to them turned, 
The squire his dagger drew, 

Hans saw his shadow in the lake, 
The boat he overthrew. 


He whelmed the boat, and, as they strove, 


He stunned them with his oar: 
‘“¢ Now drink ye deep, my gentle Sirs, 
You ’ll ne’er stab boatman more. 


‘“‘'T'wo gilded fishes in the lake 
This morning have I caught; 

Their silver scales may much avail, 
Their carrion flesh is naught.”’ 


It was a messenger of woe 
Has sought the Austrian land: 
“ Ah, gracious lady! evil news! 
My lord lies on the strand. 


 « At Sempach, on the battle-field, 


His bloody corpse lies there.”’ 
“© Ah, gracious God!” the lady cried, 
“© What tidings of despair !”’ 


Now would you know the minstrel wight 
Who sings of strife so stern? 

Albert the Souter is he hight, 
A burgher of Lucerne. 


A merry man was he, I wot, 
The night he made the lay, 
Returning from the bloody spot, 
Where God had judged the day. 


—— 


ULRICH BONER. 


Urricn Boner appears to have been a 
preaching monk in the first part of the four- 
teenth century, and is hence called a Knight of 
God. He was born at Berne, in Switzerland, 
and enjoyed the patronage of Johann von Rink- 
enberg, a knight and a Minnesinger, to whom 
he dedicated his collection of fables, called the 
‘« Kdelstein.”’ This work early attained a wide 
circulation, and has been successively repub- 
lished by Bodmer (Zirich, 1757-58), and by 
Benecke (Berlin, 1816-18). The last is the 
most valuable edition. 


THE FROG AND THE STEER. 


OF HIM THAT STRIVETH AFTER MORE HONOR THAN HE 
SHOULD, 


A Frroe with frogling by his side 

Came hopping through the plain, one tide: 
There he an ox at grass did spy ; 

Much angered was the frog thereby ; 

He said: “ Lord God, what was my sin, 
Thou madest me so small and thin? 
Likewise I have no handsome feature, 
And all dishonored is my nature, 

To other creatures far and near, 

For instance, this same grazing steer.”’ 
The frog would fain with bullock cope, 
Gan brisk outblow himself in hope. 
Then spake his frogling: “ Father o’ me, 
It boots not, let thy blowing be ; 

Thy nature hath forbid this battle, 

Thou canst not vie with the black-cattle. 
Nathless let be the frog would not, 

Such prideful notion had he got; 

Again to blow right sore ’gan he, 

And said: ‘ Like ox could I but be 

In size, within this world there were 

No frog so glad, to thee I swear.” 

The son spake: ‘Father, me is woe 
Thou shouldst torment thy body so; 

I fear thou art to lose thy life ; 

Come, follow me, and leave this strife : 
Good father, take advice of me, 

And let thy boastful blowing be.” 

Frog said: ‘* Thou need’st not beck and nod, 
I will not do ’t, so help me God ! 

Big as this ox is, I must turn, 

Mine honor now it doth concern.” 

He blew himself, and burst in twain: 
Such of that blowing was his gain. 


The like hath oft been seen of such 
Who grasp at honor overmuch ; 
They must with none at all be doing, 
But sink full soon and come to ruin. 


rs 


ee 


\ 


230 


He, that, with wind of pride accursed, 
Much puffs himself, will surely burst; , 
He men miswishes and misjudges, 
Inferiors scorns, superiors grudges, 

Of all his equals is a hater, 

Much grieved he is at any better: 
Wherefore it were a sentence wise, 
Were his whole body set with eyes, 
Who envy hath, to see so well 

What lucky hap each man befell, 
That so he filled were with fury, 

And burst asunder in a hurry ; 

And so full soon betid him this 
Which to the frog betided is. 


———g——— 


VEIT WEBER. 


Veit Weser lived in the latter half of the 
fifteenth century. He belonged to Freyburg, in 
the Brisgau, and is known as the author of five 
| battle-songs, preserved in Diebold Schilling’s 
| «Chronicle of the Burgundian Wars’; the 
best of them all is the ballad on the battle of 
| Murten (Morat). Nothing further is known of 
his life, except that he alludes to himself in his 
poems, as being “well known at Fryburg in 
|| Brisgowe,”’ and as one “ who passed his life in 
song,’ because he could not help it, and’ says 
| that he was present in the fight of Murten. 
| The battie of Murten (Morat), one of the 
| most remarkable in the Burgundian wars, took 
| place on the 10th of June, 1476. Charles the 
Bold, duke of Burgundy, after the battle of 
Granson, assaulted Murten with an army of 
40,000 men. This town was fortified with walls, 
towers, and a double trench. On one side lay 
a wooded and hilly country ; on the other, a lake 
of considerable depth, which, having formerly 
been wider, was now bordered, here and there, 
by deep morasses. Towards Wifflisburg stretch- 
ed a broad harvest field. The town itself was 
surrounded on all sides, except towards the lake, 
and a communication with the confederates was 
opened in the night, by means of a small boat. 
The storm was begun by Count Romont; the 
Burgundians, having thrown down a part of the 
wall, rushed forward with a shout of victory ; 


who served the heavy artillery were shot from 
| the city. The loss of seven hundred men, in 
the first onset, disheartened the besiegers, and 
the breach in the wall was repaired at night. 
The Swiss soon after were succoured by their 
|| confederates, and by René, the duke of Lor- 
| raine. The confederates attacked the army 
of the duke, though much inferior to him in 
numbers; the garrison of Murten joined in the 
assault, and the victory was complete. The 
field of battle was covered with the dead. Sev- 
{ eral thousand cuirassiers and Lombards, in de- 
| spair, attempted to wade through the lake, 
!| which was covered far out with reeds. The 
|) marshy bottom sank under the weight of men 


GERMAN POETRY. S 


: a ese tr rssicon Senne ARTO ne eT ee ee ee 


they were vigorously repulsed, and the gunners |. 


and horses, and many perished; others were 
shot; and one cuirassier alone saved his life. 
Between the Burgundian camp and Wifflisburg 
fifteen thousand lay dead. Some of the sur- 
vivors hid themselves until night in the forest; 
many of the camp followers took refuge in the 
ovens of the neighbouring villages. To explain 
this curious fact, it should be mentioned that the 
ovens in Switzerland are sometimes built in the - 
open air, outside the houses, and large enough to 
hold several persons. The duke himself escaped 
with a few horsemen, by riding hard, chiefly at 
night, until he reached the Lake of Geneva. 
The camp was found abundantly supplied with 
provisions. Splendid armor, gorgeous tents, 
costly dresses and trappings, the military chest, 
and the superbly furnished quarters of Charles, 
fell into the hands of the Swiss. 

For a graphic description of this battle, see 
Johann von Miiller’s ‘“* Geschichte Schweizer- 
ischer Eidgenossenschaft,”’ Part V., ch. 1. 

The folowing ballad is translated from the 
modernized text, which is found in the Ger- 
man collections. In some passages, however, 
the expressions of the old German original of 
Veit Weber, on account of their more direct 
and descriptive character, have been restored. 


THE BATTLE OF MURTEN. 


Tue tidings flew from land to land, 
At Murten lies Burgund ; 

And all make haste, for fatherland, 
To battle with Burgund. 


In the field before a woodland green, 
Shouted the squire and knight; 
Loud shouted René of Lorraine, 
‘© We ’Il forward to the fight!” 


The leaders held but short debate ; 
Too long it still appeared ; — 

“© Ah, God! when ends the long debate? 
Are they perchance afeard ? 


«¢ Not idle stands in heaven high 
The sun in his tent of blue; 

We laggards let the hours go by! 
When shall we hack and hew?” 


Fearfully roared Carl’s cannonade ; 
We cared not what befell; 

We were not in the heat dismayed, 
If this or that man fell. 


Lightens in circles wide the sword, 
Draws back the mighty spear ; 

Thirsted for blood the good broadsword, 
Blood drank the mighty spear. 


Short time the foemen bore the fray, 
Soldier and champion fled, 

And the broad field of battle lay 
Knee-deep with spears o’erspread. 


Some in the forest, some the brake, 
To hide from the sunlight sought ; 

Many sprang headlong into the lake, 
Although they thirsted not, 


sade 


| ANONYMOUS POEMS. 


Up to the chin they waded in; 
Like ducks swam here and there ; 
As they a flock of ducks had been, 
We shot them in the mere. 


After them on the lake we sail, 
With oars we smote them dead, 
And piteously we heard them wail; 
The green lake turned to red. 


Up on the trees clomb many high, 
We shot them there like crows ; 
Their feathers helped them not to fly, 

No wind to waft them blows. 


The battle raged two leagues around, 
And many foemen lay 

All hacked and hewed upon the ground, 
When sunset closed the day ; 

And they who yet alive were found 
Thanks to the night did pay. 


A camp like any market-place 
Fell to the Switzer’s hand ; 


Carl made the beggars rich apace 
In needy Switzerland. 


The game of chess is a kingly play ; — 
"T is a Leaguer now that tries ; 

He took from the king his pawns away ; 
His flank unguarded lies. 


His castles were of little use, 
His knights were in a strait ; 
Turn him whatever way he choose, 
There threatens him checkmate. 


Veit Weber had his hand on sword, 
Who did this rhyme indite : 

Till evening mowed he with the sword ; 
He sang the stour at night. 


He swung the bow, he swung the sword, 
Fiddler and fighter true, 
Champion of lady and of lord, 
Dancer and prelate too. 
Amen. 


ANONYMOUS POEMS OF UNCERTAIN DATE. 


SONG OF HILDEBRAND. 


“Ir ’s I will speed me far away,” cried Master 
Hildebrand ; 

*¢ Who will be my trusty gyide to Bern, in the 
Lombard land? 

I have not passed the weary road since many a 
day, I ween; 

For more than two-and-thirty years Dame Utta 
have I not seen.” 


Up and spake Duke Amelung, — “If thou wilt 
ride to Bern, 

Who will meet thee on the heath? 
right brave and stern: 

Who will meet thee on the march?! Alebrand 
the young: 

Though with twelve of the boldest knights thou 
pass, thou must fight that hero strong.” 


A youth 


‘And if he break a lance with me in his high 
and fiery mood, 

I will hew asunder his buckler green, that fast 
shall stream his blood; 

Asunder his hauberk will I hew with a slanting 
blow of might: 

I ween for a year to his mother he will plain 
him of the fight.” 


“Nay,” cried Dietrich, lord of Bern, “battle 
shalt thou not wage 

Against the youthful Alebrand, for in sooth I 
love the page : 


1 Borders, frontier. 


I rede thee, knight, to do my will, and ask him 
courteously 

To let thee pass along in peace, for the love of 
me. 


Whep he rode through the garden of roses, right 
on the march of Bern, 

He came in pain and heavy woe with a hero 
young and stern: 

Against him rushed, with couchant lance, a 
hero brave and bold: 

*¢ What seek’st thou in my father’s land? Say 
on, thou champion old. 


‘©A bruny? clear and bright thou bear’st, like 
sons of mighty kings ; 

I ween thou deem’st to strike me blind with 
thy hauberk’s glittering rings. 

Bide at home in quiet, I rede thee, man of age ; 

Sit thee down by thy good fire-side.’’ — Loud 
laughed the hero sage. 


*¢ And why should I in quiet be, and sit by the 
chimney-side ? 

I have pledged me, night and day, to wander 
far and wide ; 

To wander o’er the world, and fight, until my 
latest day : 

I tell thee, young and boasting knight, for that 
my beard grows gray.” 


“Tt ’s I will pull thy beard of gray, I tell thee, 
ancient man, 

That all adown thy furrowed cheeks the purple 
blood shall run : 


2 Cuirass. 


Thy hauberk and thy buckler green yield with- 
out further strife ; 

My willing captive must thou be, if thou wilt 
keep thy life.”’ 


‘© My hauberk and my buckler green renown 
and bread have gained, 

And well I trust in Christ on high in the stour 

my life to defend.”’ 

They left their speech, and rapidly drew out 

their falchions bright, 

And what the heroes bold desired they had in 
the bloody fight. 


I know not how Sir Alebrand dealt a heavy 
slanting blow, 

That the ancient knight astounded at his heart 
with pain and woe, 

And hastily he started back seven fathoms far, 
I ween, — 

“Say, did not a woman teach thee, young 
knight, that dint so keen?”’ 


“Foul shame it were, if women taught me to 
wield the brand : 

Many a gallant knight and squire dwell in my 
father’s land ; 

Many earls and knights of high renown in the 
court of my father dwell, 

And what I have not learnt as yet they can 
teach me right and well.” 


“He who will scour old kettles, black and foul 
his hands will be: 

Even so, young kemp, from the champion old 
will soon betide to thee ; 

And quickly shalt thou shrive thee upon the 
blooming heath, 

Or else, thou youthful hero, thou must graithe 
thee for thy death.”’ 


He caught him by the middle, where the young 
man weakest was, 

And heavily he cast him behind him, on the 
grass: 

*‘Now say to me, thou champion young, thy 
confessor will I be ; 

If thou art of the Wolfing race, thou shalt gain 
thy life from me.” 


“Thou speak’st to me of savage wolves that 
roam the woods about ; 

Of noble Grecian blood I came, of high-born 
champions stout ; 

My mother is Lady Utta, a duchess of main and 
might ; 


And Hildebrand, the ancient kemp, my dearest 
father hight.”’ 


“If Utta be thy mother, who rules o’er many a 
land, 

I am thy dearest father, the ancient Hilde- 
brand.” 

Soon has he doffed his helmet green; on his 
cheek he kissed the swain : 

“Praised be God! we are sound and safe, nor 
ever will battle again.”’ 


GERMAN POETRY. 


‘‘Father, dearest father mine, the wounds I 
dealt to thee, 

Gladly would I bear them thrice on my head, 
right joyfully.” 

“©, bide in quiet, my gentle son! my wounds 
will soon be well ; 

But, thanked be God in heaven! we now to- 
gether will dwell.” 


The fight began at the hour of none, they fought 
till the vesper-tide : ° 

Up rose the youthful Alebrand, and into Bern 
they ride : 

What bears he on his helmet? 
of gold ; 

And what on his right hand bears he? 
dearest father old. 


A little cross 


His 


He led him into his mother’s hall, set him 
highest at the board ; 

When he gave him meat and drink, his mother 
cried aloud, with angry word, 

“OQ son, my son, so dear to me! ’t is too much 
honor to place 

So high a captive champion, the highest at the 
deas.”’ 


‘Rest in quiet, my mother dear; let him sit at 
the table head : 

Upon the blooming heath so green he had well- 
nigh struck me dead. 

O, hearken, lady mother mine! captive shall 
he not be; 

It is my father, Old Hildebrand, that kemp so 
dear to thee.” 


* 


It was the Lady Utta, her heart was blithe and 
lad ; 

Out ne poured the purple wine, and drank to 
the ancient blade. 

What bore in his mouth Sir Hildebrand ? 
ring of the gold it was, 

And for his lady,,.Dame Utta, he has dropped it 
in the glass. 


A 


—_@—- 


THE NOBLE MORINGER. 


O, witt you hear a knightly tale of old Bohe- 
_ mian day ? 

It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed he 
lay ; 

He nidlecd and kissed his dearest dame, that 
was as sweet as May, 

And said, ‘‘ Now, lady of my heart, attend the 
words I say. 


“Tis I have vowed a pilgrimage unto a distant 
shrine, 

And I must seek Saint Thomas’ land, and leave 
the land that ’s mine ; 


3 The hour of none is three o’clock in the afternoon ; 
vesper-tide at six. 
1 Embraced. 


Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, so 
thou wilt pledge thy fay, 

That thou for my return wilt wait seven twelve- 
months and a day.” 


Then out and spoke that lady bright, sore 
troubled in her cheer, 

‘‘ Now tell me true, thou noble knight, what 
order tak’st thou here? 

And who shall lead thy vassal band, and hold 
thy lordly sway, 

And be thy lady’s guardian true, when thou art 
far away ?”’ 


Out spoke the noble Moringer, “ Of that have 
thou no care, 

There ’s many a valiant gentleman of me holds 
living fair : 

The trustiest shall rule my land, my vassals, and 
my state, 

And be a guardian tried and true to thee, my 
lovely mate. 


‘As Christian man, I need must keep the vow 
which I have plight: 

When I am far in foreign land, remember thy 
true knight ; 

And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for vain 
were sorrow now, 

But ae thy Moringer his leave, since God 

ath heard his vow.’ 


It was the noble Moringer from bed he made 
him boune, 

And met him there his chamberlain, with ewer 
and with gown: 

He flung the mantle on his back, ’t was furred 
with miniver, 

He dipped his hand in water cold, and bathed 
his forehead fair. 


“¢ Now hear,” he said, * Sir Chamberlain, true 
vassal art:thou mine, 

And such the trust that I repose in that proved 
worth of thine, 

For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, and 
lead my vassal train, 

And pledge thee for my lady’s faith till I return 
again.” 


The chamberlain was blunt and true, and stur- 
dily said he, 

*¢ Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and take 
this rede from me, — 

That woman’s faith ’s a brittle trust. — Seven 
twelve-months didst thou say ? 

Ill pledge me for no lady’s truth beyond the 
seventh fair day.” 


The noble baron turned him round, his heart 
was full of care, 

His gallant esquire stood him nigh, he was 
Marstetten’s heir, 

To whom he spoke right anxiously, “ Thou 
trusty squire to me, 

Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when I 


am o’er the sea? 
30 


Pea Rania hata 


ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
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sna 


233 


‘To watch and ward my castle strong, and to 
protect my land, 

And to the hunting or the host to lead my vas- 
sal band ; 

And pledge thee for my lady’s faith, till seven 
long years are gone, 

And guard her as Our Lady dear was guarded 
by Saint John?” 


Marstetten’s heir was kind and true, but fiery, 
hot, and young, 

And readily he answer made with too presump- 
tuous tongue : 

“My noble lord, cast care away, and on your 
journey wend, 

And trust this charge to me until your pilgrim- 
age have end. 


“Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall be 
truly tried, 

To guard your lands, and ward your towers, 
and with your vassals ride ; 

And for your lovely lady’s faith, so virtuous 
and so dear, 

Ill gage my head it knows no change, be ab- 
sent thirty year.” 


The noble Moringer took cheer when thus he 
heard him speak, 

And doubt forsook his troubled brow, and sor- 
row left his cheek ; 

A long adieu he bids to all,— hoists topsails 
and away, 

And wanders in Saint Thomas’ land seven 
twelve-months and a day. 


= 


It was the noble Moringer within an orchard 
slept, 

When on the baron’s slumbering sense a boding 
vision crept, 

And whispered in his ear a voice, “’T is time, 
Sir Knight, to wake ; 

Thy lady and thy heritage another master take. 


‘Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds 
another rein, 

And stoop them to another’s will thy gallant 
vassal train ; 

And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful once 
and fair, 

This night within thy father’s hall she weds 
Marstetten’s heir.”’ 


It is the noble Moringer starts up and tears his 
+ beard: 

‘QO, would that I had ne’er been born! what 
tidings have I heard ! 

To lose my lordship and my lands the less 
would be my care, 

But, God ! that e’er a squire untrue should wed 
my lady fair ! 


*¢O good Saint Thomas, hear!”’ he prayed, *“* my 
patron saint art thou ! 

A traitor robs me of my land, even while I pay 

my vow ; 

T2 


234 . GERMAN POETRY. 


My wife he brings to infamy that was so pure 
of name, 

And I am far in foreign land, and must endure 
the shame.” 


It was the good Saint Thomas then who heard 
his pilgrim’s prayer, 

And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it o’er- 
powered his care ; 

He waked in fair Bohemian land, outstretched 
beside a rill, 

High on the right a castle stood, low on the left 
a mill. 


The Moringer he started up as one from spell 
unbound, 

And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed wildly 
all around : 

«¢T know my father’s ancient towers, the mill, 
the stream I know ; 

Now blessed be my patron saint who cheered 
his pilgrim’s woe !”’ 

He leant upon his pilgrim’s staff, and to the 
mill he drew ; 

So altered was his goodly form that none their 
master knew : 

The baron to the miller said, ‘¢ Good friend, for 
charity, 

Tell a poor palmer, in your land what tidings 
may there be?” 


The miller answered him again, ** He knew of 
little news, 

Save that the lady of the land did a new bride- 
groom choose : 

Her husband died: in distant land, such is the 
constant word ; 

His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a 
worthy lord. 


“Of him I held the little mill which wins me 
living free ; J 

God rest the baron in his grave, he still was 
kind to me! 

And when Saint Martin’s tide comes round, 
and millers take their toll, 

The priest that prays for Moringer shall have 
both cope and stole.” 


It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill 
\» began, 

And stood before the bolted gate a woe and 
weary man: 

*¢ Now help me, every saint in heaven that can 
compassion take, 

To gain the entrance of my hall this woful 
match to break!” 

His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad 
and slow, 

For heart and head, and voice and hand, were 
heavy all with woe ; 

And to the warder thus he spoke : 
thy lady say, 

A pilgrim from Saint Thomas’ land craves har- 
bour for a day. 


“Friend, to 


‘‘T ’ve wandered many a weary step, my 
strength is well-nigh done, 

And if she turn me from her gate, I'll see no 
morrow’s sun ; 

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas’ sake, a pil- 
grim’s bed and dole, 

And for the sake of Moringer’s, her once loved 
husband’s soul.” 


Jt was the stalwart warder then he came his 
dame before: 

‘© A pilgrim, worn and travel-toiled, stands at 
the castle-door, 

And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas’ sake, for 
harbour and for dole, 


And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble hus- 


band’s soul.’’ 


The lady’s gentle heart was moved: 
the gate,’ she said, 

“And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet 
and to bed ; 

And since he names my husband’s name, so 
that he lists to stay, 

These towers shall be his harbourage a twelve- 
month and a day.” 


“Do up 


It was the stalwart warder then undid the por- 
tal broad, 

It was the noble Moringer that o’er the thresh- 
old strode: 

*¢ And have thou thanks, kind Heaven,” he said, 
‘¢ though from a man of sin, 

That the true lord stands here once more his 
castle-gate within!” . 


Then up the halls paced Moringer, his ite was 
sad and slow; 

It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed shest 
lord to know: 

He set him on a lowly bench, oppressed with 
woe and wrong ; 

Short space he sat, but ne’er to him seemed 
little space so long. 


Now spent was day, and feasting o’er, and come 
was evening hour, 

The time was nigh when new-made brides re- 
tire to nuptial bower : 

‘Our castle’s wont,’ a bridesman said, “ hath 
been both firm and long, 

No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall 
chant a song.”’ 


Then spoke the youthful bridegroom, there as 
he sat by the bride : 
‘My merry minstrel folk,” 

shalm and harp aside ; 
Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the castle’s 
rule to hold, 
And well his guerdon ,will I pay with garment 
and with gold.” 


quoth he, “lay 


9 9 


‘¢ Chill flows the lay of frozen age,”’ ’t was thus 
the pilgrim sung, 
«Nor golden meed, nor garment gay, unlocks 


his heavy tongue : 


Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board 
as rich as thine, 

And by my side as fair a bride with all her 
charms was mine. 


“But time traced furrows on my face, and I 
grew silver-haired, 

For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she 
left this brow and beard ; 

Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life’s 
latest stage, 

And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of 
frozen age.”’ 


It was the noble lady there this woful lay that 
hears, 

And for the aged pilgrim’s grief her eye was 
dimmed with tears ; 

She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden beaker 
take, 

And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it for 
her sake. 


It was the noble Moringer that dropped amid 
the wine 

A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and so 
fine : 

Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you but 
the sooth, 

"T was with that very ring of gold he pledged 
his bridal truth. 


Then to the cupbearer he said, **Do me one 
kindly deed, 

Ayd should my better days return, full rich 
shall be thy meed ; 

Bear back the golden cup again to yonder bride 
SO gay, 

And crave her, of her courtesy, to pledge the 
palmer gray.” 


The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was the 
boon denied, 

The golden cup he took again, and bore it to 
the bride: 

“‘ Lady,” he said, “‘your reverend guest sends 
this, and bids me pray, 

That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the 
palmer gray.” 


The ring hath caught the lady’s eye, she views 
it close and near ; 

Then might you hear her shriek aloud, “‘ The 
Moringer is here!” 

Then. might you see her start from seat, while 
tears in torrents fell; 

But whether ’t was for joy or woe, the ladies 
best can tell. 


But loud she uttered thanks to Heaven, and 
every saintly power, 

That had returned the Moringer before the 
midnight hour ; 

And loud she tttered vow on vow, that never 
was there bride 

That had like her preserved her troth, or been 

so sorely tried. 


Sesinaseateatstensenioensindhatiasemanmemsoacemseneete ncemcemat ie eee ee TT 


ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
oe ERR ee ee cer Nr SLE OAT LY OER DC UROL RNS ERAT ED Le RC LORY LON OLE LOL A RU STE CDT: 


235 


“Yes, here I claim the praise,” she said, “ to 
constant matrons due, 

Who keep the troth that they have plight so 
steadfastly and true ; 

For count the term howe’er you will, so that 
you count aright, 

Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when 
bells toll twelve to-night.” 


It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion 
there he drew, 

He kneeled before the Moringer, and down his 
weapon threw : 

*¢ My oath and knightly faith are broke,” these 
were the words he said, 

“Then take, my liege, thy vassal’s sword, and 
take thy vassal’s head.”’ 


The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud 
did say, 

“He gathers wisdom that hath roamed seven 
twelvemonths and a day: 

My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 
speaks her sweet and fair ; 

I give her for the bride you lose, and name her 
for my heir. 


‘The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, 
the old bridegroom the old, 

Whose faith was kept till term and tide so 
punctually were told: 

But blessings on the warder kind that oped my 
castle-gate, 

For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day 
too late.’ 


THE LAY OF THE YOUNG COUNT. 


I stoop on a high mountain, 
And looked on the Rhine so wide; 
A little skiff came swimming, 
A little skiff came swimming, 
Wherein three knights did ride. 


And of these knights, the youngest 
He was the count his heir; 

He promised he would marry me, 

He promised he would marry me, 
Although so young he were. 


He took from off his finger 
A ring of gold so red: 
‘Thou fairest, finest, take it, 
My own heart’s dearest, take it, 
And wear it when I’m dead.” 


“What shall I do with the ringlet, 
If I dare not wear it before?” 
‘Say only thou hast found it, 
Say only thou hast found it, 
In the grass before the door.” 


— 


Dap ER pS RAE SEAS Ob CH ax nS i SAS Ah ANA Mop Rat 


GERMAN POETRY. 


i, 


*« Nay, why should I be lying? 
It would not behoove me well; 


-The young count he is my husband, 


The young count he is my husband, 
Much rather I would tell.” 


«“ Wert thou but richer, maiden, 
Hadst thou but a little gear, 
In sooth I then would take thee, 
In saoth J then would take thee, 
For then we equals were.” 


% And though I have not riches, 
Yet of honor I have some ; 
That honor I will keep it, 
That honor I will keep it, 
Until my equal come.” 


* But if there come no equal, 
What then wilt thou begin?” 
‘¢ Then I will seek a cloister, 
Then I will seek a cloister, 
To live as a nun therein.” 


’T was after three months’ time had passed, 


The count dreamed heavily 5 
As if his own heart’s dearest, 
As if his own heart’s dearest, 

In a cloister he did see. 


*« Arise, my groom, and hasten, 


Saddle mine and saddle thy steed; 


We ’Il ride o’er hill and valley, 
We ‘ll ride o’er hill and valley ; 
The maiden is worth all speed.” 


And when they came to the cloister, 
They gently knocked at the door: 

“Come out, thou fairest, thou fine, 

Come out, thou heart’s dearest mine, 


Come forth to thy lover once more! 2 


¢¢ But wherefore should I hasten 
To thee before the door ? 

My hair is clipped and veiled, 

My hair is clipped and veiled, 
Thou ’It have me never more.”’ 


The count with fright is silent, 
Sits down upon a stone ; 
The bitter tears he ’s weeping, 
The bitter tears he ’s weeping, 
Till life and joy are gone. 


With her snow-white hands the maiden 


She digs the count his grave ; 
From her dark-brown eyes so lovely, 
From her dark-brown eyes so lovely, 

The holy water she gave. 


Thus to all young lads ’t will happen, 
Who for riches covet sore ; 

Fair wives they all are wishing, 

Fair wives they all are wishing, 
But for gold and silver more. 


SONG OF THE THREE TAILORS. | 


| 


Once on a time three tailors there were, 
O dear, O dear, O dear! 
Once on a time three tailors there were, 
And a snail, in their fright, they mistook for a 
bear. 


O dear, O dear, O dear! 


And of him they had such a terrible sense, 
They hid themselves close behind a fence. 


*¢ Do you go first,’ the first one he said ; 
The next one he spake, *¢ I’m too much afraid.” 


The third he fain would speak also, 
And said, “‘ He ’1l eat us all up, I know.” 


And when now together they all came out, 
They seized their weapons all about. 


And as now they marched to the strife so sad, 
They all began to feel rather bad. 


But when on the foe they rushed outright, 
Then each one grew choke-full of fight. 


*¢ Come out here, come out, you devil’s brute ! 
If you want to have a good stitch in your suit.” 


The snail he stuck out his ears from within ; 
The tailors they trembled, —‘*’T is a dreadful 
thing!” 


And as the snail his shell did move, 
The tailors threw down their weapons forsooth. 


And when the snail crept out of his shell, 
The tailors they all ran away pell-mell. 


—4-— 


THE WANDERING LOVER. 


My love he is journeying far away, 

But I cannot tell why I’m so sad all the day ; 
Perhaps he is dead, and gone to his rest, 

And that is the reason my heart’s so oppressed. 


When I with my love to, the church did repair, 
False tongues at the door awaited us there ; 
The one it said this, and the other said that, 
And this is the reason my eyes are so wet. 


The thistles and thorns, they hurt very sore, 
But false, false tongues, they hurt far more ; 
And no fire on earth ever burns so hot 

As the secret love of which none doth wot. 


My heart’s dearest treasure, there ’s one thing 
I crave, 

That thou wilt stand by, when I’m laid in the 
grave, 

When in the cold grave my body they lay, 

Because I have loved thee so truly for aye! 


ST ES TT SS SST SD | 


SSS OOOO 


antl ana PRR TURUNEN PS NSE ATRESIA SSSI EDT ERE SI OE ETD STI RT IE SN ETA 
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THE CASTLE IN AUSTRIA. 


ee 


THERE lies a castle in Austria, 
Right goodly to behold, 

Walled up with marble stones so fair, 
With silver and with red gold. 


Therein lies captive a young boy, 
For life and death he lies bound, 

Full forty fathoms under the earth, 
"Midst vipers and snakes around. 


His father came from Rosenberg, 
Before the tower he went: 

«¢ My son, my dearest son, how hard 
Is thy imprisonment! ”’ 


““O father, dearest father mine, 
So hardly I am bound, 

Full forty fathoms under the earth, 
"Midst vipers and snakes around!” 


His father went before the lord : 
‘“‘ Let loose thy captive to me! 
I have at home three casks,of gold, 


And these for the boy I'll gi’e.” 


‘‘ Three casks of gold, they help you not, 
That boy, and he must die ! 

He wears round his neck a golden chain; 
Therein doth his ruin lie.’ 


‘¢ And if he thus wear a golden chain, 
He hath not stolen it; nay! 

A maiden good gave it to him; 
For true love, did she say.” 


They led the boy forth from the tower, 
And the sacrament took he: 

‘“‘ Help thou, rich Christ, from heaven high, 
It’s come to an end with me!” 


They led him to the scaffold place, 
Up the ladder he must go: 

‘¢O headsman, dearest headsman, do 
But a short respite allow !”’ 


«¢ A short respite I must not grant ; 
Thou wouldst escape and fly : 

Reach me a silken handkerchief 
Around his eyes to tie.” 


“O do not, do not bind mine eyes! 
I must look on the world so fine ; 

I see it to-day, then never more, 
With these weeping eyes of mine.” 


His father near the scaffold stood, 
And his heart, it almost rends : 
‘OQ son, O thou my dearest son, 


Thy death I will avenge!” 


““O father, dearest father mine! 
My death thou shalt not avenge, 

"T would bring to my soul but heavy pains; 
Let me die in innocence. 


“Tt is not for this life of mine, 
Nor for my body proud ; 

’T is but for my dear mother’s sake, 
At home she weeps aloud.” 


Not yet three days had passed away, 
When an angel from heaven came down: 

“‘ Take ye the boy from the scaffold away, 
Else the city shall sink under ground!” 


And not six months had passed away, 
Ere his death was avenged amain; 

And upwards of three hundred men 
For the boy’s life were slain. 


Who is it that hath made this lay, 
Hath sung it, and so on? 

That, in Vienna in Austria, 
Three maidens fair have done. 


——— 


THE DEAD BRIDEGROOM. 


THERE went a boy so stilly, 
To the window small went he: 

“ Art thou within, my fair sweetheart ? 
Rise up and open to me.” 


‘¢ We well may speak together, 
But I may not open to thee ; 

For I have plighted my faith to one, 
And want no other but he.” 


‘The one to whom thou ’rt plighted, 
Fair sweetheart, I am he; 

Reach me thy snow-white little hand, 
And then perhaps thou ’It see.”’ 


“ But nay ! thou smellest of the earth ; 
And thou art Death, I ween!” 

“Why should I not smell of the earth, 
When I have lain therein ? 


““ Wake up thy father and mother, 


Wake up thy friends so dear ; 
The chaplet green shalt thou ever wear, 
Till thou in heaven appear.” 


pa 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 


Sweet nightingale! thyself prepare, 


The morning breaks, and thou must be 


My faithful messenger to her, 
My best beloved, who waits for thee. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


She in her garden for thee stays, THE NIGHTINGALE 


And many an anxious thought will spring, 
And many a sigh her breast will raise, 


—_—— 


Till thou good tidings from me bring. Sweet nightingale! I hear thee sing, — 
Thy music makes my heart upspring: 
So speed thee up, nor longer stay ; O, quickly come, sweet bird, to me, ~ 
Go forth with gay and frolic song; And teach me to rejoice like thee! 


Bear to her heart my greetings, — say 


That I myself will come ere long. Sweet nightingale ! to the cool wave 


: : I see thee haste, thy limbs to lave, 
And she will greet thee many a time, And quaff it with thy little bill, 


ay erence th sbtingale | will say 5 As ’t were the daintiest beverage still. 
And she will ope her heart to thee, 


Pharr! tore sip lay, Sweet bird! where’er thy dwelling 42, 


Upon the linden’s lofty tree, 
Beside thy beauteous partner, there, 
O, greet a thousand times my fair ! 


Sore pierced by love’s shafts is she ; 
Thou, then, the more her grief assail ; 
Bid her from every care be free : 
Quick ! haste away, my nightingale ! 
—_———— 
—_o— 


THE HEMLOCK TREE. 
ABSENCE. 


O nemtock tree! O hemlock tree ! how faith- 
ful are thy branches ! 
Green not alone in summer time, 
But in the winter’s frost and rime! 
O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree ! how faithful 
are thy branches! 


Ir [ a small bird were, 
And little wings might bear, 
I'd fly to thee : 
iD Dba But vain those wishes are : 
4 Here, then, my rest shall be. 


Bi When far from thee I bide, 


: In dreams stil] at thy side O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is 
# I ’ve talked with thee ; thy bosom ! 
/ | And when I woke, I sighed, To love me in prosperity, 
4 Myself alone to see. And leave me in adversity ! 
| ; O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is 
. No hour of wakeful night thy bosom ! 
But teems with thoughts of light, — 
Sweet thoughts of thee, — The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for 
As when, in hours more bright, thine example ! 
Thou gav’st thy heart to me. So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
oo The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for 


thine example ! 


THE FAITHLESS ONE. 


caneal The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir- 


Last evening by my fair I sat, ror of thy falsehood ! 

And now on this we talked, now that; It flows so long as falls the rain, 

Freely she sat by me, and said In drought its springs soon dry again. 

She loved with love unlimited. The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir- 


ror of thy falsehood ! 
Last evening, when from her I parted, 


In dearest friendship, faithful-hearted, —+— 
Her sacred vow she plighted me, 
In joy or sorrow, mine to be. SILENT LOVE 


Last eve, at leaving her, she clung 


Close to my side, and on me hung; Who love would seek, 
And far along she went with me, Let him love evermore 
eee And, O, how kind and dear was she! And seldom speak : 

\.. Boe For in love’s domain 
+ : To-day, when to her side I came, Silence must reign ; 
Pa | How cool, how altered, that proud dame! Or it brings the heart 

All was reversed ; and back I turned, Smart 


i | By her, who was my true love, spurned. And pain. | 


LUTHER.—KNAUST. 239 
a 


FOURTH PERIOD.—CENTURY XVI. 


MARTIN LUTHER. 


Martin LutHer was born Nov. 10, 1483, 
at Eisleben. At the age of fourteen, he was 
placed at school in Magdeburg, whence he af- 
terwards went to Eisenach. In 1501, he en- 
tered the University of Erfurt. He was destined 
at first for the law, but circumstances afterwards 
led him to embrace the monastic life. His 
great distinction, of course, lies in the extraor- 
dinary influence he has exercised upon the re- 
ligious state of the world; but this subject does 
not come within the range of the present work. 
His poetical talent was shown in the depart- 
ment of sacred poetry. He purified and adapted 
old German poems to the service of the temple, 
translated Latin hymns, and was the author of 
about forty pieces in German, all distinguish- 
ed for their vigor, and highly esteemed down 
to the present day. He died on the 18th of 
February, 1546, at Eisleben, and was buried 
in the castle church of Wittenberg. A collec- 
tion of eight of Luther’s hymns was first pub- 
lished at Wittenberg in 1524; another, the fol- 
lowing year, containing forty. A new edition 
was published at Berlin in 1817 — 18. 


PSALM. 


A saFe stronghold our God is still, 
A trusty shield and weapon ; 
He ’!l help us clear from all the ill 
That hath us now o’ertaken. 
The ancient Prince of Hell 
Hath risen with purpose fell ; 
Strong mail of craft and power 
He weareth in this hour : 
On earth is not his fellow. 


With force of arms we nothing can; 
Full soon were we down-ridden, 
But for us fights the proper Man, 
Whom God himself hath bidden. 
Ask ye, Who is this same? 
Christ Jesus is his name, 
The Lord Zebaoth’s Son: 
He, and no other one, 
Shall conquer in the battle. 


And were this world all devils o’er 

And watching to devour us, 

We lay it not to heart so sore, 

Not they can overpower us. 
And let the Prince of II] 
Look grim as e’er he will, 

He harms us not a whit: 
For why? His doom is writ, 

A word shall quickly slay him. 


God’s word, for all their craft and force, 
One moment will not linger, 
But, spite of Hell, shall have its course: 
"T is written by his finger. 
And though they take our life, 
Goods, honor, children, wife, 
Yet is their profit small : 
These things shall vanish all, 


The City of God remaineth. 


——— 


HEINRICH KNAUST. 


Kwaust was born in 1541, and died in 1577. 
Three of his poems may be found in Erlach, I., 
71. The following quaint specimen will suffice. 


ee, 


DIGNITY OF THE CLERKS. 


Paper doth make a rustle, 
And it can rustle well ; 

To find it is no puzzle, 
Sith aye it rustle will. 


In every place ’t will rustle, 
Where’er’s a little bit ; 
So, too, the scholars rustle, 

Withouten all deceit. 


Of tag and rag they make 
The noble writer’s stuff ; 
One might with laughter shake, 
I tell you true enough. 


Old tatters, cleanly washen, 
Thereto they do prepare ; 

Lift many from the ashen, 
That erst sore want did bear. 


The pen behind the ear, 
All pointed sharp to write, 
Doth hidden anger stir: 
Foremost the clerk doth sit. 


Before all other wights, 
Sith him a clerk they call, 
The princes he delights, — 
They love him most of all. 


The clerk full well they name 
A treasure of much cost ; — 
Though he’s begrudged the same, 
Nathless he keeps the post. 


Before the clerk must bend 
Oft many a warrior grim, 

And to the corner wend, 
Although it please not him. 


Ta et er ee ERTIES LCT EE ET Oe ET EE Ca SE ES EES 


Piet tye er DS 


GERMAN POETRY. 


CENTURY XVII. 


SIMON DACH. 


THis poet was born in 1605, and died in 
1659. He was Professor of Poetry at Konigs- 
berg. His poems are lyrical, consisting of pop- 
ular and sacred songs; and breathing the sim- 
ple, devout spirit of a quiet scholar. Ten of his 
poems are given in Erlach, III. Those which 
follow are favorable specimens of his manner. 
The first is from the Low German, and, though 
apparently written in a tone of great tenderness, 
is, in fact, a satire upon the lady of his love, 
who proved untrue to him. In after-life he 
could not forgive himself for having taken this 
poetical revenge. The song seemed to haunt 
him even on his death-bed, and, after a violent 
spasm of pain, he exclaimed, “‘Ah! that was 
for the song of ‘ Anke von Tharaw.’ ” 


ANNIE OF THARAW. 


Anniz of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 


Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 


Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 
Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood! 


Then come the wild weather, come sleet or 
come snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 


Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 


As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so 
tall, 

The more the hail beats, and the more the rains 
fall, 


So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and 
strong, 

Through crosses, through sorrows, through man- 
ifold wrong. 


Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce 


known, 


Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea 


flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies 
of foes. 


j 


Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 
The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 


Whate’er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 


How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, 
- and one hand ? 


Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and 
strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 


Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love, 
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 


Whate’er my desire is, in thine may be seen; 
I am king of the household,— thou art its 
queen. 


It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s sweetest rest, 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one 
breast. 


This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 


py eS 


BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. 


O, now blest are ye whose toils are ended ! 
Who, through death, have unto God ascended ! 
Ye have arisen 

From the cares which keep us still in prison. 


We are still as in a dungeon living, 

Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving ; 
Our undertakings 

Are but toils, and troubles, and beart-breakings. 


Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, 
Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; 

No cross nor trial 

Hinders your enjoyments with denial. 


Christ has wiped away your tears for ever ; 
Ye have that for which we still endeavour. 
To you are chanted 

Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. 


Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, 
To inherit heaven for earthly sadness ? 

Who here would languish 

Longer in bewailing and in anguish ? 


Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind 
us ! : 

Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! 

With thee, the Anointed, 

Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. 


= 


ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA. 


ApraHam A Sancta Ciara, whose real 
name was Ulrich Megerle, was born at Kra- 
henheimstetten, Swabia, in 1642. In 1662 he 
joined the barefooted friars of the order of 
Saint Augustine, and applied himself to the 
study of philosophy and theology in a monas- 
tery at Vienna. He began his career as a 
preacher in the convent of Taxa, in Bavaria, 
and soon afterward was called to preach at 
the imperial court of Vienna, where he con- 
tinued until his death, in 1709. 

Abraham a Sancta Clara is the most gro- 
tesque and eccentric of all the popular preach- 
ers that Germany has produced. In one of 
his discourses he exclaims: ‘ By permission of 
the Almighty, I knock at the door of hell, and 
ask this or that one the reason of his condem- 
nation. ‘Holla! thou who art boiling in red 
hot iron, like a pea ina hot kettle, what was 
the cause of thy condemnation?’ ‘TI,’ said he, 
‘was given to wild lusts, but resolved to leave 
off my wicked life, and repent, but was sud- 
denly cut off, so that procrastination caused my 
eternal death.’ 

‘‘’The same answer I received from a hun- 
dred thousand wretched sinners. O, how true 
is it, as the poet says: 

“<The raven eras oft closes the pass 
Unto our souls’ salvation ; 
The fatal to-morrow préduceth sorrow 
And final condemnation!’ 

‘¢ And even, silly souls, if you are not cut 
off by sudden death, but have time to repent 
given you on your death-bed, still such late 
repentance seldom availeth much in the sight 
of God ; as Saint Augustine saith, ‘The repent- 
ance of a sick man, I fear, is generally sickly ; 
that of a dying man generally dies away. For 
when thou canst sin no longer, it is not that 
thou desertest’sin, but that sin deserts thee.’ 

* God, in the Old Testament, has admitted all 
kinds of beasts as acceptable offerings ; but he 
excludeth the swan alone, though the swan 
with its white. vesture agreeth well with the 
livery of the angels, because this feathered 
creature is the image of a sinner who puts off 
repentance till death; for the swan is silent 
through his whole life, and doth not sing till 
his life is at its close.”’ 

Passages of great beauty oceur likewise in 
these discourses, and at times the -reader is re- 
minded of Jeremy Taylor. For example, when 
he says: ‘“‘I seem to see in fancy holy Bacho- 
mius in the wilderness, where he chose him a 
dwelling among hollow clefts of rocks, which 
abode consisted in naught but four crooked 
posts, with a transparent covering of dried 
boughs. And he, when wearied with singing 
psalms, resorting to labor, lest the Old Serpent 
should catch him unemployed, and. weaving 
rude coverings of thatch, sits by a rock, where- 
from flow forth silver veins of water, which 


make a pleasing murmur in their crystal de- 


31 


I 


SANCTA CLARA. 


241 


scent, while around him on the green boughs 
play the birds of the forest, who, with their 
natural cadences, and the clear-sounding flutes 
of their throats, joining pleno choro, transform 
the wood into a concert; and the agile deer, 
the bleating hares, the chirping insects, are his 
constant companions, unharmed and unharm- 
ing, all which furnishes him with solace and 
contentment. But it seemeth to me that our 
devout hermit delighteth himself more espe- 
cially in the echo which sends him back his loud 
sighs and petitions; as when the holy anchorite 
cries, ‘O merciful Christ!’ the echo, that un- 
embodied thief, steals away the words, and re- 
turns them back to him. But is he too sorely 
tempted, and doth he exclaim, in holy impa- 
tience, ‘O thou accursed devil!’ the echo lays 
aside its devout language, and sounds back to 
him, ‘Thou accursed devil!’ In a word, as a 
man treats Echo, so does Echo treat him. 

‘*Now God is just like this voice of the 
woods. For it is an unquestioned truth, that, 
as we demean ourselves toward God, so he 
demeaneth himself toward us.”’ 

See “The Knickerbocker,” Vol. X., where 
other extracts may be found. The following 
verses, it hardly need be said, are not quoted 
for their beauty, but for their oddity. They 
are from “ Judas, the Arch-Rogue.”’ 


SAINT ANTHONY’S SERMON TO THE FISHES. 


Sarnt Anruony at church 
Was left in the lurch, 
So he went to the ditches 
And preached to the fishes. 
They wriggled their tails, 
In the sun glanced their scales. 


The carps, with their spawn, 
Are all thither drawn ; 
Have opened their jaws, 
Eager for each clause. 

No sermon beside 

Had the carps so edified. 


Sharp-snouted pikes, 
Who keep fighting like tikes, 
Now swam up harmonious 
To hear Saint Antonius. 

No sermon beside 

Had the pikes so edified. 


And that very odd fish, 
Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish, — 
The stock-fish, I mean, — 
At the sermon was seen. 
No sermon beside 


Had the cods so edified. 


Good eels and sturgeon, 
Which aldermen gorge on, 
Went out of their way 
To hear preaching that day. 
No sermon beside 
Had the eels so edified. 


| 


peenen Muar 


Crabs and turtles also, 
Who always move slow, 
Made haste from the bottom, 
As if the devil had got ’em. 
No sermon beside 

Had the crabs so edified. 


Fish great and fish small, 
Lords, lackeys, and all, 
Each looked at the preacher 
Like a reasonable creature. 
At God’s word, 
They Anthony heard. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


The sermon now ended, 
Each turned and descended ; 
The pikes went on stealing, 
The eels went on eeling. 
Much delighted were they, 
But preferred the old way. 


The crabs are backsliders, 

The stock-fish thick-siders, 

The carps are sharp-set, 

All the sermon forget. 
Much delighted were they, 
But preferred the old way. 


SIXTH PERIOD.—FROM 1700 TO 1770. 


JOHANN JACOB BODMER. 


J.J. Bopmer was born July 19th, 1698, at 
Greifensee, near Zirich, where his father was 
a preacher. At the Gymnasium in Zarich, he 
studied poetry and the languages. In 1725, 
he was appointed Professor of Helvetian His- 
tory, and, ten years later, became a member of 
the great council in Zarich. He died January 
2d, 1783. He had ability and great literary 
activity, but not much poetical genius. He 
promoted a taste for English literature, and for 
the study of the Middle Ages. The literary 
principles of Gottsched, who favored the French 
taste, found in him a vigorous opponent. His 
principal work is the ‘¢ Noachide,” in hexame- 
ter verse (Zitrich, 1752). He edited a collec- 
tion of the Minnesingers, translations of ancient 
English, and selections of Swabian ballads. 
He also translated Milton’s ** Paradise Lost.”’ 
Several of the Greek poets he rendered into 
German hexameters. The following short ex- 
tract is the close of the eighth book of the 
*¢ Noachide.”’ 


THE DELUGE. 


Now on the shoreless sea, intermixed with the 
corses of sinners, 

Floated the bodies of saints, by the side of the 
beasts of the forest. 

All that the food-bearing earth had enabled to 
live on its surface 

Death from one zone to another pursued with 
all-conquering fury. 

O, how the face ‘of the country was changed, 
how deformed the creation ! 

Where but recently Spring in his garment of 
flowers was straying, 

Listening the nightingale’s song from the dew- 
sprent bower of roses, 

Hidden he wears the dank prisoner’s dress, 
which the flood overcast him, 


Sulphurous vapors ascend from the deep; and 
volcanic eruptions 

Scatter the ores of the mine with poisonous 
hisses to heaven. 


On 


FREDERIC HAGEDORN. 


Freperic HacGreporn was born at Hamburg 
in 1708. He studied first at the Hamburg 
Gymnasium, and afterwards went to the Uni- 
versity of Jena, where he devoted himself to 
the law. The death of his father recalled him 
before the completion of his studies. In 1729, 
he accompanied Baron Soehlenthal, the Danish 
minister, to England, as his secretary. He re- 
mained there about two years, in which time 
he made himself master of the English lan- 
guage, and acquired much knowledge of Eng- 
lish literature. His earliest remaining poem 
is a paraphrase of Pope’s ‘* Universal Prayer.” 
In 1733, he received the appointment of Sec- 
retary to the English Factory at Hamburg, with 
a yearly salary of a hundred pounds, He con- 
tinued in this situation, giving certain stated 
hours to the duties of his office, and the rest of 
his time to reading and composition, until his 
death, which took place suddenly in 1754. 
His manner of life was not unlike that of 
Charles Lamb. His character was amiable, and 
he was much respeeted. As a poet, he imitated 
English and French models. His principal 
works are songs, poetical narratives, epistles, 
and fables. They were published at Hamburg 
in 1729, again in 1800, and finally in 1825, in 


five volumes. 
e 


eee 


THE MERRY SOAP-BOILER. 


A streapy and a skilful toiler, 
John got his bread as a soap-boiler, 


Earned all he wished, his heart was light, 
He worked and sang from morn till night. 
K’en during meals his notes were heard, 
And to his beer were oft preferred ; 

At breakfast, and at supper, too, 

His throat had double work to do; 

He oftener sang than said his prayers, 
And dropped asleep while humming airs : 
Until his every next-door neighbour 

Had learned the tunes that cheered his labor 
And every passer-by could tell 

Where merry John was wont to dwell. 

At reading he was rather slack, 

Studied at most the almanac, 

To know when holidays were nigh, 

And put his little savings by ; 

But sang the more on vacant days, 

To waste the less his means and ways. 


? 


"T is always well to live and learn. 
The owner of the soap-concern — 

A fat and wealthy burgomaster, 

Who drank his hock, and smoked his knaster 
At marketing was always apter 

Than any prelate in the chapter, 

And thought a pheasant in sour krout 
Superior to a turkey-poult ; 

But woke at times before daybreak 
With heart-burn, gout, or liver-ache — 
Oft heard our sky-lark of the garret 
Sing to his slumber, but to mar it. 


3 


He sent for John, one day, and said : 
“© What ’s your year’s income from your 
trade ?”’ 


*¢ Master, I never thought of counting 

To what my earnings are amounting 

At the year’s end: if every Monday 
I’ve paid my meat and drink for Sunday, 
And something in the box unspent 
Remains for fuel, clothes, and rent, 

I’ve husbanded the needful scot, 

And feel quite easy with my lot. 

The maker of the almanac 

Must, like your worship, know no lack, 
Else a red-letter earnless day 
Would oftener be struck away.” 

“ John, you ’ve been long a faithful fellow, 
Though always merry, seldom mellow. 
Take this rouleau of fifty dollars, 

My purses glibly slip their collars ; 

But before breakfast let this singing 

No longer in my ears be ringing: 

When once your eyes and lips unclose, 

I must forego my morning doze.” 


John blushes, bows, and stammers thanks, 
And steals away on bended shanks, . 
Hiding and hugging his new treasure, 

As had it been a stolen seizure. 

At home he bolts his chamber-door, 

Views, counts, and weighs his tinkling store, 


HAGEDORN.—HALLER. 
EBs SRL pS aI Fs mc a A Ee ee ee eg ee ee AL LS 


Nor trusts it to the savings-box 

Till he has screwed on double locks. 

His dog and he play tricks no more, 

They ’re rival watchmen of the door. 
Small wish has he to sing a word, 

Lest thieves should climb his stair unheard. 
At length he finds, the more he saves, 

The more he frets, the more he craves ; 
That his old freedom was a blessing 

Ill sold for all he’s now possessing. 


One day, he to his master went 

And carried back his hoard unspent. 
‘‘ Master,” says he, “I’ve heard of old, 
Unblest is he who watches gold. 
Take back your present, and restore 
The cheerfulness I knew before. 

I?ll take a room not quite so near, 
Out of your worship’s reach of ear, 
Sing at my pleasure, laugh at sorrow, 
Enjoy to-day, nor dread to-morrow, 
Be still the steady, honest toiler, 

The merry John, the old soap-boiler.”’ 


—o—-—- 


ALBRECHT VON HALLER. 


ALBRECHT von Hatter was born in 1708. 
He showed a taste for letters and poetry ata 
very early age. In his fifteenth year he went 
to the University of Tubingen, and afterwards 
to Leyden and Basle. He took his medical 
degree in 1727, soon after which he visited 
England. He returned to Berne in 1730, in- 
tending to establish himself in his profession in 
his native place. In 1732, he made a journey 
through the Alps, after which he published his 
first poem. In 1736, he was made Professor 
of Medicine at Gottingen; in 1749, he was 
ennobled by the emperor; in 1753, returned 
to Berne, and died in 1777. He was distin- 
guished in many departments of knowledge ; 
poet, anatomist, physiologist, botanist, &c. His 


poetical works were published at Berne, in 


1732; the twelfth edition appeared in 1828. 
His scientific works were numerous, and won 
for him the highest reputation as a student and 
discoverer. 


EXT:.ACT FROM DORIS. 


Tue light of day is almost gone, 

The purple in the west that shone 
Is fading to a grayer hue : 

The moon uplifts her silver horns, 

The cool night strews her slumber-corns, 
And slakes the thirsty earth with dew. 


Come, Doris, to these beeches come, 
Let us the quiet dimness roam, 

Where nothing stirs but you and I. 
Save when the west wind’s gentle breath 
Is heard the wavering boughs beneath, 

Which strive to beckon silently. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


i 


How the green night of leafy trees 
Invites to dreams of careless ease, 

And cradles the contented soul ; 
Recalls the ambitious range of thought 
To fasten on some homely cot, 

And make a life of love its whole! 


Speak, Doris, feels thy conscious heart 
The throbbing of no gentle smart, 

Dearer than plans of palaced pride ? 
Gaze not thine eyes with softer glance, 
Glides not thy blood in swifter dance, 

Bounds not thy bosom, —by my side? 


Thought questions thought with restless task ; 
I know thy soul begins to ask, 

What means this ail, what troubles me? 
O, cast thy vain reserve away, 
Let me its real name betray ! 

Far more than that I feel for thee. 


Thou startlest, and thy virtue frowns, 
And the chaste blush my charge disowns, 
And lends thy cheek an angrier glow ; 
With mingled feelings thrills thy frame, 
Thy love is stifled by thy shame, 
Not by thy heart, my Doris, no ! 


Ah! lift those fringed lids again, 
Accept, accept the proffered chain, 
Which love and fate prepare to bind: 
Why wilt thou longer strive to fly ? 
Be overtaken, —I am nigh. 
To doubt is‘not to be unkind. 


eed 


CHRISTIAN FURCHTEGOTT GELLERT. 


CuristiAn FurcuTecotr GELLERT was born 
at Haynichen, in Saxony, in 1715. His father 
was a poor clergyman with thirteen children. 
He was sent first to the ‘“‘ Prince’s School,” at 
Meissen, and in 1734 entered the University 
at Leipsic, where he studied theology. His 
timidity was so great that he renounced preach- 

_ing, after one unsuccessful effort, and became 
successively private teacher, and Professor Ex- 
traordinary of Philosophy. He took part in 
the Bremish “ Beitrige,’’ and, for a time, edited 
a periodical work, called ‘ Materials to form 
the Heart and Understanding,” in which his 
earliest compositions were first published. He 
wrote a novel, “The Swedish Countess,” sev- 
eral dramatic pieces, odes, tales, a collec- 
tion of fables, and a variety of miscellanies. 
He died in 1769. His character was gentle 
and amiable, and strongly marked by a pious 
resignation to the will of Providence. His in- 
fluence was extraordinary. Several editions of 
his works have been published; the last in 


Leipsic, 1840" 


THE WIDOW. 


Dorinpa’s youthful spouse, 
Whom as herself she loved, and better, too,— 
‘“« Better ?’’ — methinks I hear some caviller say, 
With scornful smile ; but let him smile away ! 
A true thing is not therefore the less true, 
Let laughing cavillers do what they may. 
Suffice it, death snatched from Dorinda’s arms — 
Too early snatched, in a}! ‘his glowing charms — 
The best of husbands end the best of men ; 
And I can find no words, —in vain my pen, 
Though dipped in briny tears, would fain por- 
tray, 
In lively colors, all the young wife felt, 
As o’er his couch in agony she knelt, 
And clasped the hand, and kissed the cheek, of 
clay. 
The priest, whose business ’t was to soothe her, 
came ; 
All friendship came, — in vain ; 
The more they soothed, the more Dorinda cried. 
They had to drag her from the dead one’s side. 
A ceaseless wringing of the hands 
Was all she did; one piteous “ Alas!” 
The only sound that from her lips did pass: 
Full four-and-twenty hours thus she lay. 
Meanwhile, a neighbour o’er the way 
Had happened in, well skilled in carving wood. 
He saw Dorinda’s melancholy mood, 
And, partly at her own request, 
Partly to show his reverence for the blest, 
And save his memory from untimely end, 
Resolved to carve in wood an image of bis friend. 
Success the artist’s cunning hand attended ; 
With most amazing speed the work was ended; 
And there stood Stephen, large as life. 
A masterpiece soon makes its way to light ; 
The folk ran up and screamed, so soon as Ste- 
phen met their sight, 
«© Ah, Heavens! Ah, there he is! Yes, yes, ’t is 
he! 
O happy artist! happy wife ! 
Look at the laughing features! Only see 
The open mouth, that seems as if ’t would speak! 
I never saw before, in all my life, 
Such nature, — no, I vow, there could not be 
A truer likeness; so he looked to me, 
When he stood godfather last week.” 
, They brought the wooden spouse, 
That now alone the widow’s heart could cheer, 
Up to the second story of the house, 
Where he and she had slept one blessed year. 
There in her chamber, having turned the key, 
She shut herself with him, and sought relief 
And comfort in the midst of bitter grief, 
And held herself as bound, if she would be 
For ever worthy of his memory, 
To weep away the remnant of her life. 
What more could one desire of a wife ? 
So sat Dorinda many weeks, heart-broken, 
And had not, my informant said, 
In all that time, to living creature spoken, 
Except her house-dog and her serving-maid. 
And this, after so many weeks of woe, 


joe a ll NOSE a i Eh SIR tad a 


Was the first day that she had dared to glance 
Out of her window: and to-day, by chance, 
Just as she looked, a stranger stood below. 
Up in a twinkling came the house-maid running, 
And said, with look of sweetest, half-hid cunning, 
‘Madam, a gentleman would speak with you, 
A lovely gentleman as one would wish to view, 
Almost as lovely as your blessed one ; 
He has some business with you must be done, — 
Business, he said, he could not trust with me.” 
‘Must just make up some story, then,” said she, 
‘‘T cannot leave, one moment, my dear man; 
In short, go down and do the best you can ; 
Tell him I’m sick with sorrow ; for, ah me! 
It were no wonder - 


“* Madam, ’t will not do ; 
He has already had a glimpse of you, 
Up at your window, as he stood below ; 
You must come down ; now do, I pray. 
The stranger will not thus be sent away. 
He ’s something weighty to impart, I know. 
I should think, madam, you might go.” 
A moment the young widow stands perplexed 
Fluttering *twixt memory and hope ; the next 
Embracing, with a sudden glow, 
The image that so long had soothed her woe, 
She lets the stranger in. Who can it be? 
A suitor? Ask the maid; already she 
Is listening at the key-hole ; but her ear 
Only Dorinda’s plaintive tone can hear. 
The afternoon slips by. What can it mean ? 
The stranger goes not yet, has not been seen 
To ieave the house. Perhaps he makes request— 
Unheard-of boldness !—-to remain, a guest? 
Dorinda comes at length, and, sooth to say, 
alone. — 
Where is the image, her dear, sad delight ?— 
*« Maid,”’ she begins, “say, what shall now be 
done? 
The gentleman will be my guest to-night. 
Go, instantly, and boil the pot of fish.” 
“Yes, madam, yes, with pleasure,—~as you wish.”’ 
Dorinda goes back to her room again. 
The maid ransacks the house to find a stick 
Of wood to make a fire beneath the pot,—in vain. 
She cannot find a single one; then quick 
She calls Dorinda out, in agony. 
“Ah, madam, hear the solemn truth,”’ says she : 
‘“‘ There ’s not a stick of fish-wood in the house. 
Suppose I take that image down and split it? 
That : 
Is good, hard wood, and to our purpose pat.” 
“The image? No, indeed !-~-But— well — 
yes, do! 
What need you have been making all this 
touse ?”’ 
“ But, ma’am, the image is too much for me; 
T cannot lift it all alone, you see ; — 
"T would go out of the window easily.” 
“A lucky thought! and that will split it for 
you, too. 
The gentleman in future lives with me; 
I may no longer nurse this misery.” 
Up went the sash, and out the blessed Stephen 
flew. : 


? 


’ 


ae ihe 


EWALD CHRISTIAN VON KLEIST. 


Ewatp Crristian von Kieist was born in 
1715, at Zeblin, in Pomerania. He studied at 
the Jesuit College in Cron, then at the Gymna- 
sium in Dantzic, and in 1731 commenced the 
study of law at the University of Konigsberg, 
Through the influence of some relations in Den- 
mark, he became a Danish officer in 1736. He 
afterwards entered the service of Frederic the 
Great. In 1743, he fought a duel, and became 
acquainted with Gleim. He subsequently rose 
to the rank of Major. He was present in several 
battles, and lost his leg in the engagement at 
Kunersdorf, which caused his death twelve 
days afterwards, His naturally thoughtful tem- 
perament, acted upon by an unfortunate attach- 
ment, and a dislike of Jhis profession, gave a 
melancholy character to his poems. His works 
are chiefly songs, odes, elegies, and the poem 
entitled “ Spring,’ which is the most important 
of his productions. He also composed idyls, and 
an epic in three cantos. His works have been 
several times published; the latest edition is 
that of Berlin, 2 vols., 1839. Wolfgang Men- 
zel remarks of him, that he “‘ became the Ger- 
man Thomson, whose ‘Seasons’ he imitated 
in the poem of ‘Spring,’ which has become 
so celebrated. He was much distinguished by 
refined sentiments and beautiful imagery; but 
he shared the faults of this. species of poetry, 
which knew not how to express a fine sentiment 
directly, but could only do so through the me- 
dium and in the mirror of reflection, and which, 
without intending it, perhaps, played the co- 
quette a little with its charms.” 


SIGHS FOR REST. 


O sitver brook, my leisure’s early soother, 
When wilt thou murmur lullabies again ? 
When shall I trace thy sliding smooth and 
smoother, 
While kingfishers along thy reeds complain? 
Afar from thee, with care and toil oppressed, 
Thy image still can calm my troubled breast. 


O ye fair groves, and odorous violet valleys, 
Girt with a-garland blue of hills around ; 

Thou quiet lake, where, when Aurora sallies, 
Her golden tresses seem to sweep the ground : 

Soft mossy turf, on which I wont to stray, 

For me no longer bloom thy flowerets gay. 


Thou, who, behind the linden’s fragrant boughs, 
Wouldst lurk to hear me blow the mellow 
flute, 
Speak, Echo, shall I never know repose ? 
Must every muse I wooed henceforth bé mute ? 
How oft, while, pleased, in the thick shade I lay, 
Doris I named, and Doris thou wouldst say ! 


Far now are fled the pleasures once so dear, 
Thy welcome words no longer meet my calls, 
No sympathetic tone assails the ear, 


Death from a thousand mouths of iron bawls: 
u2 


FS 
GELLERT.—KLEIST. ots | 


| 


\ 


I 


246 


There brook and meadow harmless joys bestow, 
Here grows but danger, and here flows but woe. 


As when the chilly winds of March arise, 
And whirl the howling dust in eddies swift, 
The sunbeams wither in the dimmer skies, 
O’er the young‘ ears the sand and pebbles 
drift : 
So the war rages, and the furious forces 
The air with smoke bespread, the field with 
corses, 


The vineyard bleeds, and trampled is the corn, 
Orchards but heat the kettles of the camp. 
Her youthful friend the bride bebolds, forlorn, 

Crushed like a flower beneath the horse’s 
tramp : 
Vain is her shower of tears that bathes the dead, 
As dews on roses plucked, and soon to fade. 


There flies a child; his aid the father lends, 
But writhing falls, by random bullets battered ; 
With his last breath the boy to God commends, 
Nor knows that both by the same blow were 
shattered : 
So Boreas, when he stirs his mighty wings, 
The blooming hop, and its supportance, flings. 


As when a lake, which gushing rains invade, 
Breaks down its dams, and fields are over- 
flowed : 
So floods of fire across the region spread, 
And standing corn by crackling flames is 
mowed ; 
Bellowing the cattle fly ; the forests burn, 
And their own ashes the old stems inurn. 


What art and skill have built with cost and toil 
Corinthian sculptures all in vain attire : 
The pride of cities falls, a fiery spoil, 
And many a marble fane and gilded spire, 
Whose haughty head the clouds of heaven sur- 
round, 
Tumbles in ruin; quakes the solid ground. 


The people pale rush out to quench the fire, 
And tread a pavement formed of corses 
strewn ; 
Who from his burning house escapes entire 
Falls in the streets, by splitting bombs o’er- 
thrown : 


- For water, blood of men the palace fills, 


Which hisses on the floor as it distils. 


Though sets the sun, the ruddy skies are bright ; 
All night is day, where conflagrations glare ; 
Heaven borrows from below a purpler light, 
And roofs of copper cataract from the air: 
Balls hiss, flames roar, artillery thunders loud, 
And moon and stars their pallid lustre shroud. 


As when their way a host of comets bend 
Back into chaos from the ether’s top, 

So with their tails of fire the bombs ascend, 
And thronging, bursting, thundering, tearing, 

drop: 


GERMAN POETRY. 


The earth with piecemeal carcasses is sown ; 
Limbs, bowels, braifis, in wild disorder strewn. 


The treacherous ground is often undermined, 
And cloudward hurls a long incumbent 
weight ; i 
Forts built on rocks their frail foundation find, 
And call the echoes to proclaim their fate : 
Vale, field, and hill receive the mingled scath, 
As Hecla scatters in her day of wrath. 
Like the fond lover, whose too dazzling flame 
Forbids him to discern, ye ’re mocked by 
fate. 
If fortune give me neither wealth nor fame, 
At least I do not grudge them to the great. 
A heart at ease, a home where friends resort, 
I would not change for tinsel, or for court. 


Thou best of carpets, spread thee at my feet! 
Meadow, brook, reeds, beside you let me 
dwell ! 
Gold is but sand, not worth these murmurs 
sweet ; 
These branchy shades all palace-roofs excel. 
When of your hills my wandering visions dream, 
The world’s as little to me as they seem. 


ae 


JOHANN WILHELM LUDWIG GLEIM. 


Turis poet was born in 1719, at Ermsleben, 
in the principality of Halberstadt. In 1738, he 
went to the University of Halle, to study law. 
In 1740, he left the University, went to Pots- 
dam, where he became a private tutor, and 
afterwards was appointed Secretary to Prince 
William of Schwedt. Here he formed an inti- 
mate friendship with Kleist. After various 
changes of fortune, Gleim was appointed Secre- 
tary of the Cathedral Chapter of Halberstadt, and 
afterwards Canon of the Walbeck institution. 
He died in 1803. His poetical genius was not 
remarkable ; but he loved letters and science, 
and lived on terms of cordial friendship with 
the principal authors of his age. His ‘“* War- 
songs of a Grenadier” are, perhaps, his best 
poetical productions. He wrote, besides, Ana- 
creontic, erotic, Petrarchian songs; songs after 
the Minnesingers, epistles, fables, and a didactic- 
religious poem, called “‘ Halladat, or the Red 
Book.” His works were published by KGrte, 
Halberstadt, 1811-13, who also wrote his life. 


W AR-SONG. 


We met, a hundred of us met, 
At curfew, in the field ; 

We talked of heaven and Jesus Christ, 
And all devoutly kneeled : 


When, lo! we saw, all of us saw, 
The star-lit sky unclose, 

And heard the far-high thunders roll 
Like seas where storm-wind blows. 


if 


GLEIM.—KLOPSTOCK. 247 


We listened, in amazement lost, 
As still as stones for dread, 

And heard the war proclaimed above, 
And sins of nations read. 


The sound was like a solemn psalm 
That holy Christians sing ; 

And by-and- -by the noise was ceased 
Of all the angelic ring : 


Yet still, beyond the cloven sky, 
We saw the sheet of fire; 

There came a voice, as from a throne, 
To all the heavenly choir, 


Which spake : “ Though many men must fall, 
I will that these prevail ; 

To me the poor man’s cause is dear.”’ 
Then slowly sank a scale. 


The hand that poised was lost in clouds, 
One shell did weighty seem: 

But sceptres, scutcheons, mitres, gold 
Flew up, and kicked the beam. 


THE INVITATION. 


I wave a cottage by the hill; 
It stands upon a meadow greet; ; 
Behind it flows a murmuring rill, 
Cool-rooted moss and Row bck betweeti. 


Beside the cottage stands a tree, 

That flings its shadow o’er the eaves ; 
And scarce the sunshine visits me, 

Save when a light wind rifts the leaves. 


A nightingale sings on a spray 

Through the sweet summer time night-long, 
And evening travellers, on their way, 

Linger to hear her plaintive song. 


Thou maiden with the yellow hair, 

The winds of life are sharp and test 
Wilt thou not seek a shelter there 

In yon lone cottage by the hill? 


THE WANDERER. 


My native land, on thy sweet shore 
Lighter heaves the breast ; 
Could I visit thee once more, 
How I should be blest ! 


Heart so anxious and so pained, 
Fitting is thy woe; 

My native land, what have I gained 
By wandering from thee so? 


Fresher green hedecks thy fields, 
Fairer blue thy skies ; 

Sweeter shade thy forest yields, 
Thy dews have brighter dies. 


Thy sabbath-bells a sweeter note 
Echo far and near ; 

Thy nightingale’s melodious throat 
Sweeter thrills the ear. 


Softer flow thy lavish streams 
Through the meadow’s bloom ; 

Ah! how’ bright the wanderer’s dreams 
’Neath thy linden’s gloom! 


Fair thy sun that flings around 
Genial light and heat. —— 
To my father’s household gate 

Let me bend my feet ; 
There, forgetting all the past, 
I will rest in peace at last ! 


——-$-——_- 


FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK. 


Tuts celebrated poet was born at Quedlin- 
burg, in 1724. His childhood was spent at 
Friedeberg, but he was subsequently placed at 
the Gymnasium of Quedlinburg. At the age 
of sixteen, he went to Schulpforte, where he 
studied the ancient languages, and acquired 
that classical taste, which afterwards exercised 
so remarkable an influence on his writings. 
Even at this early period he had conceived the 
project of writing an epic poem. In 1745, he 
went to Jena, to study theology, and there 
composed the f first canto of the “ Messiah.”’ In 
1746, he removed to Leipsic, where he became 
acquainted with the circle of writers who pub- 
lished the “ Bremische Beitrige,’”’ in which 
work the first three cantos of the «* Messiah 
ap peared, in 1748, and excited unbounded admi- 
ration. This same year, he became acquainted 
with Frederica Schmidt, in Langensalza, whom 
he celebrated under the name of Fanny. To 
dissipate the chagrin arising from a disappointed 
attachment for this lady, he visited Ztrich, on 
the invitation of Bodmer, in 1750; and in ithe 
following year he was summoned to Copenha- 
gen, through the influence of Bernstorf, and 
received a small pension to give him leisure 
for the completion of his poem. On his way 
thither, he became acquainted with Margaretha 
or Meta Moller, a warm and enthusiastic ad- 
mirer of his poems, and a person of much spirit 
and talent. An attachment sprang up between 
them, and they were married in 1754. She 
died in 1758. In 1764, he wrote his “ Her- 
manns Schlacht”’ (Battle of Arminius), and 
soon after engaged in his investigations into the 
German language. After the downfall of the 
minister, Bernstorf, in 1771, Klopstock returned 
to Hamburg in the whabhotes of Danish Secre- 
tary of Legation, and in 1775 became a coun- 
cillor of the matgraviate of Baden. He fin- 
ished his ‘* Messiah’’ in Hamburg. In 1792, 
he married a second wife, Johanna von Wind- 
ham. He died in 1803 

In private he was social and amiable, fond of 


a eatastal es Sdaealeiceas Re ete ee) rp 


248 


children and of skating. As an epic poet, his 
“ Messiah”? gave him an immense reputation ; 
he has been pronounced the first lyric poet of 
modern times, and some even rank him higher 
than Pindar. He shows a genuine classic taste, 
and a deep feeling of the spirit of antiquity. 
The principal measures of the ancients he re- 
produced in the German with remarkable skill 
and felicity. His elegies are composed in the 
ancient elegiac distich. His tragedies and dra- 
mas had but little success. 

Menzel has given a very good summary of 
his character.* ‘* Klopstock, the German Ho- 
mer, stands before all the German Horaces, 
Anacreons, Pindars, Theocrituses, and sops. 
It was, in truth, he, who, by the powerful influ- 
ence of his ‘Messiah’ and his ‘ Odes,’ gave 
the antique taste its supremacy, not, however, 
in defiance, but operating rather in favor, of the 
German and Christian manner. Religion and 
native land were with him the highest themes ; 
but as to form, he regarded the ancient Greek 
as the most perfect, and thought to unite the 
most beautiful substance with the most beautiful 
form, by exalting Christianity and Germanism 
in Grecian fashion, —an extraordinary error, 
certainly, but perfectly natural to the extraor- 
dinary character manifested in the progress of 
his age. The English, it is true, did not fail to 
produce an effect on Klopstock, for his ‘ Mes- 
siah’ is only a pendant to Milton’s ‘ Paradise 
Lost’; but Klopstock was by no means, on 
this account, a mere imitator of the English ; 
on the contrary, his merit in regard to German 
poetry is as peculiar as it is great. He sup- 
planted the hitherto prevailing French alexan- 
drines and doggerels by the Greek hexameter, 
and the other metres, the Sapphic, Alcaic, and 
iambic, of the ancients. By this means, not 
only the French fustian and senseless rhyming 
were set aside, and the poet was compelled to 
think more of the meaning and substance than 
of the rhyme, but the German language also 
was remoulded by the attention paid to rhyth- 
mical harmony, and attained a flexibility which 
would have been serviceable to the poets, even 
if they afterwards threw aside the Greek form, 
as a mere study and exercise. Moreover, Klop- 
stock, although he wanted to be a Greek in 
form, still always meant to be only a German 
in spirit; and it was he who introduced the 
patriotic enthusiasm, and that worship of every 
thing German, which have never disappeared 
since, in spite of all new foreign fashions, but, 
on the contrary, have broken out against what 
is foreign, often to the extreme of injustice and 
absurdity. Strangely as it sounds, when he, 
the son of the French .age of perukes, calls 
himself a bard in Alcaic verses, and thus blends 
together three wholly heterogeneous ages, — 
the modern, the antique, and the old German, 
— still, this was the beginning of that proud 


* Mrnzev’s German Literature, translated by C. C. FEt- 
ton. Vol. II., pp. 370-373. 


GERMAN POETRY. - 


revival of German poetry, which finally ven- 
tured to cast off the foreign fetters, and to drop 
that humble demeanour which had been custom- 
ary since the peace of Westphalia. It was, 
indeed, needful that one should again come, 
who might freely smite his breast, and cry, ‘I 
am a German!’ Finally, his poetry, as well 
as his patriotism, had its root in that sublime 
moral and religious faith which his ‘ Messiah’ 
celebrates; and he it was, who, along with 
Gellert, lent to modern German poetry that 
dignified, earnest, and pious character, which it 
has never lost again, in spite of all the extrava- 
gances of fancy and wit, and which foreign 
nations have constantly admired most in us, or 
looked upon with distant respect. When we 
call to mind the influence of the frivolous old 
French philosophy, and the scoffing of Voltaire, 
we begin to comprehend what a mighty dam 
Klopstock set up against that foreign influence 
in German poetry. 

“‘ His patriotism, therefore, and his elevated 
religious character, have, still more than the 
improvements he introduced into the German 
language, conferred upon him that reverential 
respect which he will always maintain. They 
have had the effect of securing to him for ever 
the admiration of those who could hardly read 
him through ; which furnishes matter for Les- 
sing’s ridicule... It is true that Klopstock loses 
every thing, if he is closely examined and 
‘judged by single parts. We must look upons 
him at a certain distance, and as a whole. 
When we undertake to read him, he appears 
pedantic and tedious; but when we have once 
read him, and then recall his image to memory, 
he becomes great and majestic. Then his two 
ideas, country and religion, shine forth in their, 
simplicity, and make upon us the impression of 
sublimity. We think we see a gigantic spirit 
of Ossian, striking a wondrous harp, high among 
the clouds. If we approach him more nearly, 
he dissolves into a thin and wide-spread mass 
of vapor. But that first impression has wrought 
a powerful effect upon our souls, and attuned 
us to lofty thoughts. Although too metaphysi- 
cal and cold, he has still given us, in the high- 


est ideas of his poetry, two great truths, —the. 


one, that our un-Germanized poetry, long alien- 
ated from its native soil, must take root there 
again, and there only can grow up to a noble 
tree; the other, that, as all poetry must have 
its source in religion, so, too, it must find there 
its highest aim.” 

Klopstock’s works were published at Leipsic, 
in twelve quarto volumes, 1798-1817; again, 
in 8vo., 1823; and again in 1829, 


ODE TO GOD. 


Tov Jehovah 

Art named, but I am dust of dust! 
Dust, yet eternal! for the immortal soul 
Thou gav’st me, gav’st thou for eternity, 


KLOPSTOCK. 249 i 
a a ee er ee en ee 


Breath’dst into her, to form thy image, 
Sublime desires for peace and bliss, 

A thronging host! But one, more beautiful 

Than all the rest, is as the queen of all, — 
Of thee the last, divinest image, 

The fairest, most attractive, — Love! 

Thou feelest it, though as the Eternal One: 

It feel, rejoicing, the high angels, whom 
Thou mad’st celestial, — thy last image, 
The fairest and divinest, — Love ! 

Deep within Adam’s heart thou plantedst it : 

In his idea of perfection made, 

For him create, to him thou broughtest 
The mother of the human race. 

Deep also in my heart thou plantedst it: 

In my idea of perfection made, 

For me create, from me thou leadest 
Her whom my heart entirely loves. 

Towards her my soul is all outshed in tears, — 

My full soul weeps, to stream itself away 
Wholly in tears! From me thou leadest 
Her whom I love, O God! from me, — 

For so thy destiny, invisibly, 

Ever in darkness works, — far, far away 
From my fond arms in vain extended, — 
But not away from my sad heart! 

And yet thou knowest why thou didst con- 

ceive, 

And to reality creating call, 

Souls so susceptible of feeling, 
And for each other fitted so. 

Thou know’st, Creator! But thy destiny 

Those souls, thus born as for each other, parts : 
High destiny, impenetrable, — 

How dark, yet kow adorable ! 

But life, when with eternity compared, 

Is like the swift breath by the dying breathed, 
The last breath, wherewith flees the spirit 
That aye to endless life aspired. 

What once was labyrinth in glory melts 

Away, —and destiny is then no more. 

Ah, then, with rapturous rebeholding, 
Thou givest soul to soul again ! 

Thought of the soul, and of eternity, 

Worthy and meet to soothe the saddest pain : 
My soul conceives it in its greatness ; 
But, O, I feel too much the life 

That here I live! Like immortality, 

What seemed a breath fearfully wide extends! 
I see, I see my bosom’s anguish 
In boundless darkness magnified. 

God ! let this life pass like a fleeting breath ! 

Ah, no !— But her who seems designed for me 
Give, — easy for thee to accord me, — 
Give to my trembling, tearful heart ! 

(The pleasing awe that thrills me, meeting her ! 

The suppressed stammer of the undying soul, 
That has no words to say its feelings, 
And, save by tears, is wholly mute ! ) 

Give her unto my arms, which, innocent, 

In childhood, oft I raised to thee in heaven, 
When, with the fervor of devotion, 

I prayed of thee eternal peace ! 
With the same effort dost thou grant and take 


From the poor worm, whose hours are centuries, 
32 


_—— 


His brief felicity, —the worm, man, 
Who blooms his season, droops and dies ! 
By her beloved, I beautiful and blest 
Will Virtue call, and on her heavenly form 
With fixed eye will gaze, and only 
Own that for peace and happiness 
Which she prescribes for me. But, Holier One, 
Thee too, who dwell’st afar in higher state 
Than human virtue, — thee [ ’Il honor, 
Only by God observed, more pure. 
By her beloved, will I more zealously, 
Rejoicing, meet before thee, and pour forth 
My fuller heart, Eternal Father, 
In hallelujahs ferventer. 
Then, when with me she thine exalted praise 


Weeps up to heaven in prayer, with eyes that 


swim 
In ecstacy, shall I already 
With her that higher life enjoy. 
The song of the Messiah, in her arms 
Quafling enjoyment pure, I noblier may 
Sing to the good, who love as deeply, 
And, being Christians, feel as we! 


THE LAKE OF ZURICH. 


Farr is the majesty of all thy works 
On the green earth, O Mother Nature, fair! 
But fairer the glad face 
Enraptured with their view. 
Come ftom the vine-banks of the glittering 
lake, — . 
Or, hast thou climbed the smiling skies anew, 
Come on the roseate tip 
Of evening’s breezy wing, 
And teach my song with glee of youth to glow, 
Sweet Joy, like thee, — with glee of shouting 
youths, 
Or feeling Fanny’s laugh. 


Behind us far already Uto lay, — 
At whose foot Ziirich in the quiet vale 
Feeds her free sons: behind, 
Receding vine-clad hills. 
Unclouded beamed the top of silver Alps ; 
And warmer beat the heart of gazing youths, 
And warmer to their fair 
Companions spoke its glow. 
And. Haller’s Doris sang, the pride of song; 
And Hirzel’s Daphne, dear to Kleist and Gleim ; 
And we youths sang, and felt 
As each were — Hagedorn. 


Soon the green meadow took us to the cool 
And shadowy forest, which becrowns the isle. 
Then cam’st thou, Joy, thou cam’st 
Down in full tide to us; 
Yes, Goddess Joy, thyself! We felt, we clasped, 
Best sister of Humanity, thyself; 
With thy dear Innocence 
Accompanied, thyself! 


Sweet thy inspiring breath, O cheerful Spring, 
When the meads cradle thee, and thy soft airs 


| 


~-- 


250 


Into the hearts of youths 
sf And hearts of virgins glide ! 


Thou makest Feeling conqueror. Ah! through 
thee, 

Fuller, more tremulous heaves each blooming 
breast ; 


With lips spell-freed by thee 
Young Love unfaltering pleads. 


Fair gleams the wine, when to the social change 
Of thought, or heart-felt pleasure, it invites ; 
And the Socratic cup, 
With dewy roses bound, 
Sheds through the bosom bliss, and wakes re- 
solves, 
Such as the drunkard knows not, proud resolves, 
Emboldening to despise 
Whate’er the sage disowns. 


’ Delightful thrills against the panting heart 
Fame’s silver voice, — and immortality 
Is a great thought, well worth 
The toil of noble men. 
By dint of song to live through after-times, — 
Often to be with rapture’s thanking tone 
By name invoked aloud, 
From the mute grave invoked, — 
To form the pliant heart of sons unborn, — 
To plant thee, Love, thee, holy Virtue, there, — 
Gold-heaper, is well worth 
The toil of noble men. 


But sweeter, fairer, more delightful ’t is 

On a friend’s arm to know one’s self a friend ! 
Nor is the hour so spent 
Unworthy heaven above. 


Full of affection, in the airy shades 
Of the dim forest, and with downcast look 
Fixed on the silver wave, 
I breathed this pious wish : 
‘OQ, were ye here, who love me though afar, 
Whom, singly scattered in our country’s lap, 
In lucky, hallowed hour, 
My seeking bosom found ; 
Here would we build us huts of friendship, here 
Together dwell for ever!’ — The dim wood 
A shadowy Tempe seemed ; 
Elysium all the vale. 


TO YOUNG. 


Dre, aged prophet! Lo, thy crown of palms 
Has long been springing, and the tear of joy 
Quivers on angel-lids 
Astart to welcome thee ! 
Why linger? Hast thou not already built 
Above the clouds thy lasting monument ? 
Over thy “ Night Thoughts,” too 
The pale freethinkers watch, 
And feel there ’s prophecy amid the song, 
When of the dead-awakening trump it speaks, 
Of coming final doom, 
And the wise will of Heaven. 


? 


GERMAN POETRY. 


.Great is thy deed, my wish. He has not known 


Die! Thou hast taught me that the name of 
death 
Is to the just a glorious sound of joy! 
But be my teacher still, 
Become my genius there ! 


— 


MY RECOVERY. 


Recovery, daughter ,of Creation, too, 
Though not for immortality designed, 
The Lord of life and death 
Sent thee from heaven to me! 
Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach, 
Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice, 
Death had with iron foot 
My chilly forehead pressed. 
’T is true, I then had wandered where the earths 
Roll around suns; had strayed along the path 
Where the maned comet soars 
Beyond the armed eye ; ; 
And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed 
The inmates of those earths and of those suns; 
Had hailed the countless host 
That throng the comet’s disc ; 
Had asked the novice questions, and obtained 
Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth ; 
Had learned in hours far more 
Than ages here unfold ! 
But I had then not ended here below 
What, in the enterprising bloom of life, 
Fate with no light behest 
Required me to begin. 
Recovery, daughter of Creation, too, 
Though not for immortality designed, 
The Lord of life and death 
Sent thee from heaven to me! 


SE PS EE BEES 


THE CHOIRS. 


Dear dream, which I must ne’er behold fulfilled, 
Thou beamy form, more fair than orient day, 
Float back, and hover yet 
Before my swimming sight ! 


Do they wear crowns in vain, that they forbear 
To realize the heavenly portraiture ? 

Shall marble hearse them all, 

Ere the bright change be wrought ? 


Hail, chosen ruler of a freer world! 

For thee shall bloom the never fading song, 
Who bidd’st it be, — to thee 
Religion’s honors rise. 


Yes! could the grave allow, of thee Id sing: 
For once would Inspiration string the lyre, — 
The streaming tide of joy, 
My pledge for loftier verse. 


What ’t is to melt in bliss, who never felt 
Devotion’s raptures rise 
On sacred Music’s wing: 


—S 


t-PA ereraiaeeeaes ee TD Ee Te 


RAMLER. 


Ne’er sweetly trembled, when adoring choirs 
Mingle their hallowed songs of solemn praise ; 
And, at each awful pause, 
The unseen choirs above. 


Long float around my forehead, blissful dream ! 
[ hear a Christian people hymn their God, 
And thousands kneel at once, 
Jehovah, Lord, to thee! 


The people sing their Saviour, sing the Son; 
Their simple song according with the heart, 
Yet lofty, such as lifts 
The aspiring soul from earth. 


On the raised eyelash, on the burning cheek, 
The young tear quivers; for they view the goal, 
Where shines the golden crown, 
Where angels wave the palm. 
Hush ! the clear song wells forth. Now flows 
along 
Music, as if poured artless from the breast ; 
For so the master willed 
To lead its channelled course. 
Deep, strong, it seizes on the swelling heart, 
Scorning what knows not to call down the tear, 
Or shroud the soul in gloom, 
Or steep in holy awe. 


Borne on the deep, slow sounds, a holy awe 
Descends. Alternate voices sweep the dome, 
Then blend their choral force, — 
The theme, Impending Doom, ?} 


Or the triumphal Hail to him who rose, 
While all the host of heaven o’er Sion’s hill 
Hovered, and, praising, saw 


Ascend the Lord of Life. 


One voice alone, one harp alone, begins ; 
But soon joins in the ever fuller choir. 
The people quake. They feel 
A glow of heavenly fire. 


Joy! joy! they scarce support it. Rolls aloud 
The organ’s thunder, — now more loud and 
more, — 
And to the shout of all 
The temple trembles too. 


Enough! I sink! The wave of people bows 
Before the altar, — bows the front to earth ; 
They taste the hallowed cup, 
Devoutly, deeply, still. 


One day, when rest my bones beside a fane, 
Where thus assembled worshippers adore, 
The conscious grave shall heave, 
Its flowerets sweeter bloom ; 


—_— 


1 The words in Italics are passages from an Easter-hymn 
of Luther’s, very popular in Germany. 


I ET RO ETP EEE IE SO A 


And on the morn that from the rock He sprang, 
When panting Praise pursues his radiant way, 
I'll hear, — He rose again 
Shall vibrate through the tomb. 


eee 


CARL WILHELM RAMLER. 


Carut Wituetm Ramier was born at Col- 
berg, in Pomerania, in 1725. His education 
commenced at the Orphan School in Stettin, 
whence, in 1740, he removed to Halle. In 
1746, he became a preceptor in Berlin, where 
he formed the acquaintance of Kleist, Sulzer, 
and Lessing. Jn 1748, he was appointed Pro- 
fessor of Logic and Elegant Literature in the 
Berlin Academy for Cadets. He employed 
himself in various literary undertakings, in ad- 
dition to the duties of his professorship. In 
1787, he became one of the managers of the 
national theatre, and received a pension and a 
seat in the Academy. He resigned his professor- 
ship in 1790, and the directorship of the thea- 
tre in 1796. He died in 1798. 

Of his writings, his odes in the manner of 
Horace acquired the most popularity ; indeed, he 
is considered, next to Klopstock, the author of 
the best odes of the time. His works were 
published at Berlin, in 1800 and 1801. The 
character of his productions is, however, cold 
correctness, and he was too much of an imita- 
tor, to retain a strong hold upon the minds of 
his countrymen. 


—_—_ 


ODE TO WINTER. 


Storms ride the air, and veil the sky in clouds, 
And chase the thundering streams athwart the 
land: 
Bare stand the woods; the social linden’s leaves 
Far o’er the valleys whirl. 


The vine, —a withered stalk ! But why bewail 
The godlike vine? Friends, come and quaff 
its blood ! 
Let Autumn with his emptied horn retire ; 
Bid fir-crowned Winter hail ! 


He decks the flood with adamantine shield, 

Which laughs to scorn the shafts of day. Amazed, 

The tenants of the wood new blossoms view : 
Strange lilies strew the ground. 


No more in tottering gondolas the brides 

Tremble ; on gliding cars they boldly scud : 

Hid in her fur-clad neck, the favorite’s hand 
Asks an unneeded warmth. 


No more, like fishes, plunge the bathing boys; 


On steel-winged shoes they skim the hardened * 


wave : 
The spouse of Venus in the glittering blade 
The lightning’s swiftness hid. 


252 


O Winter! call thy coldest east-wind; drive 

The lingering warriors from Bohemia back ; 

With them my Kleist: for him Lycoris stays, 
And his friend’s tawny wine. 


ODE TO CONCORD. 


/ 


Nor always to the heaven’s harmonious spheres, 
O Concord, listen, — wander earth again ! 
Beneath thy plastic step, 
The peopled cities climb. 
The chain, the scourge, the axe beside thee bears 
Deaf Nemesis, —to avenge the wedlock’s stain, 
The pillage of the cot, 
The spilth of othex ss blood. 
From the warm ashes of their plundered homes, 
On thee, with clasped hands, with pleading 
t tongue, 
The lonely grandsire calls, 
The widowed mother calls, 
And she,—the flower of virgins now no more,— 
Doomed aye to shed the unavailing tear, 
And nurse, with downcast eye, 
Some ruffian’s orphan brat. 
Bind with thy cords of silk the armed hands 
Of hateful kings; reach out thy golden cup, 
Whose sweet nepenthe heals 
The feverish throb of wrath ; 
And hither lead Hope, crowned with budding 
bloorns, 
And callous-handed Labor, singing loud, 
And Plenty, scattering gifts 
To dancing choirs of glee. 
The war-steed’s hoof-mark hide with greening 
ears } 
Twine round the elm once more the trampled 
vine ; 
And from the grass-grown street 
The rugged ruin shove. 
So shall, new nurseries of sons unborn, 
More towns arise, —and, Concord, rear to thee, 
Taught by the milder arts, 
The marble fanes of thank. 


ae SESE 


GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING. 


Tuts great poet, and still greater critic, was 
born in 1729, at Kamenz, a town in Upper Lu- 
satia. He was sent in his twelfth year to the 
* Prince’s School” at Meissen, where he de- 
voted himself to the ancient languages and 
the mathematics with ardor and success. In 
1746, he entered the University of Leipsic, but 
was satisfied with none of the teachers except 
Ernesti. Instead of studying theology, he oc- 
cupied himself with the fine arts and the thea- 
tre. Here he wrote his Anacreontics. In 1750 
he went to Berlin, and contributed to some of 
the periodicals. He afterwards studied at Wit- 
tenberg; but in 1753 returned to Berlin, and 
formed a connection with Mendelssohn and Ni- 
colai. He also wrote in Voss’s ** Gazette.’’ Here 
he became the founder of German scientific 


GERMAN POETRY. 


criticism. In 1755, he wrote the tragedy of 
“‘Sarah Sampson,” the first German tragedy of 
common life. In the same year he set out on 
a tour, as travelling companion to a Leipsic 
merchant, Mr. Winkler, but returned to Leipsic 
on account of the breaking out of the Seven 
Years’ War. He assisted in editing the “ Li- 
brary of Belles Lettres,’’ was a contributor to 
the “‘ Literary Epistles,’’ and began the * Emilia 
Galotti’’ about this period. In 1760, he became 
a member of the Royal Academy of Sciences 
at Berlin, then secretary of General Tauen- 
zien in Breslau, and wrote ‘“* Minna von Barn- 
helm” and “‘ Laoco6n,’’—the latter appearing in 
1765. In 1767, he accepted an invitation from 
the proprietors of the theatre in Hamburg, and 
removed to that city, where he wrote the ‘‘ Dra- 
maturgie.” In 1770, he was appointed libra- 
rian at Wolfenbittel; while in this situation, he 
published some works that involved him ina 
vehement theological controversy. In 1775, 
he travelled in Italy; and in 1779, he pub- 
lished his ‘‘ Nathan the Wise,’ the most cele- 
brated of his dramatic works, in which he set 
the example of the finished iambic pentameter, 
afterwards used by Goethe and Schiller. He 
died in Brunswick, in 1781. His numerous 
works embrace almost every department of let- 
ters. They were published at Berlin, 1771 
— 94, in thirty parts; again, 1825 — 28, in thirty- 
two parts ; and, finally, at Leipsic, 1838 — 40, 
in thirteen Slane octavo. 

The following passages are from the sketch 
of Lessing’s character by Wolfgang Menzel,* 
and, though in some parts, perhaps, too highly 
aeiored. ANS the estimation in when he is still 
beld in Germany. 

‘When we consider Lessing as a poet, we 
must not forget that he had first to work himself 
free from the Gallomania, Greecomania, and 
Anglomania, by criticism, and that he was oc- 
cupied with a hundred other things besides po- 
etry. Hence his earlier poetical studies and 
essays, as well as his occasional poetical trifles, 
on which he himself set but little value, are 
to be broadly distinguished from the classical 
works of his full poetical maturity ; that is, from 
‘Minna von Barnhelm,’ ‘ Emilia Galotti,’ and 
¢ Nathan,’— each of ihiok would alone be suffi- 
cient to rank him with the greatest poets of all 
ages. The spirit and form of these works are 
alike important. 

‘¢ Honor stands forth as the inmost principle 
of the poetry of Lessing. We can understand 
why the poets and critics, whose principle, on 
the contrary, had been hitherto the utter ab- 
sence of honor, overlook this circumstance, and 
have contrived fairly to forget it, in their eulo- 
gies of Lessing. So much the more reason for 
me to return to it. 

“T say, still further, that honor was the prin- 
ciple of Lessing’s whole life... He composed in 
the same spirit that he lived. He had to con- 


* German Literature, Vol. II., p. 399. 


aS_ OO 


tend with obstacles his whole life long; but he 
never bowed down his head. He struggled, 
not for posts of honor, but for his own indepen- 
dence. He might, with his extraordinary abil- 
ity, have rioted in the favor of the great, like 
Goethe ; but he scorned and hated this favor, as 
unworthy a free man. His long continuance 
in private life, his services, as secretary of the 
brave General Tauenzien, during the Seven 
Years’ War, and afterwards as librarian at Wolf. 
enbittel, proved that he did not aspire to high 
places. He declared that he would resign the 
latter situation at once, when the censorship 
undertook to impose restraints upon his liberal 
opinions. He ridiculed Gellert, Klopstock, and 
all who bowed their laurelled brows before 
heads encircled with golden crowns; and he 
himself shunned all contact with the great, ani- 
mated by that stainless spirit of pride, to which 
the Noli me tangere is an inborn principle.” 

‘Such was Lessing himself, and such we find 
him in his Major Tellheim, in Odoardo Ga- 
lotti, and in Nathan. Humanity and wisdom 
were never so intimately connected with the 
romantic essence of manly honor; and no mod- 
ern poet—TI repeat it, no one —has known 
how to represent this grace of manliness so well 
as Lessing. 

‘“¢ And what charming daughters has this aus- 
tere father! What enchantment is there in 
Minna, Emilia, Recha! Who, except Shak- 
speare, has understood the nature of woman, in 
its sweet softness, noble simplicity, laughing 
vivacity, and sacred purity, like Lessing? We 
are amazed at the lovely miracles of fiction, and 
would fain converse with these so natural crea- 
tions, as if they were standing before us. 

‘‘ Lessing was the first of our modern poets 
who reconciled the ideals of poetry with real 
life, — who dared to bring upon the stage he- 
roes in modern costume, heroes of to-day. Up 
to this time, we knew only the manly ‘virtues 
of the ancient Romans from the French come- 
dy. Lessing showed, by his Tellheim, and 
Odoardo, that, even in the present prosaic 
world, a hero, a man of honor, may still exist. 

‘‘ By this modern costume, by the naturalness 
of his dramatic characters,. and by the prose 
which he brought into the field against the old 
French alexandrine as well as the Greek hex- 
ameter, he exerted a great influence on the sub- 
sequent age, and became the creator of the 
proper modern German poetry, which under- 
took to picture life as it now is, while hitherto 
nothing but what was ancient and foreign had 
been imitated. 

‘The Anglomaniacs, who also came forward, 
as friends of the natural style, with pictures 
of the present and of common life, — Nicolai, 
Miller von Itzehoe, and others, — were later 
than Lessing, and followed the impulse which 
he first gave. Then came Goethe and Schil- 
ler, whose first prose dramas — ‘ Gétz,’ ¢Cla- 
vigo,’ ‘The Robbers,’ ‘Cabal and Love’ — 
everywhere betray the influence of Lessing’s 


eee : 


LESSING. 


253 


school, and, without his example, would never 
have existed. 

“Lessing was also the first, who, in his 
‘Emilia Galotti,’ delineated a modern prince. 
Before that time we knew nothing but stiff 
stage kings, with crown and sceptre ; or infa- 
mous court poems, in which the orgies of Ver- 
sailles were celebrated under the form of pasto- 
ral poetry. Lessing surprised the world at 
once with a picture of courts that was as new 
as it was true. Who can deny that he produced 
a powerful effect? Lessing’s simple picture of 
courts had a much greater influence on the 
political opinions of the Germans than the later 
revolutionary philosophers of France. Schiller 
proceeded after this manner; and, though Iff- 
land’s princes figured as very excellent charac- 
ters, he made up for it by representing their 
ministers as so much the worse. The immoral- 
ity of the courts became a stock article of the 
stage throughout Germany, and the courts, still 
secure, took it all very easily. 

‘“‘ Lessing’s ‘Nathan’ forms, in its subject- 
matter, the luminous point of the liberal culture 
which had become prevalent in the eighteenth 
century. The neglect which his Jewish friend, 
the amiable Mendelssohn, still at times experi- 
enced, suggested to him the idea of this master- 
piece, in which the profoundest understanding 
is united with the noblest sentiments. This 
immortal poem, of the mildest, nay, I might say, 
of the sweetest wisdom, is likewise of great 
importance to German literature by its form ; 
for it is the parent of the numberless iambic 
tragedies which were brought into fashion by 
Schiller and Goethe, first after Lessing. 

‘But no poet has again attained the early 
charm of the German iambus, with which, in 
Lessing’s ‘ Nathan,’ it takes a deep and won- 
derful hold of the affections, gently winning its 
way to the heart. Goethe cultivated only the 
melody and outward splendor, — Schiller, only 
the overpowering vigor of this verse ; and both 
of them, as well as their innumerable imitators, 
departed widely from the delightful naturalness 
and unpretending simplicity which it assumed 
under the management of Lessing. The dra- 
matic iambus has become too lyric ; in Lessing, 
it was nearer prose, and much more dramatic.”’ 


EXTRACT FROM NATHAN THE WISE. 


SITTAH, SALADIN, AND NATHAN. 
[ Scene. — An Audience Room in the Sultan’s Palace. ] 


SALADIN (giving directions at the door). 
Here, introduce the Jew, whene’er he comes, — 
He seems in no great haste. 


SITTAH. 
May be, at first, 
He was not in the way. 


SALADIN. 
Ah, sister, sister! 
v 


c = —- - a 


254 


SITTAH. 
You seem as if a combat were impending. 


SALADIN. 
With weapons that I have not learned to 
wield. — 
Must I disguise myself? 
I lay a snare? 
knowledge ? 
And this, for what? 
money, — 
For money from a Jew. And to such arts 
Must Saladin descend, at last, to come at 
The least of little things ? 


I use precautions ? 
When, where gained I that 


To fish for money, -— 


SITTAH. 


Each little thing, 
Despised too much, finds methods of revenge. 


SALADIN. 


’'T is but too true. And if this Jew should prove 
The fair, good man, as once the dervis painted — 


SITTAH. 

Then difficulties cease. A snare concerns 

The avaricious, cautious, fearful Jew ; 

And not the good, wise man: for he is ours 

Without a snare. Then the delight of hearing 

How such a man speaks out; with what stern 
strength 

He tears the net, or with what prudent foresight 

He one by one undoes the tangled meshes! 

That will be all to boot. 


SALADIN. 


That I shall joy in. 


SITTAH. 
What, then, should trouble thee? For if he be 
One of the many only, a mere Jew, 
You will not blush, to such a one to seem 
A man as he thinks all mankind to be. 
One that to him should bear a better aspect 
Would seem a fool, — a dupe. 


SALADIN. 
So that I must 


Act badly, lest the bad think badly of me? 


SITTAH. 
Yes; if you call it acting badly, brother, 
To use a thing after its kind. 


? SALADIN. 
There ’s nothing, 


That woman’s wit invents, it can ’t embellish. 
? 


SITTAH. 


Embellish ? — 


SALADIN. 

But their fine-wrought filagree 

In my rude hand would break. It is for those 
That can contrive them to employ such weapons: 
They ask a practised wrist. But chance what 


may, 
Well as I can 


GERMAN POETRY. 


a ee 


SITTAH. 
Trust not yourself too little. 
I answer for you, if you have the will. 
Such men as you would willingly persuade us 
It was their swords, their swords alone, that 

raised them. 

The lion ’s apt to be ashamed of hunting 
In fellowship of the fox ; — ’t is of his fellow, 
Not of the cunning, that he is ashamed. 


. 


SALADIN. 
You women would so gladly level man 
Down to yourselves !— Go, I have got my lesson. 


SITTAH. 
What! must I go? 


SALADIN. 


Had you the thought of staying ? 


SITTAH. 


In your immediate presence not, indeed ; 
But in the by-room. 


SALADIN,. 
You could like to listen. 
Not that, my sister, if I may insist. 
Away ! the curtain rustles, — he is come. 
Beware of staying, —I ’l] be on the watch. — 


[While Sittah retires through one door, Nathan enters 
at another, and Saladin seats himself. 


Draw nearer, Jew; yet nearer; here, quite by 
me, 
Without all fear. 


NATHAN. 
Remain that for thy foes ! 


SALADIN. 
Your name is Nathan? 


NATHAN. 


Yes. 


SALADIN. 


Nathan the Wise? 


NATHAN. 


No. 


SALADIN. 
If not thou, the people calls thee so. 


NATHAN. 


May be, the people. 


SALADIN. 
Fancy not that I 


Think of the people’s voice contemptuously ; 
I have been wishing much to know the man 
Whom it has named the Wise. 


NATHAN. 
And if it named 


Him so in scorn? If wise meant only prudent; 
And prudent, one who knows his interest well ? 


SALADIN. 
Who knows his real interest, thou must mean. 


NATHAN. 
Then were the interested the most prudent ; 
Then wise and prudent were the same. 


SALADIN. 


I hear 

You proving what your speeches contradict. 

You know man’s real interests, which the peo- 
ple 

Knows not,—at least, have studied how to 
know them. 

That alone makes the sage. 


, NATHAN, 
Which each imagines 
Himself to be. 


SALADIN. 
Of modesty enough ! 
Ever to meet it, where one seeks to hear 
Dry truth, is vexing. Let us to the purpose ; — 
But, Jew, sincere and open 


, NATHAN. 
I will serve thee 


So as to merit, Prince, thy further notice. 


SALADIN, 
Serve me? — how ? 


NATHAN. 
Thou shalt have the best I bring, — 
Shalt have them cheap. 


SALADIN. 
What speak you of ? — your wares? 

My sister shall be called to bargain with you 
For them (so much for the sly listener) ; —I 
Have nothing to transact now with the mer- 


chant. 
NATHAN, 
Doubtless, then, you would learn what, on my 
journey, 


I noticed of the motions of the foe, 
Who stirs anew. If unreserved I may 


SALADIN. 
Neither was that the object of my sending : 
I know what I have need to know already. 
In short, I willed your presence 


NATHAN, 
Sultan, order. x 


SALADIN, 
To gain instruction quite on other points. 
Since you are a man so wise, — tell me, which 
law, 
Which faith, appears to you the better ? 


NATHAN, 
Sultan, 


I am a Jew. 


SALADIN. 
And I a Mussulman: 
The Christian stands between us. 
three 
Religions only one can be the true. 


Of these 


LESSING. 


A man like you remains not just where birth 

Has chanced to cast him, or, if he remains there, 

Does it from insight, choice, from grounds of 
preference. 

Share, then, with me your insight, — let me hear 

The grounds of preference, which I have wanted 

The leisure to examine, — learn the choice 

These grounds have motived, that it may be 
mine. 

In confidence I ask it. How you startle, 

And weigh me with your eye! It may well be 

I’m the first sultan to whom this caprice, 

Methinks not quite unworthy of a sultan, 

Has yet occurred. Am I not? Speak, then, — 
speak. 

Or do you, to collect yourself, desire 

Some moments of delay? I give them you. — 

(Whether she ’s listening ? —I must know of her 

If Ive done right.—) Reflect, —I ’Il soon 
return. 


[Saladin steps into the room to which Sittah had retired. 


NATHAN. 
Strange! How is this? What wills the sultan 
of me? 
I came prepared with cash, — he asks truth. 
Truth ? 


As if truth, too, were cash, — a coin disused, 

That goes by weight, — indeed, ’t is some such 
thing ; — 

But a new coin, known by the stamp at once, 

To be flung down and told upon the counter, 

It is not that. Like gold in bags tied up, 

So truth lies hoarded in the wise man’s head, 

To be brought out.— Which, now, in this 
transaction, 

Which of us plays the Jew? He asks for truth, — 

Is truth what he requires, his aim, his end? 

That this is but the glue to lime a snare 

Ought not to be suspected, —’t were too little. 

Yet what is found too little for the great? 

In fact, through hedge and pale to stalk at once 

Into one’s field beseems not, — friends look 
round, 

Seek for the path, ask leave to pass the gate. — 

I must be cautious. Yet to damp him back, 

And be the stubborn Jew, is not the thing; 

And wholly to throw off the Jew, still less. 

For, if no Jew, he might with right inquire, 

Why not a Mussulman ?— Yes, — that may 


serve me. 

Not children only can be quieted 

With stories. — Ha! he comes ; — well, let him 
come. 


SALADIN (reiurning). 
So there the field is clear.—I’m not too quick? 
Thou hast bethought thyself as much as need 
is? 
Speak, no one hears. 


NATHAN. 
Might the whole world but hear us! 


SALADIN. 
Is Nathan of his cause so confident ? 


255 | 


! 256 


Yes, that I call the sage, — to veil no truth ; 
For truth to hazard all things, life and goods. 


NATHAN. 
Ay, when ’t is necessary, and when useful. 


SALADIN. 
Henceforth I hope I shall with reason bear 
One of my titles, — ‘ Betterer of the world 
And of the law.”’ 


NATHAN. 
In truth, a noble title. 
But, Sultan, ere I quite unfold myself, 
Allow me to relate a tale. 


SALADIN, 
Why not? 


I always was a friend of tales well told. . 


' NATHAN. 
Well told, — that’s not precisely my affair. 


SALADIN. 
Again so proudly modest ?— Come, begin. 


ee ars, ARN hae scan agmenl acne enone a ee ee = 
= SoS 


NATHAN, 

In days of yore, there dwelt in East a man 
Who from a valued hand received a ring 
Of endless worth: the stone of it an opal, 
That shot an ever changing tint: moreover, 
It had the hidden virtue him to render 
Of God and man beloved, who, in this view, 
And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strange 
The Eastern man ne’er drew it off his finger, 
And studiously provided to secure it 
For ever to his house? Thus he bequeathed it, 
First, to the most beloved of his sons, — 
Ordained that he again should leave the ring 
To the most dear among his children, — and, 
That without heeding birth, the favorite son, 
In virtue of the ring alone, should always 
Remain the lord o’ th’ house.— You hear me, 

Sultan? 


SALADIN, 
I understand thee, — on. 


NATHAN, 
From son to son, 


At length this ring descended to a father 

Who had three sons alike obedient to him ; 

Whon, therefore, he could not but love alike. 

At times seemed this, now thai, at times the third 

(Accordingly as each apart received 

The overflowings of his heart), most worthy 

To heir the ring, which, with good-natured 
weakness, 

He privately to each in turn had promised. 

This went on for a while. But death approached, 

And the’ good father grew embarrassed. So 

To disappoint two sons, who trust his promise, 

He could not bear. What’s to be done? He 
sends 

In secret to a jeweller, of whom, 

Upon the model of the real ring, 


GERMAN POETRY. 


a a RS 


He might. bespeak two others, and commanded 

To spare nor cost nor pains to make them like, 

Quite like the true one. This the artist managed. 

The rings were brought, and e’en the father’s eye 

Could not distinguish which had been the model. 

Quite overjoyed, he summons all his sons, 

Takes leave of each apart, on each bestows 

His blessing and his ring, and dies.—'Thou 
hear’st me? | , 

SALADIN, 
I hear, I hear. Come, finish with thy tale ; — 
Is it soon ended ? 


NATHAN. | 
Tt is ended, Sultan ; | 
For all that follows may be guessed of course. | 
Scarce is the father dead, each with his ring 
Appears, and claims to be the lord o’ th’ house. 
Comes question, strife, complaint, —all to no 
end ; 
For the true ring could no more be distinguished 
Than now can — the true faith. 


SAULADIN, 
How, how ? —is that 


To be the answer to my query ? 
| 


NATHAN. 
No, 
But it may serve as my apology ; 
If I can ’t venture to decide between 
Rings which the father got expressly made, 
That they might not be known from one another. 


The rings, —do n’t trifle with me ; I must think 
That the religions which I named can be 
Distinguished, e’en to raiment, drink, and food. 


NATHAN. , 
And only not as to their grounds of proof. 
Are not all built alike on history, 
Traditional, or written? History 
Must be received on trust, —is it not so? 
In whom now are we likeliest to put trust ? 
In our own people surely, in those men 
Whose blood we are, in them who from our 
childhood 
Have given us proofs of love, who ne’er de- 
ceived us, 
Unless ’t were wholesomer to be deceived. 
How can I less believe in my forefathers 
Than thou in thine? How can I ask of thee 
To own that thy forefathers falsified, 
In order to yield mine the praise of truth? 
The like of Christians. 


| 
SALADIN,. 
| 
| 


: SALADIN, 
By the living God ! 
The man is in the right, —I must be silent. 


NATHAN. 
Now let us to our rings return once more. 
As said, the sons complained. Each to the judge | 
Swore from his father’s hand immediately 
To have received the ring, as was the case ; 


Sa Ee sans 


pena bie a NLM ath ask PTD 2 CA Sa Sal RPE I hore ete 
= 2 mth as : 


After he had long obtained the father’s prom- 


isé 
One day to have the ring, as also was. 
The father, each asserted, could to him 
Not have been false: rather than so suspect 
Of such a father, willing as he might be 
With charity to judge his brethren, he 
Of treacherous forgery was bold to accuse them. 


SALADIN, 
Well, and the judge, —-1’m eager now to hear 
What thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on. 


NATHAN. 


The judge said, “If ye summon not the father 

Before my seat, I cannot give a sentence. 

Am I to guess enigmas? Or expect ye 

That the true ring should here unseal its lips? 

But held, — you tell me that the real ring 

Enjoys the hidden power to make the wearer 

Of God and man beloved: let that decide. 

Which of you do two brothers love the best? 

You ’re silent. Do these love-exciting rings 

Act inward only, not without? Does each 

Love but himself? Ye’re all deceived deceiv- 
ers, — 

None of your rings is true. The real ring, 

Perhaps, is gone. To hide or to supply 

Its loss, yeur father ordered three for one.”’ 


SALADIN, 
Mae es 
Q, charming, charming! 


NATHAN, 

“And,” the judge continued, 

‘If you will take advice, in lieu of sentence, 

This is my counsel to you, —to take up 

The matter where it stands. If each of you 

Has had a ring presented by his father, 

Let each believe his own the real ring. 

"T is possible the father chose no longer 

To tolerate the one ring’s tyranny ; 

And certainly, as he much loved you all, 

And loved you all alike, it could not please 
him, 

By favoring one, to be of two the oppressor. 

Let each feel honored by this free affection 

Unwarped of prejudice ; let each endeavour 

To vie with both his brothers in displaying 

The virtue of his ring; assist its might 

With gentleness, benevolence, forbearance, 

With inward resignation to the Godhead ; 

And if the virtues of the ring continue 

To show themselves among your children’s 
children, 

After a thousand thousand years, appear 

Before this judgment-seat, —a greater one 

Than I shall sit upon it, and decide.” — 

So spake the modest judge. 


SALADIN,. 


God ! 


NATHAN, 


Saladin, 
Feel’st thou thyself this wiser, promised man ? 
33 


LESSING. 


SALADIN. 
I, dust, —~I, nothing, —- God? 

[Precipitates himself upon Nathan and takes hold of 
his hand, which he does not quit, the remainder of 
the scene. 

NATHAN. 
What moves thee, Sultan ? 


SALADIN, 
Nathan, my dearest Nathan, ’tis not yet 
The judge’s thousand thousand years are past, — 
His judgment-seat ’s not mine. Go, go, but 
love me. 


NATHAN. 
Has Saladin, then, nothing else to order? 


SALADIN. 
No: 

NATHAN, 
Nothing ? 

SALADIN. 


Nothing in the least, —- and wherefore ? 


NATHAN. 
I could have wished an opportunity 
To lay a prayer before you. 


SALADIN, 


Is there need 
Of opportunity for that? Speak freely. 


NATHAN, 
I have come from a long journey, from collecting 
Debts, and I’ve almost of hard cash too much ; — 
The times look perilous, —I know not where 
To lodge it safely ; -1 was thinking thou — 
For coming wars require large sums — couldst 

use it. 

SALADIN. 
Nathan, I ask not if thou saw’st Al-Hafi, — 
I ’ll not examine if some shrewd suspicion 
Spurs thee to make this offer of thyself. 


iit NATHAN. 
Suspicion ? — 

SALADIN. 
I deserve this offer. Pardon! 


For what avails concealment ? 
I was about 


I acknowledge 


NATHAN, 
To ask the same of me? 


SALADIN. 
Yes, 

NATHAN, 
Then ’t is well we ’re both accommodated. 
That I can ’t send thee all I have of treasure 
Arises from the templar;—thou must know 

him ; — 

I have a weighty debt to pay to him. 


SALADIN. ‘ | 
A templar? How? thou dost not with thy gold 


Support my direst foes ? 
v2 


258 


. t 


se 


a ee ee ee ee rae) Tac Se ve Se eo Ne a eae 


GERMAN POETRY. 


NATHAN. 


I speak of him 
Whose life the sultan 


SALADIN, 

What art thou recalling ? 

I had forgot the youth. Whence is he? know’st 
thou ? 


NATHAN, 

Hast thou not heard, then, how thy clemency 
To him has fallen on me: ? He, at ‘the risk 
Of his new-spared existence, Fost the flames 
Rescued my daughter. 


SALADIN, 

Ha! Has he done that ? 

He looked like one that would. 
too, 

Whom he’s so like, had done it. Is he here still? 

Bring him to me. 1 have so often talked 

To Sittah of this brother, whom she knew not, 

That I must let her see his counterfeit. 

Go, fetch him. Howa single worthy action, — 

Though but of whim or passion born, gives rise 

To pier blessings! Fetch him. 


My brother, 


NATHAN, 
In an instant. 


The rest remains as settled. 
, SALADIN. 
O, I wish 


I had let my sister listen! Well, I’ll to her. 
How shall I make her privy to all this ? 


—— os 


SALOMON GESSNER. 


SaLomon Gessner was born at Zitrich in 
1730. Conrad Gessner, a voluminous writer 
in the sixteenth century, was one of his ances- 
tors. The father of the poet was a bookseller, 
and a member of the Great Council. He was 
placed under the instruction of Bodmer, but 
with little benefit. At length, being appren- 
ticed by his father to a boakseliar 4 in Berlin, he 
became acquainted with Gleim, Kleist, Testa 
and Ramler. At the expiration of ten years, 
he returned to Zitrich, and became a partner in 
the firm, as a bookseller. His “‘Idyls”’ first 
appeared i in 1756, and gave him at once a high 
reputation. His “ Death of Abel’’ was published 
in 1758; and, in 1762, an epic poem, under the 
title of “The First Niviestor! ” He showed 
also a talent for drawing and painting, and the 
last of his works was the “ Letters on Land- 
scape Painting.” He died in 1788. His works 
abound in delicate and beautiful descriptions 
of natural scenery, but are deficient in vigor 
and action. Their predominant character is 
sentimentality. The most successful among 
them was “The Death of Abel.” The latest 
edition of his works is that of Leipsic, 2 vols., 

1841. 


x 

Now beneath the flood of might 
Shrouded the marble turrets are, 

And ’gainst each insular mountain ‘eight 
The black, big waves are billowing far ; 

And, lo! before “the surging dete, 

Isle nner isle still vanisheth ! 


Remains one lonely speck above 
The fury of the climbing flood : 
A grisly crowd stil] vainly : strove 
To win that safer altitude ; 
And the cries of despair still rang on the air, 
As the rushing wave pursued i in its pride, 


A SCENE FROM THE DELUGE. 
And dashed an from its slippery side ! 


a is not yonder shore less steep, 
Ye happier few ? escape the deep! 
Upon its crest the crowd assembles, — 
Lo! the peopled mountain trembled 
The rushing waters exalt it on high ; — 
Shaken and shivered from brow to base 
It slides amain, unwieldily, 
Into the Gniverenl sea ; 
And instantly the echoing 


? 


sky 
Howls to the howl of the hapless race 
That burden the hill, or under it die ! 


Yonder, the torrent of waters, behold ! 


Into the chaos of ocean hath rolled 
The virtuous son, with his sire so old! 


He, strengthened with duty, and proud of his 
strength, 
Sought from that desolate island, now sunken, 
To conquer the perilous billows at length, — 
But their very last sob the mad waters have 
drunken ! 


To the deluge’s dire, unatonable tomb 
Yon retin re Rte the children she tried, 
In vain, to preserve; and the watery gloom 
Save over the dead, as they float side by side: 
And she hath plunged after !—how madly she 
died! ' 


II, 


From forth the waters waste and wild 
The loftiest summit sternly smiled ; 
And that but to the sky disclosed 
Its rugged top, and that sad pair, 
Who, to us hour of wrath exposed, 
sised/i in the howling storm-blast there. 
Semin, the noble, young, and free, 
To whom this world’s most lov rely one 
Had vowed her heart’s idolatry, — 
His own beloved Zemira, — set 
On this dark mountain’s ononee as 
And they were mid the flood ‘onset ' 


Broke on them the wild waters ; — all 

The heaven was thunder, and a pall ; 
Below, the ocean’s roar ; 

Around, deep darkness, save the flash 

Of lightning on the waves, that dash 
Without a bed, or shore. 


GESSNER, 


And every cloud from the lowering sky 
Threatened destruction fierce and nigh ; 
And every surge rolled drearily, 
With carcasses borne on ooze and foam, 
Yawning, as to its moving tomb 
‘It looked for further prey to come. 


|| Zemira to her fluttering breast 
Folded her lover; and their hearts 
Throbbed on each other, unrepressed, 
Blending as in one bosom, — while 
The raindrops on her faded cheek 
With her tears mingled, but not a smile ; — 
In horror, nothing now can speak, — 
Such horror nothing now imparts ! 


‘‘ There is no hope of safety, none, 

My Semin, — my beloved one! 

O, woe! O, desolation! Death 

Sways all, — above, around, beneath: 

Near and more near he climbs, — and, O, 

Which of the waves besieging so 

Will whelm us? Take me to thy cold 

And shuddering arms’ beloved fold ! 

My God! look! what a wave comes on! 
It glitters in the lightning dim, — 


1? 


It passes over us ! 


"T is gone, — 
And senseless sinks the maid on him. 


III. 
Semin embraced the fainting maid, — 
Words faltered on his quivering lips, 
And he was mute, —and all was shade, 
And all around him in eclipse. 
Was it one desolate, hideous spot ? 
A wreck of worlds ?— He saw it not! 
He saw but her, beloved so well, 
So death-like on his bosom lay, 
Felt the cold pang that o’er him fell, 
Heard but his beating heart. Away, 
Grasp of hard Agony’s iron hand! 
Off from his heart thine icy touch! 
Off from his lips thy colorless band ! 
Off from his soul thy wintry clutch ! 


| Love conquers Death, —and he hath kissed 
Her bleached cheeks, by the cold rain 
bleached ; 
He hath folded her to his bosom; and, list! 
His tender words her heart have reached : 
She hath awakened, and she looks 
Upon her lover tenderly, 
Whose tenderness the Flood rebukes, 
As on destroying goeth he. 
| 
| 


“OQ God of Judgment!” she cried aloud, 
“ Refuge or pity is there none ? 
Waves rave, and thunder rends the cloud, 


And the winds howl, —‘ Be vengeance done!’ 
Our years have innocently sped, — 
My Semin, thou wert ever good : 
Woe ’s me! my joy and pride have fled ! 
All but my love is now subdued ! 
And thou, to me who gavest life, 
Torn from my side, I saw thy strife 


With the wild surges, and thy head 
Heave evermore above the water, 
Thine arms exalted and outspread, 
For the last time, to bless thy daughter ! 
The earth is now a lonely isle ! 
Yet ’t were a paradise to me, 
Wert, Semin, thou with me the while, — 
O, let me die embracing thee ! 
Ts there no pity, God above ! 
For innocence and blameless love ? 
But what shall innocence plead before thee ? 
Great God! thts dying, I adore thee !”’ 


Iv. 

Still his beloved the youth sustains, 

As she in the storm-blast shivers : — 
‘*’T is done! no hope of life remains ! 

No mortal howls among the rivers ! 
Zemira! the next moment is 

Our last, — gaunt Death ascends! 
Doth clasp our thighs, and the abyss 

Yearns to embrace us eagerly ! 


‘¢ We will not mourn a common lot, — 
Life, what art thou, when joyfullest, 
Wisest, noblest, greatest, best,— 

Life longest, and that most delightest ? 

A dewdrop, by the dawn begot, 

That on the rock to-day is brightest, 

To-morrow doth it fade away, 

Or fall into the ocean’s spray. 


‘¢ Courage ! beyond this little life 
Eternity and bliss are rife. 
Let us not tremble, then, my love, 

To cross the narrow sea, — but thus 
Embrace each other; and above 

The swelling surge that pants for us 
Our souls shall hover happily, 
Triumphant, and at liberty ! 


*¢ Ay, let us join our hands in prayer 

To Him whose wrath hath ravaged here: 
His holy doom shall mortal man 

Presume to judge, and weigh, and scan? 
He who breathed life into our dust 

May to the just or the unjust 

Send death ; but happy, happy they 
Who ’ve trodden Wisdom’s pleasant way! 


‘¢ Not life we ask, O Lord! Do thou 

Convey us to thy judgment-seat ! 

A sacred faith inspires me now, — 

Death shall not end, but shall complete. 
Peal out, ye thunders ; crush and scathe ! 
Howl, desolation, ruin, wrath ! 

Entomb us, waters ! — Evermore 

Praised be the Just One! We adore! 

Our mouths shall praise him, as we sink, 
And the last thought our souls shall think !” 


v. 
Her soul was brave, — her soul was glad, — 
Her aspect was no longer sad, — 
Amid the tempest and the storm, 
She raised her hands, — she raised her form : 


——— 


Lo! he 


: 


¢ 


a 


i 


; 


GERMAN POETRY. 


She felt the great and mighty hope, 

And she was strong with Death to cope: — 
*‘ Praise, O my mouth, the Lord Most High! 
My eyes, weep tears of ecstasy, 

Until ye ’re sealed by death, —- then ye 
Shall gaze on heaven’s felicity ! 

Beloved, but late from us bereaved, 

We come to you, for whom we grieved : 
Anon, and we again shall meet 

Before God’s throne and judgment-seat. 
The just assembled I behold : 

Lo! Mercy’s courts for them unfold ! — 
Howl, desolation! Thunder, peal ! 

Ye are but voices to reveal 

The justice of the Lord Most High: 

Break on us, waves! Hail! Death is nigh! 
And nearer yet he comes, and raves 

Upon the blackness of the waves! 

O Semin! now he grasps my throat !— 
Semin! embrace me, — leave me not! 

The billow lifts me, — help !—TI float!” 


Vi. 


“TI do embrace thee!” the youth replied, — 
“¢ Zemira! I embrace thee !— Death ! 
Thee also I embrace!” he cried, — 
‘¢T welcome thee with my parting breath ! — 
Lo! we are here! All lauded be 
The Just One everlastingly !” 


They spake,— while them the monstrous del- 


uge spray 
Swept, in each other’s arms, away, —~ away ! 


eeaeeen ' Sanaa 


JOHANN GEORG JACOBI. 


Jouann Grore Jacosr was born at Dis- 
seldorf in 1740. In 1758, he went to the 
University of Gottingen to study theology, and 
afterwards continued his studies at Helmstadt. 
He was made Professor of Philosophy in Halle, 
where he published a periodical called ** The 
Iris.” He formed a close intimacy with Gleim, 
and became, in 1769, a canon in Halberstédt. 
In 1784, he was appointed by Joseph the Sec- 
ond to a Professorship of Belles Lettres in the 
University of Freyburg, in the Brisgau. He 
died in 1814. His works are marked by two 
different manners. His earlier productions — 
the Anacreontic songs, and epistles to Gleim 
—are modelled after the French poets; his 
later works are more vigorous and earnest. He 
excelled in the epistle and the song; but was 
less successful in comedy. An edition of his 
works was published at Zurich, in seven vol- 
umes, 1807 —13, and a new edition in 1826, in 
four volumes. 

“Jacobi is one of the few German writers 
who have formed their taste on French models. 
He has imitated, in his verses, the easy, playful 


om 


style of the poets of that nation; and has, in 
particular, avowed his admiration of Chapelle, 
Chaulieu, and Gresset. Their works were the 
sources from whence he derived the soft and 
tender tone.of his compositions, and the easy 
flow and charming euphony of his numbers. 
In his descriptions of the innocent and cheerful 
pleasures of life, he has closely followed Gleim ; 
and, indeed, he owes a great portion of his art 
to that poet’s society and instruction. His ma- 
turer efforts display a more manly character, 
and not unfrequently unite with his natural 
simplicity and grace much richness of imagina- 
tion and profundity of thought. His dramatic 
pieces bear the lowest, and his lyrical effusions 
the highest rank among his compositions.” * 


SONG. 


Trt me, where ’s the violet fled, 
Late so gayly blowing ; 
Springing ‘neath fair Flora’s tread, 
Choicest sweets bestowing ?— - 
Swain, the vernal scene is o’er, 
And the violet blooms no more ! 


Say, where hides the blushing rose, 
Pride of fragrant morning ; 
Garland meet for beauty’s brows 5 
Hill and dale adorning ?— 
Gentle maid, the summer’s fled, 
And the hapless rose is dead ! 


Bear me, then, to yonder rill, 
Late so freely flowing, 
Watering many a daffodil 
On its margin glowing. — 
Sun and wind exhaust its store ; 
Yonder rivulet glides no more! 


Lead me to the bowery shade, 
Late with roses flaunting ; 
Loved resort of youth and maid, 
Amorous ditties chanting. — 
Hail and storm with fury shower ; 
Leafless mourns the rifled bower ! 


Say, where bides the village maid, 
Late yon cot adorning? 
Oft I’ve met her in the glade, 
Fair and fresh as morning. — 
Swain, how short is beauty’s bloom ! 
Seek, her in her grassy tomb ! 


Whither roves the tuneful swain, 
Who, of rural pleasures, 

Rose and violet, rill and plain, 
Sung in deftest measures ?— 

Maiden, swift life’s vision flies, 

Death has closed the poet’s eyes ! 


* Specimens of the German Lyric Poets (London, 1823), 


p. 47, 


WIELAND. 


SEVENTH PERIOD.—FROM 1770 TO 1844. 


CHRISTOPH MARTIN WIELAND. 


Tuis illustrious writer was born on the 5th 
of September, 1733, at Oberholzheim, near 
Biberach, where his father: was a Protestant 


clergymam. His poetical genius displayed itself | 


very early; he composed German and Latin 
verses in his twelfth year. In 1747, he was 
sent to school in Klosterberg, near Magdeburg, 
where he studied not only the ancient classics, 
but the principal authors of England and 
France. After leaving Klosterberg, he passed 
a year anda half in Erfurt, preparing for the 
University. In 1750, he returned to his native 
place, aud the same year entered the University 
of Tubingen, to study law; but his attention 
was chiefly occupied with literature, and, in 
1751, he wrote his “Ten Moral Letters,” ad- 
dressed to Sophia von Gattermann, with whom 
he had some time before fallen in love, and a 
didactic poem called “ Anti-Ovid.” He also 
wrote an epic poem on the subject of Arminius, 
which procured him an invitation from Bodmer 
to visit Ztirich, and reside with him as his lit- 
erary companion. He, lived at Bodmer’s house 
until 1754, occupied with the study of Greek, 
and of the leading German authors, who had 
given a new impulse to the national literature. 
He also wrote much and hastily during this 
period. He left Bodmer’s house in 1754, and 
became a tutor, and in 1760 returned to Biber- 
ach. Here he studied the French philosophers, 
and translated twenty-eight of Shakspeare’s 
plays. Here, also, he became acquainted with 
Count Stadion, whose taste, talents, and ac- 
quirements exerted a marked influence upon 
his character. The spirit of his writings 
changed from the somewhat mystical and re- 
ligious tendency, which had hitherto character- 
ized them, to a voluptuous, not to say licentious 
tone. He wrote, at this period, the ‘Don 
Sylvio di Rosalva, or the Victory of Nature 
over Fanaticism.”’ In 1766, he published ‘“Aga- 
thon,” and, in 1768, the didactic poem of “ Mu- 
sarion.”” In 1769, he was appointed professor 
in Erfurt, and while holding this place wrote 
many works. In 1772, he was invited by the 
widowed Duchess Amalie of Weimar to su- 
perintend the education of her sons. Here he 
had leisure to continue his literary and poet- 
ical labors, turned his attention to dramatic 
poetry, and wrote “The Choice of Hercules,” 
and the * Alcestis.”” He also took charge of 
the “German Mercury.’ Goethe and Herder 
came to Weimar soon after, and, in conjunction 
with them, Wieland labored with great success, 
more than twenty years. His principal poetic’ 
work, the romantic epic of ‘¢ Oberon,”’ appeared 
in 1780. Besides his original works, only a 


part of which have been enumerated, he pre- 
pared translations of Horace and Lucian, and 
of Cicero’s Letters. He lived for a time on 
an estate near Weimar, called Osmanstadt, 
which the profits of his literary works had ena- 
bled him to purchase ; but he sold it in 1808, for 
economical reasons, and returned to Weimar. 
He died on the 20th of January, 1813. 

Notwithstanding the objections that have been 
justly urged against many of his writings, the 
personal character of Wieland was free from 
moral blemish. In private he was amiable, 
upright, friendly, and hospitable. He was a 
great master of style, both in prose and poetry ; 
his fancy was lively, his invention prolific, and 
his manner graceful. His works are very vo- 
luminous. They were published at Leipsic, by 
Goschen, in 1794-1802, in thirty-six parts, 
with six supplementary volumes, a very ele- 
gant edition in quarto; again in 1818, in forty- 
nine volumes; again in 1825, in fifty-three 
volumes. A selection of his letters appeared 
in 1815, in two volumes, His life was written 
by Gruber, in two parts, 1815; republished in 
1827, in four parts. His “Oberon” is well 
known to the English public through Mr. Sothe- 
by’s translation. 

As the moral censures to which his works 
have been subjected are mentioned in the pre- 
ceding notice, it is but just to subjoin a part of 
Wolfgang Menzel’s high-wrought eulogy, al- 
though it is marked by the partiality of a warm 
admirer.* 

“It was Wieland who transplanted the lively 
Athenian spirit to the German forests and the 
Gothic cities, but not without a dash of the 
lighter and more trifling genius of the French. 
Wieland united in his own character the Gal- 
lomania and the Grecomania. He was edu- 
cated in the first, and did not devote himself to 
the second until a later period; but he per- 
ceived at once the partial and wrong direction 
which Klopstock and Voss had taken, and led 
the Germans back from their demure formality 
to the agreeable movement of the Greco-Gallic 
graces. German poetry, although in the time 
of the Minnesingers moving with a cheerful 
and easy grace, had been disguised by the Mas- 
tersingers in starched and buckram drapery, and, 
after the Thirty Years’ War, in full-bottomed 
wigs and hoop petticoats, and then was utterly 
at a loss what to do with her hands, and played 
the simpleton with her fan. If mighty geniuses, 
like Klopstock and Lessing, threw this trum- 
pery aside, and broke away from. the minuet, 
daring to take their own course, yet vigor had 
to be satisfied in them before others could re- 


* German Literature, Vol. II., pp. 379-385. 


SS a rae = 


| 262 GERMAN POETRY. 


turn to gracefulness; and the principal tendency 
of their efforts aspired after what was higher, 
in order to occupy themselves chiefly with that. 
To prepare a suitable reception for this grace- 
fulness again, there needed a mind of peculiar 
genius, in whom this tendency alone manifested 
itself. 

‘¢ Wieland —the cheerful, amiable, delicate 
Wieland —a genius overflowing, inexhaustible 
in agreeableness, ease, raillery, and wit— made 
his appearance. One must know the whole 
stiff, distorted, ceremonious, and sentimental 
age which preceded him, to be able to appre- 
ciate justly the free and soaring flight of this 
genius, and to excuse, as it deserves, what we, 
judging from the higher point of view of the 
present age, to which he has raised us on his 
own shoulders, might, perhaps, find reason to 
except to in his writings. 

“Wieland first restored to German poetry 
the unrestrained spirit, the free look of the 
child of the world, the natural grace, the love 
and desire of cheerful pleasantry, and the pow- 
er of supplying it. Daring, humorous, and im- 
posing, he cut off the pig-tails of the cockneys, 
disrobed the blushing beauty of the odious hoop 
petticoats, and taught the Germans, not to play 
with lambkins naked in the ideal and idyllic 
world, in the narrow spirit of the earlier pas- 
toral poets, but to find nature again of them- 
selves in the world as it is, by throwing off 
their unnatural habits, and to move their unfet- 
tered limbs in an easy and confident harmony. 

‘“‘ His whole being was penetrated with that 
spirit of agreeableness, joyousness, freedom, and 
confidence; free, delicate, and witty, easy, 
nimble, and inexhaustible in pleasantry, as a 
natural and healthy condition of life always 
requires, and as is still more required by the 
antagonism of a harsh and severe age. There- 
fore he detected, with unfailing skill, whatever 
of attractive grace distinguishes our forefathers 
and other nations, and easily acquired the diffi- 
cult art of refining his own mind thereby, of 
breathing it into his own poetry, and of explain- 
ing to the Germans in what it ought to be imi- 
tated. But it was this grace, almost exclusively, 
which he placed before every thing else, in his 
extensive study of the ancient and foreign poe- 
try, as the thing that most particularly claimed 
his attention, and was to him of the most im- 
portance. In this he stands alone. 

“ Wieland’s genius was most powerfully 
drawn towards Greece. There he found all 
the ideals of his grace; there he drank the 
pure draught of life and of nature. But few 
minds have been at home in that abode of the 
beautiful, each in a different way from the 
others. A mode of life like the Greek is too 
great to be wholly comprehended by a single 
mind. Only an existence conceived and nur- 
tured in that very life could entitle one to 
make this claim. But we stand afar from that 
world, and it is given only to here and there a 


| uaveller to discover it again, and merely asa | pure and moral nation; and, in particular, the 


transient pilgrim in a strange land. Wieland 
made the harmony and grace, with which the 
whole life of the Greeks was pervaded, a part 
of his own mind. Had any modern European 
whatever, before Wieland, recognized and ap- 
propriated to himself the Grecian grace? Be- 
fore this, the excellent form of man, the natural 
beauty of his figure, had been covered with 
helm and harness; afterwards, with perukes, 
and frisures, and endless waistcoats, and ruffles, 
and hoop petticoats. In this matter, Wieland did 
for poetry what Winckelmann did fer plastic 
art. He taught us to recognize and embody 
natural beauty again, after the model of the 
Greeks; but it can hardly be affirmed, al- 
though he has undeniably seized upon one of 
the most prominent aspects of the Greek char- 
acter, that he has entirely penetrated the depth 
of Grecian genius, or that he has sounded the 
depth of the romantic spirit. The plastic 
beauty of Greek architecture and statuary, the 
gladness and harmony of the Greek enjoyment 
of life, the mirror-clear smoothness of the 
Greek philosophy, reached to him their full, 
overhanging blossoms over the high walls of 
time, but nothing more. His Greek novels, 
therefore, correspond to the Greek genius only 
in a certain sense, and are, in other respects, 
the productions of Wieland and his age, in 
which they are naturalized. French taste, too, 
has its part and lot therein. 

‘‘ His feelings inclined to the French with 
just the same original want that was experi- 
enced by Frederic the Great, and others of his 
time, —only that the one satisfied it as a philoso- 
pher and king, the other as a poet. In that 
knowledge of the world, in the capacity for 
the safe and clear-headed management of affairs, 
and of every relation of life, which is, at the 
same time, the source of all their art, the French 
had very long surpassed us Germans. After 
Voltaire, however, their best writers had shown 
such a spirit of routine, that, in fact, there was 
but little difference between them and the most 
witty authors of the later period of antiquity, par- 
ticularly Lucian. Now, when we find, in truth, 
that Wieland, in his romantic poems, took for 
models, not only Ariosto, but also Voltaire and 
Parny; in his novels, not only Lucian and 
Cervantes, but also Crébillon, Diderot, and 
Cazotte, — we cannot help admiring the uner- 
ring tact and skill, with which, amidst all his 
levity; he could set aside the real obscenity 
and the moral poison of those French authors, 
whose genius was as great as their corruption, 
and added to the antique Grace, and the Grace 
of France, the third and youngest of all, the 
German Grace, a pleasing and simple one, 
coquetting, it is true, but still coquetting with 
her innocence. The manner in which Wieland 
tempered down French frivolity does far more 
honor to his taste than his adoption of it merits 
reproach. He has often been severely cen- 
sured, and has heen called the seducer of our 


ANIA STEN NON Aba Sl ANAL ae TT An He A ANAL th NRO cURL AS ana A DAES. Anatase eR EAA ne CMe PN 


WIELAND. 


new-fangled, old-German Nazarenes, and the 
sighers, have for a long time wanted to damn 
him utterly. . ... . But, so far from seducing 
an uncorrupted generation, Wieland has done 
much more to lead back a generation, already 
perverted by the Gallomania, to decency and 
moderation, to lively and intellectual social en- 
joyments; and the later sentimental, and, in 
part, the romantic poets, under the mask of 
transcendently sublime sentiments, were the 
first to spread abroad the poison of a morbid 
voluptuousness, which was wholly foreign to 
the sound-hearted Wieland. In general, laugh- 
ing pleasure is not dangerous, — only the seri- 
ous, musing, weeping, and praying is so, —the 
voluptuousness found in the writings of Goethe, 
Heinse, Frederic Schlegel, and the like. The 
senses, guarded by the understanding, are frank 
and smiling graces, cheerful companions ; it is 
only when they put on the disguise of sublime 
and noble sentiments, and under this mask 
reign over the affections, that they become foul 
poisons that kill in secret.” 


EXTRACT FROM OBERON. 


Now through the outward court swift speeds 
the knight ; 

Within the second from his steed descends; 

Along the third his pace majestic bends: 
Where’er he enters, dazzled by his sight, 

The guards make way, — his gait, his dress, 

his air, 

A nuptial guest of highest rank declare. 
Now he advances towards an ebon gate, 
Where with drawn swords twelve Moors gigan- 

tic wait, 

And piecemeal hack the wretch who steps 

unbidden there. 


But the bold gesture and imperial mien 
Of Huon, as he opes the lofty door, 

Drive back the swords that crossed his path 
before, 

And at his entrance flamed with lightning sheen. 
At once, with rushing noise, the valves unfold : 
High throbs the bosom of our hero bold, 

When, locked behind him, harsh the portals 


bray : 
Through gardens decked with columns leads 
the way, 
Where towered a gate incased with plates of 
massy gold. 


There a large forecourt held a various race 
Of slaves, a hapless race, sad harem slaves, 
Who die of thirst mid joy’s o’erflowing waves! 
And when a man, whom emir honors grace, 
Swells in his state before their hollow eye, 
Breathless they bend, with looks that seem 
to die, 
Beneath the weight of servitude oppressed ; 
Bow down, with folded arms across the breast, 
Nor dare look up to mark the pomp that glit- 


ters by. While yells of frantic rage her soul appall : 


Already cymbals, drums,and fifes resound ; 
With song and string’the festive palace clangs; 
The sultan’s headjalready heaving hangs, 

While vinous vapors float his brain) around : 
Already mirth in freer current flows, 

And the gay bridegroom, wild with rapture, 
glows. 

Then, as the bride, in Horror turned away, 

Casts on the ground her lodks-that_never-strayy; 
Huon along the hall with noble freedom goes. 


Now to the table he advances nigh, 

And with uplifted brow in wild amaze 

The admiring guests upon the stranger gaze : 
Fair Rezia, tranced, with fascinated eye 

Still views her dream, and ever downward 

bends : 

The sultan, busy with the bow], suspends 
All other thoughts: Prince Babekan alone, 
Warned by no vision, towards the guest un- 

known, 

All fearless of his fate, his length of neck 

extends. 


Soon as Sir Huon’s scornful eyes retrace 
The man of yesterday, that he, the same 
Who lately dared the Christian God defame, 
Sits at the left, high-plumed in bridal grace, 
And bows the neck as conscious of his guilt: 
Swift as the light he grasps the sabre’s hilt ; 
Off at the instant flies the heathen’s head ; 
And, o’er the caliph and the banquet shed, 
Up spirts his boiling blood, by dreadful ven- 
geance spilt ! 


As the dread visage of Medusa fell, 

Swift flashing on the sight, with instant view 

Deprives of life the wild-revolted crew ; 
While reeks the tower with blood, while tu- 

mults swell, 

And murderous frenzy, fierce and fiercer 

grown, 

Glares in each eye, and maddens every tone, — 
At once, when Perseus shakes the viper hair, 
Each dagger stiffens as it hangs in air, 

And every murderer stands transformed to 

living stone ! 


Thus, at the view of this audacious feat, 

The jocund blood that warmed each merry 

guest 

Suspends its frozen course in every breast : 
Like ghosts, in heaps, all-shivering from their 

seat 

They start, and grasp their swords, and mark 

their prey ; 

But, shrunk by fear, their vigor dies away : 
Each in its sheath their swords remain at rest: 
With powerless fury in his look expressed, 

Mute sunk the caliph back, and stared in 

wild dismay. 


The uproar which confounds the nuptial hall 
Forces the dreamer from her golden trance: 
Round her she gazes with astonished glance, 


But, as she turns her face towards Huon’s side, 
How throbs.his bosom, when he sees his 
bride ! — 
“© ’T is she, —’t is she herself!’’ he wildly calls: 
Down drops the bloody steel ; the turban falls ; 
And Rezia knows her knight, as float his 
ringlets wide. 


“©’T is he |’ she wild exclaims: yet virgin shame 
Stops in her rosy mouth the imperfect sound : 
How throbs her heart, what thrillings strange 

confound, 

When, with impatient speed, the stranger came, 
And, love-emboldened, with presumptuous 

arms 
Clasped, in the sight of all, her angel charms! 

And, O, how fiery red, how deadly pale 

Her cheek, as love and maiden fear assail, 
The while he kissed her lip that glowed with 

sweet alarms ! 


Twice had his lip already kissed the maid : — 
© Where shall the bridal ring, O, where be 
found ?”’ 
Lo! by good fortune, as he gazes round, 
The elfin ring shines suddenly displayed, 

Won from the giant of the iron tower : 
Now, all-unconscious of its magic power, 
This ring, 

Slips on her finger, pledge of nuptial rite : — 
“With this, O bride beloved! I wed thee 


from this hour!” 


Then, for the third time, at these words, again 
The bridegroom kissed the soft reluctant fair : 
The sultan storms and stamps in wild de- 

spair : — 

“Thou sufferest, then, — inexpiable stain ! — 
This Christian dog to shame thy nuptial 

day ? — 
Seize, seize him, slaves !—ye die, the least 
delay ! 

Haste ! drop by drop, from every throbbing vein, 

By lengthened agonies his life-blood drain, — 
Thus shall the pangs of hell his monstrous 

‘guilt repay!” 


At once, in flames, before Sir Huon’s eyes, 
A thousand weapons glitter at the word; 
And, ere our hero snatches up his sword, 
On every side the death-storms fiercely rise : 
On every side he turns his brandished blade : 
By love and anguish wild, at once the maid 
Around him wreathes her arm, his shield her 
breast, 
Seizes his sword, by her alone repressed : — 
“ Back! daring slaves!” she cries, ‘I, I the 
hero aid ! 


“‘ Back !—to that breast, — here, here the pas- 
sage lies ! — 
No other way than through the midst of 
mine !’’ — 
| And she, who lately seemed Love’s bride di- 
vine, 
Now flames a Gorgon with Medusa’s eyes ! 
——— 


264 GERMAN POETRY. 


so seeming base, the impatient knight 


And ever, as the emirs near inclose, 
She dares with fearless breast their swords 
oppose : — 
‘¢ Spare him, my father! spare him ! and, O thou, 
Destined by fate to claim my nuptial vow, 
Spare him !—Zin both your lives the blood of | 
Rezia flows !”’ 


The sultan’s frenzy rages uncontrolled : 

Fierce on Sir Huon storm the murderous 

train ; 

Yet still his glittering falchion flames in vain, 
While Rezia’s gentle hand retains its hold: 

Her agonizing shrieks his bosom rend. 

And what remains the princess to defend ? 
What but the horn can rescue her from death ?— 
Soft through the ivory flows his gentle breath, 

And from its spiry folds sweet fairy tones 

ascend. 


Soon as its magic sounds, the powerless steel 
Falls without struggle from the lifted hand ; 
In rash vertigo turned, the emir band 

Wind arm in arm, and spin the giddy reel : 
Throughout the hall tumultuous echoes ring ; 
All, old and young, each heel has Hermes’ 

wing: 

No choice is left them by the fairy tone : 

Pleased and astonished, Rezia stands alone 
By Huon’s side unmoved, while all around 

them spring. 


The whole divan, one swimming circle, glides 
Swift without stop: the old bashaws click 
time : 

As if on polished ice, in trance sublime, 
The iman hoar with some spruce courtier slides : 
Nor rank nor age from capering refrain : . 

Nor can the king his royal foot restrain ; 
He, too, must reel amid the frolic row, 
Grasp the grand vizier by his beard of snow, 
And teach the aged man once more to bound 
amain. 


The dancing melodies, ne’er heard before, 
From every crowded antechamber round, 
First draw the eunuchs forth with airy bound ; 

The women next, and slaves that guard the door. 
Alike the merry madness seizes all. 

The harem’s captives, at the magic call, 

Trip gaily to the tune, and whirl the dance : 

In party-colored shirts the gardeners prance, 
Rush ’mid the youthful nymphs, and mingle 

in the ball. 


Entranced, with fearful joy, while doubt alarms, 
Fair Rezia stands almost deprived of breath :— 
‘¢What wonder! at the time when instant 

death 

Hangs o’er us, that a dance the god disarms ! 
A dance thus rescues from extreme distress!”’ | 

“Some friendly genius deigns our union 


bless,”’ 
Sir Huon says. Meanwhile amid the throng 
With eager step darts Sherasmin along, 
And towards them Fatma hastes unnoticed 


through the press. | 


| 
\ 


et a 


EEE 


iss 34 


‘‘ Haste!’’? Sherasmin exclaims; ‘not now the 
hour 
To pry with curious leisure on the dance, — 


All is prepared, —the steeds impatient 
prance, — 
While raves the castle, while unbarred the 
tower, 


And every gate wide open, why delay? 
By luck I met Dame Fatma on the way, 
Close-packed, like beast of burden, for the 
flight.”’ 
“Peace! ’t is not yet the time,’ 
knight ; 
“A dreadful task impends, — for that must 
Huon stay.” 


> 


replies the 


Pale Rezia shudders at the dreadful sound, 

And looks with longing eye, that seems to 

sont 

“¢ Why, on the brink of ruin, why delay ? 
O, hasten ! let our footsteps fly the ground, 

Ere bursts the transient charm that binds 

their brain, 

And rage and vengeance repossess the train!” 
Huon, who reads the language of her eyes, 
With looks of answering love alone replies, 

Clasps to his heart her hand, ner dares the 

deed explain. 


And now the fairy tones to soft repose 
Melt in the air: each head swims giddy round, 
And every limb o’ertired forgets to bound ; 
Wet every thread, and every pore o’erflows. 
The breath half-stopped scarce heaves with 
struggling pain ; 
The drowsy blood slow creeps through every 
vein; 
Involuntary joy, like torture, thrills : 
The king, as from a bath, in streams distils, 
And pants upon his couch, amid the exhaust- 
ed train. 


Stuff, without motion, scarce with sense endued, 
Down, one by one, the o’erwearied dancers 
fall, 
Where swelling bolsters heave around the 
wall : 
Emirs, and lowly slaves, in contrast rude, 
Mix with the harem goddesses, as chance 
Tangles the mazes of the frantic dance : 
At once together by a whirlwind blown, 
On the same bed, in ill-paired union thrown, 
The groom and favorite lie confused in 
breathless trance. 


Sir Huon, mindful of the favoring hour, 
While rests in peaceful silence all around, 
Pursues his task, by plighted promise bound : 
Leaves his fair angel in the old man’s power, 
Gives him the ivory horn, and cautions well 
By timely use the danger to repel ; 
Then boldly hastens forward to the place 
Where gasps the sultan wearied with the race, 
And, heaving with his breath, the billowy 
pillows swell. 


IRELAND. 


In awful silence, with expanded wing, 
Soft-breathing expectation stilly broods ; 
And though, by fits, thick drowsiness intrudes, 

The languid dancers that surround the king 
Strive to unbolt their slumber-closing eye, 
To view the stranger as he passes by ; 

Who, after such a deed, with hand unarmed, 

And courteous posture, ventures, unalarmed, 
To front the lightning glance of injured ma- 


jesty. 


Low on his knee Sir Huon humbly bends : 
With cool, heroic look, and gentle tone 
Begins : —‘‘ Imperial Charles, before whose 

throne 

I bow, his faithful vassal hither sends, 

To hail thee, Asia’s lord! with greeting fair, 
And beg (forgive what duty bids declare ! 
For, as my arm, my tongue obeys his laws), — 
And beg,— great Sir ! — four grinders from your 

jaws, 
And from your reverend beard a lock of sil- 
ver hair!” 


He speaks it, and Is silent, — and stands still, 
In expectation of the sultan’s word. 
Soon as the caliph had the message heard, — 
But words, alas! are wanting to my will; 

I cannot paint, while pride and rage conspire, 
How every feature writhes with maniac ire, 
How from his throne he darts, how fiercely stares, 

How from his eye incessant lightning glares, 
While every bursting vein high boils with 
living fire. 


He stares, would curse, but fury uncontrolled 

In his blue lip breaks short the imperfect 
sound : — 

“Tear out his heart! 
pound ! 

Hack, hack him limb by limb, a thousand fold! 
With searching awls explore each secret vein ! 
Crack joint by joint, each tortured sinew 

strain ! 

Roast him, —to all the winds his ashes cast! 

Him, and his Emperor Charles, whom light- 

nings blast ! 
Teeth ? beard ?— beneath this roof ? — to me? 
— it burns my brain! 


to dust the villain 


‘Who is this Charles, who thus presumptuous 
dares 
Against us swell himself ? Why comes he not, 
Since thus he longs, in person, on the spot, 
To take my grinders, and my silver hairs?” 
“Ah, ah!” exclaims a hoary-headed khan, 
“ Whate’er he be, no doubt, that mighty man 
Is not with overweight of brains oppressed ! 
He should, at least, who makes the mad request, 
In front of myriads march, then execute the 
plan.” 


“Caliph of Bagdad,” says the tranquil knight, 
With noble pride, “let all be silent here! 
Mark me, —the emperor’s awful task severe, 

And the bold promise that I dared to plight, 

WwW 


Aaa 


Long on my soul, ere now, have heavy sat: 
Yet bitter, Monarch, is the force of Fate ! 
What power on earth her sovereignty with- 

- stands ? 
Whate’er to do or suffer Fate commands, 
Must be performed, and borne, with patient 
mind sedate. 


‘¢‘ Here stand I, like thyself, a mortal man, 
Alone, in proud defiance of thy train, 

At risk of life my honor to maintain : 

Yet honor bids propose another plan, — 
Abjure thy faith, from Mahomet recede, 
With pious lip profess the Christian creed ; 

Erect the cross in all these Eastern lands: 

So wilt thou more perform than Charles de- 

mands; 
Charles shall remain content, and thou from 
trouble freed. 


‘Yes, on myself the terms I undertake ; 

No rash offence shall wound imperial pride ; 
And he who dares these holy terms deride 
Shall in my blood at will his vengeance slake. 

Thus young, thus lonely, as thou seest me 

here, 

Thy own experience, Caliph, makes it clear 
That some unseen protector guides my way : 
He can the rage of all thy host allay. 

Choose, then, the better part, and bow to 

truth thine ear.” 


Like a commissioned angel of the skies, 
In awful beauty and commanding mien, 
While Huon stands, by wondering mortals 
seen, 
And, though destruction flames before his eyes, 

Speaks his high mandate with unshaken 

mind ; 

Rezia, from far, towards him alone inclined, 
Her beauteous neck in graceful guise extends, 
Towards him her cheek by love illumined bends, 

Yet fearful how at last these wonders will 

unwind. 


Scarce had our knight the last proposal made, 
Than the old caliph, hell within his breast, 
Raves, shrieks, and stamps the ground, like 

one possessed ; 

On each swollen feature frenzy stood displayed. 
Not less enraged, around their fiery king 
Up from their eats at once the pagans spring, 

And foam, and threat, and horrid vengeance 

swear ; 

Swords, lances, daggers, clatter in the air ; 

All press on Mahom’s foe, and closely round 
enring. 


On as they rush, the intrepid knight in haste 
Wrenches a pole from one that near him 
stood ; 
And armed as with a mace, in fearless mood, 


Thus, ever fighting, presses near the wall: 
A golden bowl, that graced the banquet-hall 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Where’er he swings it, spreads destructive waste ; 


Serves him at once for weapon and for shield. 
Already to his might the foremost yield, 
And stretched before his feet the gasping 
heathens fall ! 


Brave Sherasmin, the guardian of the fair, 
Who thinks he views, amid the press afar, 
His former lord victorious in the war, 

Glows at the scene with wild, triumphant air : 
But roused by Rezia’s agonizing cries, 

The fond delusion of the dreamer flies ; 

He sees the youth close girt by heathen foes,— 

Sets to his lip the horn, and loudly blows, 

As one by Heaven ordained to bid the dead 
arise. 


Loud rings the castle with rebellowing shocks ; 
Night, tenfold midnight, swallows up the day ; 
Ghosts to and fro like gleams of lightning 

play ; 

The stony basis of the turret rocks ; 

Clap after clap, and peals on peals resound : 
Terrors unknown the heathen race confound ; 
Sight, hearing lost, they stagger, drunk with 

fear ; 

Drops from each nerveless hand the sword and 

spear, 
And stiff upon the spot all lie in groups around. 


With miracle on miracle oppressed, 
The caliph struggles with the pangs of death; 
His arm hangs loose, deep drawn his heavy 
breath, 
Scarce beats his pulse, it flutters, sinks to rest. 
At once the storm is hushed that roared so 
loud ; 
While, sweetly breathing o’er the prostrate 
crowd, 
A lily vapor sheds around perfume, 
And, like an angel image on a tomb, 
The fairy spright appears, arrayed in silver 
cloud ! 


ao 


GOTTLIEB CONRAD PFEFFEL. 


Tus distinguished author was born in 1736, 
at Colmar, in Alsatia. In his fifteenth year, he 
commenced the study of law in Halle, but his 
studies were interrupted by a disease in the 
eyes, which terminated, in 1757, in total blind- 
ness. He married in 1759, and the next year 
published his first poetical attempts. In 1763, 
he became a court councillor of Darmstadt. In 
1773, he established a schoo] in Colmar, which 
continued until it was overthrown by the French 
Revolution. In 1803, he was made President 
of the Protestant Consistory at Colmar. He 
died the 1st of May, 1809. 

As a poet, be was distinguished in fable and 
poetical narrative. He wrote also epistles, di- 
dactic poems, ballads, lyrical poems, and pieces 


ES I LE a TS i i I EAS CER A A CA I ALD a NOI A a A SPA SES ee 
’ 


-hall, | for the stage. His poetical works were pub- | 


Le 


lished at Tabingen and Stuttgart, in ten parts, 
1803-10. A selection from his fables and po- 
etical narratives was published by Hauff, Stutt- 
gart and ‘Tubingen, in two volumes, 1840. 


THE TOBACCO-PIPE. 


“Quip man, God bless you! does your pipe 
taste sweetly ? 
A beauty, by my soul! 
A red clay flower-pot, rimmed with gold so 
neatly ! 
What ask you for the bowl?” 


_*O Sir, that bowl for worlds I would not part 


with ; 
A brave man gave it me, 
Who won it—now what think you ?—of a 
bashaw, 
At Belgrade’s victory. 


“There, Sir, ah! there was booty worth the 
showing, — 
Long life to Prince Eugene ! 
Like after-grass you might have seen us mowing 
The Turkish ranks down clean.” 


‘¢ Another time I ’Il hear your story : 
Come, old man, be no fool ; 

Take these two ducats, — gold for glory, — 
And let me have the bowl! ”’ 


‘¢T ’m a poor churl, as you may say, Sir; 
My pension ’s all I’m worth: 

Yet I'd not give that bowl away, Sir, 
For all the gold on earth. 


“ Just hear now! 
merry, 
Hard on the foe’s rear pressed, 
A blundering rascal of a janizary 
Shot through our captain’s breast. 


Once, as we hussars, all 


“ At once across my horse I hove him, — 
The same would he have done, — 
And from the smoke and tumult drove him 

Safe to a nobleman. 


“‘T nursed him; and, before his end, bequeathing 
His money and this bow] 
To me, he pressed my hand, just ceased his 
breathing, 
And so he died, brave soul! 


“‘' The money thou must give mine host, —so 
thought I, — 
Three plunderings suffered he: 
And, in remembrance of my old friend, brought I 
The pipe away with me. 


‘¢ Henceforth in all campaigns with me I bore it, 
In flight or in pursuit ; 

It was a holy thing, Sir, and I wore it 
Safe-sheltered in my boot. 


PFEFFEL.—CLAUDIUS. 


‘‘'This very limb, I lost it by a shot, Sir, 
Under the walls of Prague: 

First at my precious pipe, be sure, I caught, Sir, 
And then picked up my leg.” 


‘You move me even to tears, old Sire : 
What was the brave man’s name? 
Tell me, that I, too, may admire 
And venerate his fame.” 


‘¢ They called him only the brave Walter ; 
His farm lay near the Rhine.” 

‘God bless your old eyes! ’t was my father, 
And that same farm is mine. 


“Come, friend, you ’ve seen some stormy 
weather ; 
With me is now your bed; 
We ’Il drink of Walter’s grapes together, 
And eat of Walter’s bread.” 


‘¢ Now — done! I march in, then, to-morrow: 
You ’re his true heir, I see ; 


And when I die, your thanks, kind master, 


The ‘Turkish pipe shall be.”’ 
=——_@—— 


MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS. 


Tuts amiable man and agreeable writer was 
born in 1740, at Reinfeldt in Holstein, near 
Liibeck. He lived for some time in Wands- 
beck. In 1776, he was appointed to a public 
office in Darmstadt, but returned to Wandsbeck 
the next year. He was a frequent contributor 
to the ** Wandsbeck Messenger.’’ He died in 
1818. <A collection of his works, completed in 
1812, was published under the title of “ Asmus 
omnia sua secum portans, or the Collective 
Works of the Wandsbeck Messenger.’”” A new 
edition in four volumes was published at Ham- 
burg in 1838. 

The most prominent characteristic of Claudi- 
us, as a writer, is a certain simplicity and hearty 
good-humor. He wrote excellent popular songs, 
simple ballads, f.bles, epigrams, tales, and dia- 
logues. 

Menzel* remarks of him: ‘+ Claudius formed 
the transition from pedantry to the natve poe- 
try. The celebrated ‘ Wandsbeck Messenger’ 
makes, when we read it now-a-days, a singular 
and more touching than agreeable impression. 
Not that its beauties are not always beautiful, 
its vigorous common sense always sensible; but 
the form, the language, belong to an age long 
since departed. It appears to us as if we saw 
one of our great-grandfathers, with the lofty 
nightcap, jump up from an easy chair, and skip 
through a wedding dance. The fun is sincerely 
meant, but somewhat ungainly. Had not the 
inborn good-nature, and tameness and timidity 


* German Literature, Vol. II., pp. 60, 61. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


schooled by the pressure of his private affairs, 
laid too many restraints upon the poet’s satire, 
it would certainly, with his great talents, have 
grown up to something distinguished. But Clau- 
dius did not belong to the more fortunate class 
of poets, who, like Lessing, Wieland, Herder, 
Thimmel, Rabner, and Lichtenberg, raised 
themselves above the common wants of a petty 
and dependent existence, partly by a better po- 
sition in civic life, partly by the force of their 
own genius, or, at least, by their good-humor ; 
he belonged rather to those who, like Voss, 
Birger, Moritz, Stilling, Schubart, Seume, 
could not‘free themselves, their whole life long, 
from the feeling of narrow circumstances, and 
the pressure of want; who, with all their long- 
ing for freedom, with all their defiance of fate, 
still bore upon their brow, ineffaceably’ im- 
pressed, the Cain-mark of low life and vulgar 
awkwardness.” 


RHINE-WINE. 


Wirn laurel wreathe the glass’s vintage mellow, 
And drink it gaily dry! 
Through farthest Europe, know, my worthy 
fellow, 
For such in vain ye ’Il try. 


Nor Hungary nor Poland e’er could boast it ; 
And as for Gallia’s vine, 
Saint Veit, the Ritter, if he choose, may toast 
it, — 
We, Germans, love the Rhine. 


Our fatherland we thank for such a blessing, 
And many more beside ; 

And many more, though little show possessing, 
Well worth our love and pride. 


Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border, 
As well the mountains show, 

That harbour in their bosoms foul disorder ; 
Not worth their room below. 


Thuringia’s hills, for instance, are aspiring 
To rear a juice like wine ; 

But that is all; nor mirth nor song inspiring, 
It breathes not of the vine. 


And other hills, with buried treasures glowing, 
For wine are far too cold; 

Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing, 
And chance some paltry gold. 


The Rhine, — the Rhine, — there grow the gay 
plantations ! 
O, hallowed be the Rhine! 
Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations 
Of this consoling wine. 


Drink to the Rhine! and every coming morrow 
Be mirth and music thine ! 

And when we meet a child of care and sorrow, 
We ’ll send him'to the Rhine. 


WINTER. 


A SONG TO BE SUNG BEHIND THE STOVE. 


Oxup WinTER is the man for me, — 
Stout-hearted, sound, and steady ; 

Steel nerves and bones of brass hath he; 
Come snow, come blow, he’s ready. 


If ever man was well, ’t is he; 
He keeps no fire in his chamber, 
And yet from cold and cough is free 
In bitterest December. 


He dresses him out-doors at morn, 
Nor needs he first to warm him ; 
Toothache and rheumatis’ he ’Il scorn, 

And colic don’t alarm him. 


In summer, when the woodland rings, 
He asks, ** What mean these noises? ”’ 
Warm sounds he hates, and all warm things 
Most heartily despises. 


But when the fox’s bark is loud ; 
When the bright hearth is snapping ; 
When children round the chimney crowd, 
All shivering and clapping ; 


When stone and bone with frost do break, 
And pond and lake are cracking, — 

Then you may see his old sides shake, 
Such glee his frame is racking. 


Near the north pole, upon the strand, 
He has an icy tower; 

Likewise in lovely Switzerland 
He keeps a summer bower. 


So up and down,— now here, — now there,— 
His regiments manceuvre ; 

When he goes by, we stand and stare, 
And cannot choose but shiver. 


THE HEN, 


Was once a hen of wit not small 
(In fact, *t was most amazing), 
And apt at laying eggs withal, 
Who, when she ’d done, would scream and 
bawl, 
As if the house were blazing. 
A turkey-cock, of age mature, 
Felt thereat indignation ; 
"T was quite improper, he was sure, 
He would no more the thing endure ; 
So, after cogitation, 
He to the lady straight repaired, 
And thus his business he declared : 
‘¢ Madam, pray what’s the matter, 
That always, when you ’ve laid an egg, 
You make so great a clatter ? 
I wish you’d do the thing in quiet ; 
Do be advised by me, and try it!” 
*‘ Advised by you?” the lady cried, 
And tossed her head with proper pride ; 


Pe De 


Sars rsnensssnesamseietisomceisiae erase a eT 


IoeinScincneier ns Seen cece OE EN OCS 


*¢ And what do you know, now I pray, 
Of the fashions of the present day, 
You creature ignorant and low ? 
However, if you want to know, 

This is the reason why I do it: 

I lay my egg, and then review it !”” 


NIGHT-SONG. 


* ° . 
THE moon is up, in splendor, 
And golden stars attend her; 

The heavens are calm and bright ; 
Trees cast a deepening shadow, 
And slowly off the meadow 

A mist is rising, silver-white. 


Night’s curtains now are closing 
Round half a world, reposing 

In calm and holy trust ; 
All seems one vast, still chamber, 
Where weary hearts remember 

No more the sorrows of the dust. 


a ewes 


JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER. 


Tuis accomplished man, and distinguished 
author, was born, August 25th, 1744, at Moh- 
rungen, in East Prussia, where his father was 
a sort of usher in a school, and in circumstances 
of great poverty. He was employed as a copy- 
ist by Mr. Trescho, the clergyman of the place, 
who discovered his talents, and gave him les- 
sons with his own children in Latin and Greek. 
A Russian surgeon, who lived in the clergy- 
man’s house, being pleased with young Herder’s 
manners, took him to Konigsberg and Peters- 
burg, in order to educate him as a surgeon ; but 
he soon applied himself to theology and phi- 
losophy, and obtained an appointment as teacher 
in Frederic’s College. At this time he became 
acquainted with Kant, and made great acquire- 
ments in theology, philosophy, philology, nat- 
ural and civil history, and politics. In 1765, 
he was appointed teacher in the Cathedral 
School at Riga, where he wrote the “Frag- 
ments,’’ and the “ Kritische Walder”’; in 1767, 
became a preacher, in connection with the 
school, and the same year was offered the su- 
perintendence of Saint Peter’s School, in Pe- 
tersburg, which he declined. In 1768, he ac- 
cepted the offer of travelling tutor to the prince 
of Holstein-Eutin, but, on account of a weak- 
ness of the eyes, he proceeded only as far as 
Strasburg, where he became acquainted with 
Goethe. In 1770, he was appointed Court 
Preacher and Consistorial Councillor in Bicke- 
burg. His distinguished reputation as a theo- 
logian procured for him the offer of a profes- 
sorship at Gottingen, in 1775; but, before he 
had assumed the office, he received the appoint- 
ment of Court Preacher, General Superintend- 
ent, and Upper Consistorial Councillor at Wei- 


HERDER. 


269 


mar. He arrived at Weimar in 1776, and 
became at once a prominent and honored mem- 
ber of the splendid literary circle which sur- 
rounded the grand-duke’s court. In 1801, he 
was made President of the High Consistory, 
and ennobled. He died in 1803. 

Herder’s character was pure and elevated ; 
his genius was great and comprehensive. ‘As 
a theologian, poet, and philosopher, he stood 
among the foremost men of his age. 

“He looked upon all individuals and na- 
tions,” says Menzel,* speaking of his great prin- 
ciple, the law of evolution and progress, ‘ only 
as the matter, and all institutions and careers 
of life as the form under which that evolution 
is reduced to reality. By this principle, he 
united them all inte one spirit and one life. 
His ‘Ideas towards the Philosophy of the His- 
tory of the Human Race’ show us his genius 
on the broadest scale, and embrace all his views 
and all his tendencies, according to a regular 
order, But the execution could not satisfy this 
plan. No form would ‘have been adequate to 
it. He felt this well; he indicated by the title 
the fragmentary character of the work, and left 
it to the right judgment of contemporaries and 
posterity to recognize all his remaining writings 
as additions to er fragments of this work contin- 
ued. 

‘“‘ He began his great picture of the progress 
of the world with the representation of the 
physical world as a scene of progress and 
change. We cannot but acknowledge that he 
produced a highly poetical effect thereby upon 


his age, and that he contributed no less towards ’ 


the enriching of science, or at least the im- 
provement of its methods. A great living pic- 
ture of nature, which would have been intelli- 
gible and familiar even to the uninitiated, had 
hitherto been wanting among the Germans. 
The most comprehensive view of the whole, 
the evolution of beauty in the single parts, 
ere unite to produce the most brilliant effect. 
While others have coldly constructed for us the 
whole frame of nature as a mechanical piece of 
wheel-work, he breathed into it an organic life, 
and awakened a warm feeling of love for its 
beauty in every breast. While others had 
counted off at their fingers’ ends the single 
phenomena of nature, numbered and classified 
one after another, he caused them all to appear 
as members of one organism, and elevated each 
by placing it in its natural position. The stone 
did not appear wrapped in the cotton of the 
mineralogical cabinet, but in the living bosom 
of the earth, where it had grown; the plant 
was not seen withered in the herbarium, but 
fresh on the mead, by the hiill-side, still grow- 
ing from its moistened root, with the smell of 
earth upon it; the animal, not stuffed ov ina 
cage, but in the freedom of the forest and the 
field, of the air and the water; the eye, not set 
in a ring, but beaming from a beautiful counte- 


* German Literature, Vc’. IL, pp. 423-428. 
w2 


Ms 
ie 
qh) 
wl 
a i 
1 
4 
f 


| 


270 


nance; man, not in the solitude of the study, but 
like Adam among the creatures of the first days 
of creation, like Cesar among men, like Christ 
in heaven. ~ 

‘The moral world appeared to him elevated 
above nature, but only as the flower is elevated 
above its stalk, and is pervaded by the same 
hfe. The same principle of natural growth 
and evolution, but only at a higher stage, ap- 
peared to him to reign over this higher sphere 
of creation also, and he uttered the great 
thought, —that the life of the individual man 
and the life of the whole human race are sub- 
jected to the same laws of evolution. He 
placed a reason of mankind by the side of the 
reason of the man: the former guided by an 
everlasting Providence in the life of nations ; 
the latter imparted to man as a divine inherit- 
ance, and only an efflux of a supreme and uni- 
versal reason. Both, acting upon each other, 
struggle to attain the highest goal of the im- 
provement of the human race, and the em- 
bellishment of human life. To that end, all 
the powers of mankind put forth their blos- 
soms. Guided by this lofty view, Herder 
searched the depths of the human soul, fol- 
lowed out all the bearings of private life, of 
manners, of education, of states, of religions, of 
sciences and arts; the history of institutions, 
of nations, and of the whole human race; and 
showed the same tendency, the one identical 
principle of life, extending through them all. 
Every individual object was considered by him 
only as a member of the whole. His numer- 
ous fragmentary writings were always more 
occupied with pointing out the connection than 
the separation of the single phenomena of the 
life of man. 

*¢ Among the writings in which he takes that 
which is of universal interest to man, without 
regard to particular nations, for the subject of 
his consideration, next to the ‘Ideas,’ the ‘ Meta- 
criticism’ is chiefly distinguished for philoso- 
phy, and ‘Calliope’ for esthetics. His works 
on the Bible, on politics, on education and 
manners, upon which his numerous essays and 
fragments are employed, are circumscribed 
within narrower circles of discussion. In the 
‘ Adrastea,’ he has felt himself impelled to de- 
vote a special attention to modern history, since 
he, too, is a child of the present age. All these 
works are distinguished both by the truth and 
clearness with which the subjects are brought 
at once before us, and particularly by the fact 
that they are never solitary efforts, never leave 
an unsatisfied feeling behind, but always refer 
to a great and harmonious view of the world, 
and make us see the whole in single parts, just 
as they, when united, form, at length, the 
whole. 

“‘ Herder’s sublime genius, however, did not 
limit itself to tracing out the development of 
the powers of the soul as they lie in individual 
men, to the complete formation of the flower, 
to which these individuals may bring them. 


in os ARORA ARSE RSE 


GERMAN POETRY. 


He discovered, on the contrary, that a still higher 
development will be attained in the variety of 
natures, both of nations and of individuals. In 
this, he thought, consisted the highest and last 
form to which the course of human progress 
was subjected; and therefore the just appre- 
ciation of this was the crowning glory of his 
system. In nationality, Herder recognized the 
cradle of a still higher culture than could pos- 
sibly be attained by men themselves; but the 
cradle of the highest culture was, he thought, 
the variety of human nature. As he placed 
the moral world of mankind above nature, so 
he placed the civilized and polished above 
the rude nation, and the man of genius above 
the ordinary man. This highest view, how- 
ever, stood in the most intimate connection with 
his entire system; and he unfolded the spirit 
of nations only for its important bearing upon 
the spirit of mankind and the world, and the 
spirit of great geniuses only with relation to all 
of them together. 

“To this last view we are indebted for his 
noblest works, and for the noblest part of all 
of them. With a warmth of feeling, such as 
is possible only in Germany, and which his 
example has made a conscious will and a law 
to the Germans, he penetrated the peculiar 
character, both of the Germans and of every 
foreign nation, and of their men of genius, and 
showed how the most fragrant flowers of all 
nobleness and beauty have blossomed among 
them. Out of all these flowers he wreathes a 
sacred garland for the genius of humanity, and 
deserves himself to be reverenced as its worthi- 
est priest. Far from all the vanity of attribut- 
ing special honor to the German nation, he 
secured to it, unconsciously, the greatest; for, 
by his own great example, he showed that the 
German spirit was capable of receiving the 
broadest and most comprehensive culture. As 
in various parts of his ‘Ideas’ and other works 
he has represented the spirit of nations under 
the forms it has assumed in their history and 
institutions, always with reference to their 
progress towards the noble and the beautiful, 
towards humanity, generally ; it seemed, also, 
to his correct judgment, an object worthy of 
special regard, to conjure up this spirit in the 
poetry of nations. Hence he collected the 
‘Voices of the Nations,’ one of his noblest 
works, where he brought together the most 
beautiful and characteristic popular songs, from 
all quarters of the world, into a great song-book 
of mankind. The lofty spirit of this collection, 
and, again, the rich variety and marvellous 
beauty of the parts, did not fail of their effect. 
After this, a higher importance was attributed 
to poetry, by and for itself, and its relation to 
popular life; or rather, it has been recognized 
in poetry and unfolded from it. Since then, 
an animated intercourse between living minds 
and the dead has been extended over the whole 
earth. 


| 


We have explored all nations, all ages, 
and brought up the hidden treasures which 


I 


Herder had marked with fire. From the far 
India, Persia, Arabia; from the Finnic, and 
Sclavonian North ; from Scandinavia, Scotland, 
England; from Spain; even from the New 
World, the gold of poetry, under Herder’s 
guidance, has been piled up in an ever increas- 
ing hoard in German literature.” 

Many editions of his separate works have ap- 
peared. The most recent edition of his collec- 
tive works is that which was published at Stutt- 
gart and Tibingen, in sixty parts, 1827-30. 
His life was written by his wife, in two parts, 
Tiibingen, 1820; afterwards by Déring, Wei- 
mar, 1823, 


ee 


VOICE OF A SON. 


FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 


CrurEt, ye Fates, was my lot, unpermitted to 
gaze on the daylight 
But for a few short years, soon to descend to 
the shades! 
Was I, then, born but in vain? nor allowed to 
requite to my mother 
All that she bore at my birth, all she bestow- 
ed on my growth? 
Orphan of father betimes, on her I was thrown 
for supportance, 
Doubling the toil of her hand, doubling the 
cares of her soul. 
Yet was she never employed to prepare me the 
torches of Hymen, 
Saw from the promising sprout no compen- 
sation of fruit. 
Mother, thy grief is the bitterest pang I have 
suffered from Fortune, 
That I have lived not enough aught of thy 
love to repay. 


ee 


ESTHONIAN BRIDAL SONG. 


Decx thyself, maiden, 

With the hood of thy mother ; 

Put on the ribands 

Which thy mother once wore: 

On thy head the band of duty, 

On thy forehead the band of care. 
Sit in the seat of thy mother, 

And walk in thy mother’s footsteps. 
And weep not, weep not, maiden: 
If thou weepest in thy bridal attire, 
Thou wilt weep all thy life. 


CHANCE. 


FROM THE ORIENTAL ANTHOLOGY. 


Rare luck makes not arule. One day it pleased 

The Persian king to place a precious ring 

On a tall staff, and offer it a prize 

To any archer who should hit it there. 

The better marksmen soon assembled round: 

They shot with skill, yet no one touched the 
ting. 


HERDER. 


A boy, who sat upon the palace-roof, 

Let fly his arrow, and it hit the mark. 

On him the monarch then bestowed the prize. 
The lad threw bow and arrows on the fire: 
‘That all my glory may remain to me, 

This my first shot,” he said, “shall be my last.” 


TO A DRAGON-FLY. 


Fiurrer, flutter gently by, 
Little motley dragon-fly, 
On thy four transparent wings ! 
Hover, hover o’er the rill, 
And when weary sit thee still 
Where the water-lily springs! 


% 


More than half thy little life, 
Free from passion, free from strife, 
Underneath the wave was sweet; 
Cool and calm content to dwell, 
Shrouded by thy pliant shell, 
In a dank and dim retreat. 


Now the nymph transformed may roam, 
A sylph in her aerial home, 

Where’er the zephyrs shall invite ; 
Love is now thy curious care, 
Love that dwells in sunny air, 

But thy very love is flight. 


Heedless of thy coming doom, 
O’er thy birthplace and thy tomb 
Flutter, little mortal, still! 
Though beside thy gladdest hour 
Fate’s destroving mandates lower, 
Length of life but lengthens ill. 


Confide thy offspring to the stream, 
That, when new summer suns shall gleam, 
They, too, may quit their watery cell ; 
Then die !—J see each weary limb 
Declines to fly, declines to swim: 
Thou lovely short-lived sylph, farewell ! 


THE ORGAN. 


O, teLL me, who contrived this wondrous frame, 

Full of the voices of all living things, — 

This temple, which, by God’s own breath in- 
spired, 

So boldly blends the heart-appalling groan 

Of wailing Misereres with the soft 

Tones of the plaintive flute, and cymbal’s clang, 

And roar of jubilee, and hautboy’s scream, 

With martial clarion’s blast, and with the call 

Of the loud-sounding trump of victory ? 


From lightest shepherd’s reed the strain as- 
cends 

To tymbal’s thunder and the awakening trump 
Of judgment! Graves are opening! Hark! the 
dead 

Are stirring! 


272 


How the tones hang hovering now | Rejoiced, for she had found what every heart 


On all creation’s mighty outspread wings, 
Expectant, and the breezes murmur! Hark! 
Jehovah comes! He comes! His thunder speaks! 


In the soft-breathing, animated tone 
Of human words speaks the All-merciful, 
At length: the trembling heart responds to him ; 
Till, now, all voices and all souls at once 
Ascend to heaven, upon the clouds repose, — 


One Hallelujah !-— Bow, bow down in prayer! 


Apollo tuned the light guitar; the son 
Of Maia strung the lyre ; mighty Pan 
Hollowed the flute. Who was this mightiest 
Pan, 
That blent the breath of all creation here? 


Cecilia, noblest of the Roman maids, 
Disdained the music of the feeble strings, 
Praying within her heart, *¢O, that I might 
But hear the song of praise, the which, of old, 
Those holy three! sang in the glowing flames, — 
The song of the creation!”’ 


Then there came 
An angel who had oft appeared to her 
In prayer, and touched her ear. Entranced, she 
heard 
Creation’s song. Stars, sun, and moon, and all 
Heaven’s host, and light and darkness, day and 
night, 
The rolling seasons, wind and frost and storm, 
And dew and rain, hoar-frost and ice and snow, 
Mountain and valley in their spring attire, 
And fountains, streams, and seas, and rock and 
wood, 
And all the birds of heaven and tribes of earth, 
And every thing that hath breath, praised the 
Lord, 
The holy and the merciful. 


She sank 
In adoration : “* Now, O angel, might I 
But hear an echo of this song!” 


With speed 
He sought the artist whom Bezaleel’s 
Devoted soul inspired: in his hand 
He placed the measure and the number. 
Uprose an edifice of harmonies. 
The Gloria of angels rang. With one 
According voice, great Christendom intoned 
Her lofty Credo, blessed bond of souls. 
And when, at holy sacrament, the chant, 
‘“¢He comes! Blessed be he who cometh!” rang, 
The spirits of the saints came down from heaven, 
And took the offering in devotion. Earth 
And heaven became a choir. The reprobate 
Shook, at the temple’s door, and seemed to hear 
The trump whose clang proclaimed the day of 

wrath. 


With all the Christian hearts Cecilia 


Soon 


| 1 Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Seeks with strong yearning in the hour of 
prayer, 
Union of spirits, + Christian unity. 


“‘ How shall I name,” said she, “ this many- 

armed 

River which seizes us and bears us on 

To the wide sea of the eternities? ”’ 

‘Call it,’ the angel said, ‘* what thou didst 
wish : 

Call it the Orean of the mighty soul, 

Which sleeps in all, which stirs all nations’ || 
hearts, 

Which yearns to intone the everlasting song 

Of universal nature, and to find 

In richest labyrinth of hearts and sounds 

Devotion’s richest, fullest harmony.” 


A LEGENDARY BALLAD. 


Amoné green, pleasant meadows, 
All in a grove so wild, 

Was set a marble image 
Of the Virgin and her child. 


There, oft, on summer evenings, 
A lovely boy would rove, 

To play beside the image 
That sanctified the grove. 


Oft sat his mother by him, 
Among the shadows dim, 
And told how the Lord Jesus 
Was once a child like him. 

| 


s¢ And now from highest heaven 
He doth look down each day, 

And sees whate’er thou doest, 
And hears what thou dost say.” 


Thus spake the tender mother : 
And on an evening bright, 

When the red, round sun descended, 
"Mid clouds of crimson light, 


Again the boy was playing, 
And earnestly said he, 
“O beautiful Lord Jesus, 
Come down and play with me! 
“] °ll find thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown; 
I will get thee ripe, red strawberries 
If thou wilt but come down. 


? 


*O holy, holy Mother, 

Put him down from off thy knee! 
For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me.” 


Thus spake the boy so lovely: 
The while his mother heard, 
And on his prayer she pondered, 
But spake to him no word. | 


That selfsame night she dreamed 
A lovely dream of joy, 

She thought she saw young Jesus 
There, playing with the boy. 


“¢ And for the fruits and flowers 
Which thou hast brought to me, 
Rich blessings shall be given 
A thousand fold to thee. 


‘¢ For in the fields of heaven 

Thou shalt roam with me at will, 
And of bright fruits celestial 

Thou shalt have, dear child, thy fill.” 


Thus tenderly and kindly 
The fair child Jesus spoke, 

And, full of careful musings, 
The anxious mother woke. 


And thus it was accomplished, 
In a short month and a day, 

That lovely boy, so gentle, 
Upon his deathbed lay. 


And thus he spoke in dying: 
‘“‘O mother dear, I see 
The beautiful child Jesus 
A coming down to me! 


“¢ And in his hand he beareth 
Bright flowers as white as snow, 

And red and juicy strawberries, — 
Dear mother, let me go!” 


He died, and that fond mother 
Her tears could not restrain ; 
But she knew he was with Jesus, 
And she did not weep again. 


—+_e— 


CARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL. 


Tus poet was born in 1744, at Wallerstein, 
in Franken. He was educated in Anspach, by 
Uz, and afterwards became an officer in Pots- 
dam. In 1774, he was appointed tutor to the 
Prince Constantine in Weimar, and there lived 
in the society of Goethe, Herder, and Wieland. 
He removed afterwards to Ilmenau, and finally 
to Jena. His death took place in 1834, at the 
age of ninety years. He was a distinguished 
lyric poet, and an excellent translator. His 
poems were published anonymously in 1815, at 
Leipsic. His translation of the Elegies of Pro- 
pertius appeared in 1798, and that of Lucretius, 
in 1821. His ‘* Remains and Correspondence ”’ 
were published by Varnhagen von Ense and 
Theodore Mundt, at Leipsic, in 1835, and re- 
published in 1840. 


oe 


MOONLIGHT. 


Darker than the day, 
Clearer than the night, 


Shines the mellow moonlight. 
35 


[a aN i ere TE 


KNEBEL. 273 | 


a ne 


From the rocky heights 
Shapes in shimmer clad 
Mistily are mounting. 


Pearls of silver dew, 
Soft-distilling, drop 
On the silent meadows. 


Might of sweetest song 
With the gloomy woods 
Philomela mingleth. 


Far in ether wide 
Yawns the dread abyss 
Of deep worlds uncounted. 


Neither eye nor ear, 
Seeking, findeth here 
The end of mazy thinking. 


Evermore the wheel 
Of unmeasured Time 
Turns round all existence; - 


And it bears away 
Swift, how swift! the prey 
Of fleet-flitting mortals. 


Where soft breezes blow, 
Where thou seest the row 
Of smooth-shining beeches ; 


Driven from the flood 
Of the thronging Time, 
Lina’s hut receives me. 


Brighter than aloft 
In night’s shimmering star, 
Peace with her is shining. 


And the vale so sweet, 
And the sweet moonlight, 
Where she dwells, is sweeter. 


ADRASTEA. 


Ween ye that law and right and the rule of 
life are uncertain, — 
Wild as the wandering wind, loose as the 
drift of the sand? 
Fools! look round and perceive an order and 
measure in all things! 
Look at the herb as it grows, look at the life 
of the brute : 
Every thing lives by a law, a central balance 
sustains all ; 
Water, and fire, and air, wavy and wild 
though they be, 
Own an inherent power that binds their rage ; 
and without it 
Earth would burst every bond, ocean would 
yawn into hell. 
Life and breath, what are they? the system of 
laws that sustains thee 
Ceases: and, mortal, say whither thy being 
hath fled ! 


‘ k 
; q 
% 
Th 
} a | 1 
7 te ey 
: 


4 
j 
{ 


What thou art in thyself is a type of the com- 
mon creation ; 
For, in the universe, life, order, existence, are 
one, 
Look to the world of mind; hath soul no law 
that controls it ? 
Elements many in one build up the temple of 
thought ; 
And when the building is just, the feeling of 
truth is the offspring : 
Truth, how great is thy might, e’en in the 
breast of the child! 
Constant swayeth within us a living balance 
that weighs all, 
Truth and order and right, measures and 
ponders and feels. 
Passions arouse the breast; the tongue, swift- 
seized by the impulse, 
Wisely (if wisdom there be) follows the law 
of the soul : 
Thus, too, ruleth a law, a sure law, deep in the 
bosom, 
Blessing us when we obey, punishing when 
we offend. 


Far by the sacred stream where goddess Ganga 
is worshipped, 
Dwells a race of mankind purer in heart and 
in life: 
From the stars of the welkin they trace their 
birth ; and the ancient 
Earth more ancient than they knoweth no 
people that lives. 
Simple and sweet is their food: they eat no 
flesh of the living, 
And from the blood of the brute shrinks the 
pure spirit away ; 


i For in the shape of another it sees itself met- 


amorphosed, 
And, in the kindred of form, owneth a nature 
the same. 
Children of happier climes, of suns and moons 
that benignly 
Shine, hath dew from above watered your 
sensitive souls? 
Say, what power of the gods hath joined your 
spirits in wedlock 
To the delicate flowers, gentle and lovely as 
they? ! 
Under blossoming groves, and sweet and preg- 
nant with ambra, 
Gaugeth the spirit divine purer the measure 
of right ? 
Pure is the being of God they teach, his nature 
is goodness : 
Passions and stormy wrath stir not the bosom 
of Brahm. 
But by the fate of the wicked the wicked are 
punished ; unfading 
Sorrow aad anguish of soul follow the doers 
of sin; 
In their bosom is hell, the sleepless voice of 
accusing 
Speaks; and gnaweth a worm, never, O, 
never to die! 


GERMAN POETRY. 


GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER. 


Tuis poet was born in 1748, at Wolmers- 
wende, near Halberstadt, where his father was 
preacher. The development of his powers was 
slow and not very promising at first, though he 
began early to make verses on the model of 
the hymn-books. At the age of ten he went to 
Aschersleben to reside with his grandfather, 
who undertook his support; thence he was sent 
to school in Halle, and, in 1764, began the 
study of theology in the University there; but, 
in 1768, he removed to Gottingen for the pur- 
pose of studying law. The irregularities of his 
conduct were such that his grandfather with- 
drew his support; but he received assistance 
from several distinguished young men, with 
whom he lived on terms of intimacy, and in 
conjunction with whom he studied the ancient 
classics, the literature of France, Italy, Spain, 


1772, he received a small judicial office in AI- 
tengleichen, near Gdttingen, and devoted him- 
self assiduously to the cultivation of poetry. 
He maintained a close connection with the 
Gottingen circle of poets, and attracted much 
attention by his writings. In°1774, he married, 
but his marriage proved unhappy. His wife died 
a few years after, and he married her sister, for 
whom he had long cherished a violent passion. 
This second wife was his celebrated Molly; 
she died within a year of her marriage, in 1786. 
In 1789, he was appointed Professor Extraor- 
dinary in G6ttingen. In 1790, he was married 
a third time, to a young lady in Swabia, who had 
publicly offered him her hand in a poem. This 
marriage also proved unhappy, and he was di- 
vorced two years after. His misery was increas- 
ed by pecuniary embarrassments, from which he 
had never been free; and he died, in 1794, in 
circumstances of great wretchedness. 

Birger is a poet of fiery and original genius. 
His ballads are among the noblest in the German 
language. His great aim was to make poetry 
popular, and his success in this respect was 
brilliant. Schiller, however, criticised him with 
a severity, which is now admitted to have been 
unjust. He is chiefly known as a writer of bal- 
lads, of which his “« Ellenore”’ is the best. This 
remarkable composition has been rendered fa- 
miliar to English readers by the translations of 
Taylor and Scott. Others also have tried their 
hands upon it. 

Menzel * says of him: ‘It. was Birger, pre- 
eminently, who cultivated the reviving taste 
for ballads, introduced by Stolberg; but he 
stuck fast, at the same time, in the honest 
old gentleman’s nightcap, and even partly 
in the Grecomania. He was not born for so 
vigorous an opposition as Schubart; and the 
more refined development of the legendary po- 


and England, giving particular attention to, 
Shakspeare and the old English*ballads. In ¢ 


-* German Literature, Vol. III. pp 138, 139. 


‘etry he had to leave to the school of Tieck and 


Schlegel. He is an interesting phenomenon on 
the boundary line between the heterogeneous 
parties which marked the progress of romanti- 
cism. His poetical forms are distinguished by 
a beautiful rhythm. Some of his ballads, par- 
ticularly ‘Ellenore,’ are sure of immortality. 
He has excited a universal sympathy, inasmuch 
as he became a victim to poetry. It was a part 
of the false poetical enthusiasm of his age to 
sacrifice common sense for a few verses. A 
maiden made proposals of marriage to poor 
Birger by a poem; enchanted with this, he 
fancied the marriage of a poet and poetess must 
be a paradise on earth ; and he was — deceived.”’ 
Birger’s works were published at Gottingen 
in 1794; again in 1829-34; again in 1835; 
and, finally, in 1841. A sketch of his life was 
published by Altholf, Gottingen, 1798. 


ELLENORE. 


Ar break of day from frightful dreams 
Upstarted Ellenore : 

‘My William, art thou slayn,’”’ she sayde, 
*¢ Or dost thou love no more ?”’ 


He went abroade with Richard’s host 
The paynim foes to quell ; 

But he no word to her had writt, 
An he were sick or well. 


With blore of trump and thump of drum 
His fellow-soldyers come, 

Their helms bedeckt with oaken boughs, 
They seeke their long’d-for home. 


And evry road and evry lane 
Was full of old and young, 
To gaze at the rejoycing band, 

To haile with gladsom toung. 


‘Thank God!” their wives and children 
sayde, 
‘ Welcome!” the brides did saye ; 
But greet or kiss gave Ellenore 
To none upon that daye. 


And when the soldyers all were bye, 
She tore her raven hair, 

And cast herself upon the growne, 
In furious despair. 


Her mother ran and lyfte her up, 
And clasped in her arm : 

“© My child, my child, what dost thou ail? 
God shield thy life from harm!” 


‘©Q mother, mother! William ’s gone! 
What ’s all besyde to me? 
There is no mercie, sure, above ! 


All, all were spar’d but he!” 


‘‘ Kneele downe, thy paternoster saye, 
*T will calm thy troubled spright : 


pL acl cal be SN pa eit ET 


BURGER. 


TG EIS Deceit et ek al a es el 


275 


a SAR ae ase Dahle ea Liat Say Le UA 


The Lord is wise, the Lord is good; 
What he hath done is right.” 


‘©O mother, mother! saye not so; 
Most cruel is my fate : 

I prayde, and prayde; but watte avaylde? 
"T is now, alas! too late.’’ 


“Our Heavenly Father, if we praye, 
Will help a suffring child: 

Go, take the holy sacrament; 
So shal thy grief grow mild.”’ 


‘“‘O mother, what I feele within 
No sacrament can staye ; 

No sacrament can teche the dead 
To bear the sight of daye.”’ 


“‘ May-be, among the heathen folk 
Thy William false doth prove, 

And put away his faith and troth, 
And take another love. 


‘¢Then wherefor sorrowe for his loss ? 
Thy moans are all in vain: 

But when his soul and body parte, 
His falsehode brings him pain.”’ 


‘*O mother, mother! gone is gone: 
My hope is all forlorn ; 

The grave my only safeguard is: 
O, had I ne’er been born! 


“Go out, go out, my lamp of life, 
In grizely darkness die ! 

There is no mercie, sure, above ! 
For ever let me lie!” 


‘¢ Almighty God! O, do not judge 
My poor unhappy child! 

She knows not what her lips pronounce, 
Her anguish makes her wild. 


“‘ My girl, forget thine earthly woe, 
And think on God and bliss; 
For so, at least, shal not thy soul 

Its heavenly bridegroom miss.’ 


? 


‘OQ mother, mother! what is bliss, 
And what the fiendis cell? 

With him ’t is heaven anywhere ; 
Without my William, hell. 


“‘ Go out, go out, my lamp of life, 
In endless darkness die ? 

Without him I must loathe the earth, 
Without him scorne the skie.”’ 


And so despair did rave and rage 
Athwarte her boiling veins ; 

Against the providence of God 
She hurlde her impious strains. 


She bet her breast, and wrung her hands, 
And rollde her tearless eye, 

From rise of morn, til the pale stars 

Again orespred the skye. 


When, harke ! abroade she herde the tramp 
Of nimble-hoofed steed ; 

She herde a knight with clank alighte, 
And climbe the stair in speed. 


And soon she herde a tinkling hand, 
That twirled at the pin; 

And thro her door, that opend not, 
These words were breathed in: — 


* What ho! what ho! thy door undo: 
Art watching or asleepe? 

My love, dost yet remember me? 
And dost thou laugh or weepe?”’ 


“Ah! William here so late at night? 

O, I have wachte and wak’d! 
Whense art thou come? For thy return 
My heart has sorely ak’d.”’ 


* At midnight only we may ride ; 
I come ore land and see: 

I mounted late, but soone I go; 

Aryse, and come with mee.” 


*O William, enter first my bowre, 
And give me one embrace: 

The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss; 

Awayte a little space.” 


‘Tho blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss, 
I may not harbour here ; 

My spurs are sett, my courser pawes, 
My hour of flight is nere. 


*¢ All as thou lyest upon thy couch, 
Aryse, and mount behinde; 
To-night we ’le ride a thousand miles, 


The bridal bed to finde.’’ 


“ How? ride to-night a thousand miles? 
Thy love thou dost bemock : 

Eleven is the stroke that still 
Rings on within the clock.” 


* Looke up; the moon is bright, and we 
Outstride the earthly men: 

I ‘le take thee to the bridal bed, 
And night shal end but then.” 


« And where is, then, thy house, and home, 
And bridal bed so meet?” 

“°T is narrow, silent, chilly, low, 
Six planks, one shrouding sheet.” 


“‘ And is there any room for me, 
Wherein that I may creepe?” 

* There ’s room enough for thee and me, 
Wherein that we may sleepe. 


*¢ All as thou lyest upon thy couch, 
Aryse, no longer stop; 

The wedding-guests thy coming wayte, 

The chamber-door is ope.” 


GERMAN POETRY. 


te ee lie eee | 


All in her sarke, as there she lay, 
Upon his horse she sprung ; 

And with her lily hands so pale 
About her William clung. 


And hurry-skurry off they go, 
Unheeding wet or dry; 
And horse and ‘rider snort and blow, 


And sparkling pebbles fly. 


How swift the flood, the mead, the wood, 
Aright, aleft, are gone ! 

The bridges thunder as they pass, 
But earthly sowne is none. 


Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
Splash, splash, across the see : 

** Hurrah! the dead can ride apace; 
Dost feare to ride with mee ? 


‘‘'The moon is bright, and blue the night; 
Dost quake the blast to stem ? 

Dost shudder, mayd, to seeke the dead?” 
‘No, no, but what of them? ”’ 


How glumly sownes yon dirgy song! 
Night-ravens flappe the wing: 

What knell doth slowly tolle ding dong’? 

_ The psalms of death who sing ? 


Forth creepes a swarthy funeral train, 
A corse is on the biere ; 

Like croke of todes from lonely moores, | 
The chauntings meete the eere. 


** Go, beare her corse, when midnight’s past, 
With song, and tear, and wail; 

I’ve gott my wife, I take her home, 
My hour of wedlock hail ! 


“¢ Leade forth, O clark, the chaunting quire, 
To swelle our spousal-song : 


Come, preest, and reade the blessing soone ; - 


For our dark bed we long.”’ 


The bier is gon, the dirges hush ; 
His bidding all obaye, 

And headlong rush thro briar and bush, 
Beside his speedy waye. 


Halloo! halloo! how swift they go, 
Unheeding wet or dry! 

And horse and rider snort and blow, 
And sparkling pebbles fly. 


How swift the hill, how swift the dale, 
Aright, aleft, are gon ! 

By hedge and tree, by thorp and town, 
They gallop, gallop on. 


Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
Splash, splash, across the see : 

‘¢ Hurrah! the dead can ride apace ; 
Dost feare to ride with mee? 


‘¢ Look up, look up! an airy crew 
In roundel daunces reele : 

The moon is bright, and blue the night, 
Mayst dimly see them wheele. 


‘¢Come to, come to, ye ghostly crew, 
Come to, and follow me, 

And daunce for us the wedding daunce, 
When we in bed shal be.” 


And brush, brush, brush, the ghostly crew 
Came wheeling ore their heads, 

All rustling like the witherd leaves 
That wide the whirlwind spreads. 


Halloo! halloo! away they go, 
Unheeding wet or dry; 

And horse and rider snort and blow, 
And sparkling pebbles fly. 


And all that in the moonshyne lay 
Behind them fled afar ; 

And backward scudded overhead 
The skie and every star. 


Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
Splash, splash, across the see: 

‘¢ Hurrah! the dead can ride apace ; 
Dost feare to ride with mee ? 


‘¢T weene the cock prepares to crowe ; 
The sand will soone be run: 

I snuffe the early morning air ; 
Downe, downe! our work is done 


‘¢ The dead, the dead can ride apace: 
Our wed-bed here is fit : 

Our race is ridde, our journey ore, 
Our endless union knit.” 


And, lo! an yron-grated gate 
Soon biggens to their view: 
He crackde his whyppe; the locks, the 
bolts, 
Cling, clang! assunder flew. 


They passe, and ’t was on graves they 
trodde : 
“¢’'T’ is hither we are bound”’ : 
And many a tombstone ghastly white 
Lay in the moonshyne round. 


And when he from his steed alytte, 
His armure, black as cinder, 

Did moulder, moulder all awaye, 
As were it made of tinder. 


His head became a naked skull ; 
Nor hair nor eyne had he: 

His body grew a skeleton, 
Whilome so blithe of ble. 


And at his dry and boney heel 
No spur was left to bee: 

And in his witherd hand you might 
The scythe and hour-glass see. 


BURGER. 277 


And, lo! his steed did thin to smoke, 
And charnel-fires outbreathe ; 
And pal’d, and bleachde, then vanishde 
quite 
The mayd from underneathe. 


And hollow howlings hung in air, 
And shrekes from vaults arose : 

Then knewe the mayd she might no more 
Her living eyes unclose. 


But onward to the judgment-seat, 
Thro mist and moonlight dreare, 
The ghostly crew their flight persewe, 

And hollowe in her eare : 


‘¢ Be patient ; tho thyne herte should breke, 
Arrayne not Heaven’s decree : 

Thou nowe art of thy bodie reft, 
Thy soul forgiven bee!” 


THE BRAVE MAN. 


Hieu sounds the song of the valiant man, 
Like clang of bells and organ-tone. 

Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control, 
Not gold rewards, but song alone. 

Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can 

Thus sing and. praise the valiant man! 


The thaw-wind came from southern sea, 
Heavy and damp, through Italy, 
And the clouds before it away did flee, 
Like frighted herds, when the wolf they see. 
It sweeps the fields, through the forest breaks, 
And the ice bursts away on streams and lakes. 


On mountain-top dissolved the snow ; 

The falls with a thousand waters dashed ; 
A lake did o’erflow the meadow low, 

And the mighty river swelled and splashed. 
Along their channel the waves rolled high, 
And heavily rolled the ice-cakes by. 


On heavy piers and arches strong, 
Below and above of massive stone, 
A bridge stretched wide across the tide, 
And midway stood a house thereon. 
There dwelt the tollman, with child and wife ; 
O tollman ! tollman! flee, for thy life! 


And it groaned and droned, and around the house 
Howled storm and wind with a dismal sound ; 
And the tollman aloof sprang forth on the roof, 
And gazed on the tumult around : 
*©O merciful Heaven! thy mercy show! 
Lost, lost, and forlorn! who shall rescue me 
now?” 


Thump! thump! the heavy ice-cakes rolled, 
And piled on either shore they lay ; 

From either shore the wild waves tore 
The arches with their piers away. 

The trembling tollman, with wife and child, 


He howled still louder than storm-winds wild. ) 
MRE ANI 


ae 


- Sia ipens 
Sweets a 


ee ad 


Te —_ 
ee ore : . , wl 
— - or eemts ae _— 
are ta = x, - ~— 
=F ot SS eee 
- ty ; 


REN ety Hel 


Set wre cet 


278 


Thump! thump! the heavy ice-cakes rolled, 
And piled at either end they lay ; 

All rent and dashed, the stone piers crashed, 
As one by one they shot away. 

To the middle approaches the overthrow ! 

O merciful Heaven! thy mercy show! 


High on the distant bank there stands 
A crowd of peasants great and small; 
Each shrieking stands, and wrings his hands, 
But there ’s none to save among them all. 
The trembling tollman, with wife and child, 


For rescue howls through the storm-winds wild. 


When soundest thou, song of the valiant man, 
Like clang of bells and organ-tone.? 
Say on, say on, my noble song! 
How namest thou him, the valiant one? 
To the middle approaches the overthrow ! 
O brave man! brave man! show thyself now! 


Swift galloped a count forth from the crowd, 
On a gallant steed, a count full bold. 
In his hand so free what holdeth he? 
It is a purse stuffed full of gold. 
“Two hundred pistoles to him who shall save 
Those poor folks from death and a watery grave!” 


Who is the brave man? Is it the count? 
Say on, my noble song, say on! 
By Him he can save! the count was brave, 
And yet do I know a braver one. 
O brave man! brave man! say, where art thou? 
Fearfully the ruin approaches now ! 


And ever higher swelled the flood, 
And ever louder roared the blast, 
And ever deeper sank the heart of the keep- 
or 
Preserver ! preserver ! ! speed thee fast ! 
And as pier after pier gave way in the swell, 
Loud cracked and dashed the arch as it fell. 


*‘Halloo! halloo! to the rescue speed !”’ 
Aloft the count his purse doth wave; 
And each one hears, and each one fears; 
From thousands none steps forth to save. 
In vain doth the tollman, with wife and child, 
For rescue how] through the storm-winds wild. 


See, stout and strong, a peasant man, 

With staff in hand, comes wandering by ; 
A kirtle of gray his ie array ; 

In form and feature, stern and high. 
He listened, the words of the count to hear, 
And gazed on the danger that threatened near. 


And boldly, in Heaven’s name, into 
The nearest fishing-boat sprang he ; 
Through the whirlwind wide, and the dashing 
tide, 
The preserver reaches them happily. 


| But, alas! the boat is too small, too small, 


At once to receive and preserve them all ! 


GERMAN POETRY. 


And thrice he forced his little boat 


Through whirlwind, storm, and dashing wave ; 


And thrice came he full happily, 

Till there was no one left to save. 
And hardly the last in safety lay, 
When the last of the ruins rolled away. 


Who is, who is the valiant man ? 
Say on, my noble song, say on! 
The peasant, I know, staked his life on the 
throw, 
But for the sake of gold ’t was done. 
Had the count not promised the gold to him, 
The peasant had risked neither life nor limb. 


‘“ Here,’’ said the count, ‘my valiant friend, 
Here is thy guerdon, take the whole !”’ 
Say, was not this high-mindedness ? 
By Heaven! the count hath a noble soul ! 
But higher and holier, sooth to say, 
Beat the peasant’s heart in his kirtle gray. 


‘My life cannot be bought and sold: 
Though poor, I’m not by want oppressed : 
But the tollman old stands in need of thy gold; 
He has lost whatever he possessed.” 
Thus cried he, with hearty, honest tone, 
And, turning away, went forth alone. 


High soundest thou, song of the valiant man, 
Like clang of bells and organ-tone. 

Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control, 
Not gold rewards, but song alone. 

Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can 

Thus sing and praise the valiant man ! 


——) 


CHRISTIAN GRAF ZU STOLBERG. 


Tus poet was born on the loth of October, 
1748, at Hamburg. He studied at Gottingen, 
and was afterwards made a gentleman of the 
bed-chamber at the Danish court. In 1777, he 
was appointed 4Amimann, or bailiff, at Tremsbit- 
tel, in Holstein; in 1800, Danish chamberlain. 
He then retired to his estate, called Windebye, 
near Eckernfoérde. He died in 1821. He wrote 
poems, ballads, tragedies with choruses, hymns, 
idyls, and translations from the Greek. 


TO MY BROTHER. 


Ur! take thou eagle’s wings, and fly, 
My song, and, with thee, fly 
My jubilant good-morrow, 
To him who is to me 

What never mortal was to mortal. 


Red gleams already wake, 
Announcing the glad day 
Which called thee, dear one, into life ! 
See, how he pranketh i in autumnal pomp ! 
Proud, and in solemnizing act, he comes, 
Clipped with the dancing hours, and greeted by 


The sun, the moon, and timeous star ! 
Haste, O fraternal kiss, 
That hoverest on my panting lip ! 
Swift glide on the first beam — 
As full of fire, as quick to animate — 
To him who is to me 
What never mortal was to mortal. 


Pillow thee gently on his lips; 
Scare not the morning dream, 
That moistly clasps the slumbering one 
With winding ivy wreaths ; 
There let thy honey trickle, and my form 
Hover before his conscious soul, 
Languishing with the sickness of desire, — 
O, for my presence languishing ! — 
Then suddenly wake him with the throbbing 
wing 
Of Love, and call it loud 
In burning words to him: — 
That he may be to me 
What never mortal was to mortal. 


My brother! in my eye 
Trembleth the tear of joy ; 
Than friend, than brother more, 
That thou —that thou art e’en, 
My heart’s most trusted one ! 
Say, ever dawned a thought to thee or me, 
Whereof the veil thou might’st not lift, 
Or I might not partake ? 
As, through the power miraculous 
Of holy Nature, hidden, deep, 
The chord of lute, untouched, the singer’s tones 
Doth warble tremblingly ; 
O Mother Nature! thus 
Our twin souls she attuned 
To ever sounding harmony ! 
Sounding, when the fiery blood 
Burns in the bosom juvenile ; 
Sounding, when down the pallid cheeks 
The tears of softened feeling flow. 


Ah! thou who art to me 
What never mortal was to mortal! 
Inspired and guided by the Muses, 
Associates dear, to whom thou saidst, 
‘‘ Thou art my sister, 
And thou my bride ! ’— 

(Oft, in the silent night, ye visit us, 

Ye Muses !—thou my brother visitest ; 
And thou, in solitary hall, 
Intoxicatest me with joy, 

Thy wooer,.Goddess dear ! —) 
Ha! I know them. too! 
Sister and bride! 

Guided by them, 

| Soar I to thee, 

O’er land, and o’er sea, to thee, to thee! 

Pours, gushes out to thee 


My overflowing heart. 


Brother! to us the lovely lot 
Is fallen, our heritage is fair! 
But, ah! why trickles now the tear 


CHR. STOLBERG.—HOLTY. 


a 


279 


Within the cup of jubilee ? 
Ah! wherefore are we now apart, — 
To-day apart? 
As for the dew the summer field, 
As pants the sun for ocean’s lap, 
As strives the vine for shady elm, 
O, so strive I, so pant I after thee! 
Thou —thou who art to me 
What never mortal was to mortal ! 


Return, thou day of joy, 
With blessing big, thy steps 
Trickling with milk, 
With honey, 
And with the blood of the vine! 
Come ever with autumnal pomp 
Thy temples garlanded ! 
Ah! so draws nigh at hand to us 
Our autumn too! 


So it may come, our temples be 
With pomp autumnal garlanded ; 
And with fruits, — O! with fruits, 
Ay, laden with imperishable wealth ! 
Nor find us then, fair day, 
As on this day, apart ! 


O, the fulfilling! the fulfilling! 
Fulfilling of the most intense desire ! 
Clearly mine eye pervades 
The future far; it sees 
What golden days the path of life conclude! 


Winter at last arrives; 
Age friendly and benign 
Takes us both by the hand, and leads us — 
O joy! unseparated then ! 
Best father! and, O thou, 
Who borest and who suckledst me, 
Best mother ! — 
Thither, where ’mong the trees of life, 
Where in celestial bowers, 
Under your fig-tree, bowed with fruit, 
And warranting repose, 
Under your pine, inviting shady joy, 
Unchanging blooms 
Eternal spring! 


———~——— 


LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH 
HOLTY. 


Tur poet H6élty was born December 21st, 
1748, at Mariensee, in Hanover, where his fath- 
er was a preacher. His early education was su- 
perintended by his father. He gave precocious 
indications of a love of learning, but his health 
was feeble from his childhood up. He was sent 
to school in Celle, and in 1766 entered the 
University of G6ttingen as a student of theolo- 
gy. He occupied himself much with poetry, 
and assisted .in forming the Poetical Society. 
He died September Ist, 1776. He was a poet 


of a sentimental and melancholy cast, but, at 
the same time, fond of wit. He wrote odes, 
songs, ballads, and idyls. His works were 
published by Stolberg and Voss, at Hamburg, 
1783; by Voss in 1804 and 1814. A new edi- 
tion appeared at KG6nigsberg in 1833. 


DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 


SHE is no more, who bade the May-month hail; 
Alas! no more ! 

The songstress who enlivened all the vale, — 
Her songs are o’er ; 

She, whose sweet tones, in golden evening hours, 
Rang through my breast, 

When, by the brook that murmured ’mong the 

flowers, 

I lay at rest. 


How richly gurgled from her deep, full throat 
The silvery lay, 

Till in her caves sweet Echo caught the note, 
Far, far away ! 

Then was the hour when village pipe and song 
Sent up their sound, 

And dancing maidens lightly tripped along 
The moonlit ground. 


A youth lay listening on the green hill-side, 
Far down the grove, 

While on his rapt face hung a youthful bride 
In speechless love. 

Their hands were locked oft as thy silvery strain 
Rang through the vale ; 

They heeded not the merry, dancing train, 
Sweet nightingale ! 


They listened thee till village bells from far 
Chimed on the ear, 

And, like a golden fleece, the evening star 
Beamed bright and clear. 

Then, in the cool and fanning breeze of May, 
Homeward they stole, 

Full of sweet thoughts, breathed, by thy tender 

lay, 

Through the deep soul. 


HARVEST SONG. 


SicKLEs sound ; 
On the ground 
Fast the ripe ears fall ; 
Every maiden’s bonnet 
Has blue blossoms on it ; 
Joy is over all. 


Sickles ring, 
Maidens sing 
To the sickle’s sound ; 
Till the moon is beaming, 
And the stubble gleaming, 
Harvest songs go round. 


GERMAN POETRY. 
ee  ——EE———— Ee 


All are springing, 
All are singing, 
Every lisping thing. 
Man and master meet ; 
From one dish they eat; 
Each is now a king. 


Hans and Michael 
Whet the sickle, 
Piping merrily. 
Now they mow ; each maiden 
Soon with sheaves is laden, 
Busy as a bee. 


Now the blisses, 
And the kisses ! 
Now the wit doth flow 
Till the beer is out ; 
Then, with song and shout, 


Home they go, yo ho! 
‘ 


WINTER SONG. 


SumMMER joys are o’er; 

Flowerets bloom no more ; 
Wintry winds are sweeping : 
Through the snow-drifts peeping, 

Cheerful evergreen 

Rarely now is seen. 


Now no plumed throng 

Charms the woods with song; 
Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 
Merry snow-birds, twittering, 

Fondly strive to cheer 

Scenes so cold and drear. 


Winter, still I see 

Many charms in thee ; 
Love thy chilly greeting, 
Snow-storms fiercely beating, 

And the dear delights 

Of the long, long nights. 


ELEGY AT THE GRAVE OF MY FATHER. 


Burst are they who slumber in the Lord; 
Thou, too, O my father, thou art blest ; 

Angels came to crown thee ; at their word, 
Thou hast gone to share the heavenly rest. 


Roaming through the boundless, starry sky, 
What is now to thee this earthly clod ? 

At a glance ten thousand suns sweep by, 
While thou gazest on the face of God. 


In thy sight the eternal record lies; 

Thou dost drink from life’s immortal wells ; 
Midnight’s mazy mist before thee flies, 

And in heavenly day thy spirit dwells. 


Yet, beneath thy dazzling victor’s-crown, 
Thou dost send a father’s look to me ; 

At Jehovah’s throne thou fallest down, 
And Jehovah, hearing, answereth thee. 


Sonienhsienechaciensitanensemtaeeniendeacaee eae 


Father, O, when life’s last drops are wasting,— 
Those dear drops which God’s own urn hath 
given, — 
When my soul the pangs of death is tasting, 
To my dying bed come down from heaven ! 


Let thy cooling palm wave freshly o’er me, 
Sinking to the dark and silent tomb ; 

Let the awful vales be bright before me, 
Where the flowers of resurrection bloom. 


Then with thine my soul shall soar through 
heaven, 
With the same unfading glory blest ; 
For a home one star to-us be given, — 
In the Father’s bosom we shall rest. 


Then bloom on, gay tufts of scented roses; 
O’er his grave your sweetest fragrance shed ! 

And, while here his sacred dust reposes, 
Silence, reign around his lowly bed! 


4 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


Happy the man who has the town escaped ! 
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring 
brooks, 
The shining pebbles, preach 
Virtue’s and wisdom’s lore. 


The whispering grove a holy temple is 

To him, where God draws nigher to his soul ; 
Each verdant sod a shrine, 
Whereby he kneels to Heaven. 


The nightingale on him sings slumber down, — 
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet, 
When shines the lovely red 
Of morning through the trees. 


Then he admires thee in the plain, O God !— 
In the ascending pomp of dawning day, —. 
Thee in thy glorious sun, — 
The worm, — the budding branch. 


Where coolness gushes, in the waving grass, 
Or o’er the flowers streams the fountain, rests: 
Inhales the breath of prime, 
The gentle airs of eve. 


His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in 
the sun, 
And play and hop, invites to sweeter rest 
Than golden halls of state 
Or beds of down afford. 


To him the plumy people sporting chirp, 
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch, 
And from his quiet hand 
Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains. 


Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death ; 
And in the village churchyard by the graves 
Sits, and beholds the cross, — 


Death’s waving garland there, — 
36 


GOETHE. 


281 


a ent nh 


The stone beneath the elders, where a text 
Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die, — 
And with his scythe stands Death, — 
An angel, too, with palms. 


Happy the man who thus hath ’scaped the town! 
Him did an angel bless when he was born, — 
The cradle of the boy 
With flowers celestial strewed. 


———_}—- 


JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 


Tuis world-renowned and versatile author, 
the greatest name in German literature, was 
born at Frankfort on the Mayn, the 28th of 
August, 1749. His father was a man of vari- 
ous culture, and held the rank of Imperial 
Councillor. He spared no pains to unfold the 
abilities of his son, which, it was soon apparent, 
were of a distinguished order. His house was 
filled with pictures and engravings, which early 
developed young Goethe’s powers of observing 
and discriminating works of art. When the 
Seven Years’ War broke out, the Count de 
Thorane, the lieutenant du rot of the French 
army in Germany, was quartered in Goethe’s 
house. The count’s taste for pictures, and his 
conversations with the artists of Frankfort, in 
which young Goethe was allowed to partici- 
pate, exercised a strong influence on his. taste 
and character. He seized this opportunity also 
of learning the French language. In 1765, he 
went to Leipsic and entered the University, 
where Gottsched was still living; but Ernesti 
and Gellert chiefly occupied his attention. He 
followed no regular course of studies during 
his residence in Leipsic, but devoted himself 
principally to poetry and art; he constantly 
practised drawing, and even attempted engrav- 
ing. In 1768, he returned to Frankfort, with 
his health much impaired. He was affection- 
ately nursed by a lady named Von Klettenberg, 
under whose influence he was led to study 
the science of chemistry and the mystico- 
alchemical works, the effect of which is seen in 
the “ Faust.”’ In 1770, he went to the Univer- 
sity of Strasburg to study law, according to 
the wish of his father, but his favorite pursuits 
were chemistry and anatomy. Here he became 
acquainted with Herder, whose views in poetry 
and taste in art had a marked influence upon 
his life. Here, too, he wrote a treatise on 
Gothic architecture. In 1771, he took his de- 
gree as Doctor of Laws, and wrote a disserta- 
tion on a legal subject. Soon after, he returned 
home, and in 1773 published his ‘ Gotz von 
Berlichingen,”’ which instantly and strongly 
excited the public attention ; the “ Sorrows of 
Werther ”’ appeared in the following year. In 
1776, he was invited to Weimar hy the young 
duke, Karl August, a circumstance that fixed 
his career and destiny. He received the rank of 


Councillor of Legation, then of Privy Council- 


xe 


lor, and in 1782 he was made President of the 
Chamber and ennobled. In 1786, he made a 
journey to Italy and Sicily, in which he spent 
two years, and after his return was appointed 
Prime Minister of Weimar. He accompanied 
the duke of Weimar during the campaign of 
1792. He received many orders; among the 
rest, that of Alexander-Newski, from the Em- 
peror of Russia, and the Grand Cross of the 
Legion of Honor, from the Emperor Napoleon. 
He died on the 22d of March, 1832. 

His works embrace almost every department 
of literature and many of the sciences. They 
have exercised an immense influence, not only 
in Germany, but over the whole civilized world. 
For half a century he stood at the head of the 
literature of Germany, though not without the 
vigorous opposition of an able and _ resolute 
party. ‘To discuss his various merits and defects, 
however, would require more space than can 
be given to them here. His countrymen are 
fond of calling him vielsettig, or many-sided. 
The following portraits, drawn by different ar- 
tists, may be considered as side-views, taken 
from different points. 


— 


GOETHE IN 1776. BY GLEIM. 


‘Snort y after Goethe had written his‘ Wer- 
ther,’ I came to Weimar, and wished to know 
him. I had brought with me the last G6ttin- 
gen ‘Musen-Almanach,’ as a literary novelty, 
and read here and there a piece to the com- 
pany in which I was passing the evening. 
While I was reading, a young man, booted and 
spurred, in a short green shooting-jacket thrown 
open, had come in and mingled with my audi- 
ence. I had scarcely remarked his entrance. 
He sat down opposite to me, and listened very 
attentively. I scarcely knew what there was 
about him that struck me particularly, except a 
pair of brilliant black Italian eyes. But it was 
decreed that I should know more of him. 

“During a short pause, in which some gen- 
tlemen and ladies were discussing the merits 
of the pieces I had read, lauding some and 
censuring others, the gallant young sportsman 
(for such I took him to be) arose from his chair, 
and, bowing with a most courteous and ingra- 
tiating air to me, offered to relieve me from 
time to time in reading aloud, lest I should be 
tired. I could do no less than accept so polite 
an offer, and immediately handed him the book. 
But, O Apollo and all ye Muses, — not forget- 
ting the Graces,—what was I then to hear! At 
first, indeed, things went on smoothly enough. 

‘Die Zephyr’n lauschten, 

Die Bache rauschten, 

* Die Sonne 

Verbreitet ihre Licht mit Wonne,’ 
The somewhat more solid, substantial fare of 
Voss, Leopold Stolberg, and Birger, too, were 
delivered in such a manner that no one had 
any reason to complain. 

“‘ All at once, however, it was as if some 


GERMAN POETRY. 
ceateihidientan rane oe MAE en 


wild and wanton devil had taken possession of 
the young reader, and I thought I saw the Wild 
Huntsman bodily before me. He read poems 
that had no existence in the Almanach; he 
broke out into all possible modes and dialects. 
Hexameters, iambics, doggerel verses, one after 
another, or blended in strange confusion, came 
tumbling out in torrents. 

** What wild and humorous fantasies did he 
not combine that evening! Amidst them, came 
such noble, magnificent thoughts, thrown in, 
detached, and flitting, that the authors to whom 
he ascribed them must have thanked God on 
their knees, if they had fallen upon their desks. 

*¢ As soon as the joke was discovered, a uni- 
versal merriment spread through the room. He 
put every body present out of countenance in 
one way or another. Even my Mecenasship, 
which I had always regarded it as a sort of 
duty to exercise towards young authors, poets, 
and artists, had its turn. Though he praised it 
highly on the one side, he did not forget to 
insinuate, on the other, that I claimed a sort of 
property in the individuals to whom I had 
afforded support and countenance. In a little 
fable composed extempore in doggerel verses, he 
likened me, wittily enough, to a worthy and 
most enduring turkey-hen, that sits on a great 
heap of eggs of her own and other people’s, 
and hatches them with infinite patience ; but 
to whom it sometimes happens to have a chalk 
egg put under her instead of a real one; a trick 
at which she takes no offence. 

‘“‘¢ That is either Goethe or the devil,’ cried 
I to Wieland, who sat opposite to me at the 
table. ‘Both,’ replied he; ‘he has the devil 
in him again to-day; and then he’is like a 
wanton colt that flings out before and behind, 
and you do well not to go too near him.’ ” * 


INTERVIEW WITH GOETHE. BY HAUFF. 


“Tur clock at length struck, and we de- 
parted. The residence of the poet is beautiful. 
A tasteful walk, decorated with statues, leads 
to the dwelling. We were silently conducted, 
by a servant, to the parlour, the style of which 
is neat, chaste, and elegant. My young com- 
panion gazed at the paintings, sculptured walls, 
and furniture, in admiration of wonder. Such 
a *poet’s room’ was quite unlike the narrow 
one of his fancy. His exalted preconceived 
ideas of the poet were now greatly heightened 
by the grandeur that surrounded him; and his 
trepidation at the impending interview began 
to betray itself by the mantling of the color in 
his handsome countenance, by the beatings of 
his heart, by the frequency of his glances at the 
door. 

‘“‘T had here a little time to reflect upon the 
character and fortunes of Goethe. How insig- 
nificant is the splendor of birth, compared with 


* Characteristics of Goethe, by Saran Austin (3 vols, 
London, 1833). Vol. IL, pp. 25-29: 


— 


2 Se Pe BS Tee, 2 


— nia 


en 


arden aeiameeneenCalhatannelaetanaemapcrideeasearaibtase enmiarimienaraediei te caer aie a Ren I ena TY PT RE RE 


GOETHE. 233 


the wealth of an eminently gifted mind! This 
son of an obscure citizen of Frankfort has 
reached the utmost point, that, in the ordinary 
nature of things, lies open to the attainment of 
man. Goethe has broken his own path; a path 
in which none had preceded, none have fol- 
lowed him. He has shown that what man will 
he can. 

‘The door opened,—it was Goethe. A 
stately, beautiful old man! Eyes clear and 
youthful; forehead capacious, majestic; the 
mouth cheerful, fine, and noble. He was at- 
tired in a fine suit of black; on his breast was 
a brilliant star. But he allowed us little time 
for a survey. We were welcomed with the 
greatest sincerity and affability of manner, and 
invited to seats. 

“QO, had I but been introduced as some 
learned Iroquois, or one of the chivalrous spir- 
its from Mississippi! Could I but have inform- 
ed him of the extent of his fame beyond the 
Ohio, — of the opinions of the planters of Lou- 
isiana of himself and his ‘ Wilhelm Meister’! 
Then I might have been a colloquial partaker 
in this interview; but, alas! my fortunate com- 
panion, who was an American, had the con- 
versation all to himself. 

‘How false are often our notions of the 
manner in which we should deport ourselves 
with, and the kind of entertainment we shall 
receive from, renowned men! If the object of 
our reverence has attained notoriety as a wit, 
we expect to meet a sort of electrifying machine 
in constant, sparkling operation. Is he a dra- 
matist, we fancy we shall hear a talking trage- 
dy. Ifa writer of romances, we feel that we 
are approaching something novel. But a man 
like Goethe, who ‘rides in every saddle,’ how 
interesting, how instructive, how momentous 
must be the interview, and what an effort does 
it not require, on our part, to sustain it! 

“So thought the American before this visit 
to Goethe. His mind now flew in confusion, 
first, through the four chambers of his brain, 
then down to the two apartments of his heart, 
without being able to shape an idea, which he 
dared to utter. Then how much was he re- 
lieved, when the poet addressed him as Hans 
addressed Kutz in the ‘Kneipe’! He inquired 
about the weather in America. The counte- 
nance of my companion began to light up, the 
sluices of his eloquence were soon opened, 
and he talked about the Canadian mists, about 
the spring storms of New York, and praised the 
umbrellas which are manufactured in Franklin 
street, Philadelphia. 

‘Tt soon appeared as if I were not in the 
company of Goethe, but with my old associates 
of the hotel, —such was the frankness and fa- 
miliarity of the conversation. 

‘The time passing agreeably, we found that 
our stay was prolonged far beyond the time we 
had purposed to tarry, and we took our leave 
under the most bland and cordial civilities. 

‘Tn silent astonishment, my transatlantic com- 


panion followed me to the public house. The 
excitement of the animated interview still col- 
ored his features, and he seemed highly gratified 
with the visit. Arriving at our room, he threw 
himself heroically upon two chairs and ordered 
a bottle of champagne. The cork shot joyfully 
against the ceiling; two glasses were filled; 
and the health of the great poet was drunk 
with ‘three times three.’ ”’ * 


GOETHE AND BETTINE. 


“THE house lies opposite the fountain; how 
deafening did the water sound to me! -I as- 
cended the simple staircase ; in the wall stand 
statues which command silence: at least, I 
could not be loud in this sacred hall. All is 
friendly, but solemn. In the rooms, simplicity 
is at home. Ah, how inviting! ‘ Fear not,’ said 
the modest walls, ‘he will come, and will be — 
and more he will not wish to be —as thou art’; 
—and then the door opened, and there he 
stood, solemnly grave, and looked with fixed 
eyes upon me. I stretched my hands towards 
him, I believe. I soon lost all consciousness. 
Goethe caught me quickly to his heart. ‘¢ Poor 
child, have I frightened you?’ These were the 
first words with which his voice penetrated to 
my heart. He led me into his room, and placed 
me on the sofa opposite to him. There we 
were, both mute; at last he broke the silence: 
‘You have doubtless read in the papers, that 
we suffered, a few days ago, a great loss, by the 
death of the Duchess Amalia? ’—‘ Ah? said I, 
‘i don’t read the papers.’~—‘Indeed! I had 
believed that every thing which happens in 
Weimar would have interested you.’—¥‘ No, 
nothing interests me but you alone; and I am 
far too impatient to pore over newspapers.’ — 
‘You area kind child..—A long pause, -—~I, 
fixed to that tiresome sofa in such anxiety. You 
know how impossible it is for me to sit still, in 
such a well bred manner. Ah, mother, is it 
possible so far to forget one’s self? I suddenly 
said, ¢Can’t stay here upon the sofa,’ and sprang 
up. ¢ Well,’ said he, ‘make yourself at home.’ 
Then I flew to his neck, —he drew me on his 
knee, and locked me to his heart. Still, quite 
still it was, — every thing vanished. I had not 
slept for so long, -—- years had passed in sighing 
after him. I fell asleep on his breast; and 
when I awoke, I began a new life. t 


GOETHE AS A PATRIOT. BY BORNE. 


“ GorTHE might have rendered himself as 
strong as Hercules in freeing his country from 
the filth it contains, but he merely procured for 
himself the golden apples of the Hesperides, of 
which he retained possession; and, satisfied 
with that, he placed himself at the feet of 
Omphale, where he remained stationary. How 


* Haurr. Memoiren des Satan, Chap. XVI. Works 
(4 vols. Stuttgart, 1840), Vol. IL., p. 234. 

+ Gorrun’s Correspondence with a Child (2 vols. Lowell, 
1841). Vol. L., pp. 10, 11. 


2 RS SR IS EIT T TE a SIE ET FE RE IE SS 


284 


completely opposite was the course pursued by 
the great poets and orators of Italy, France, and 
England! Dante, a warrior, statesman, and 
diplomatist, beloved and hated, protected and 
persecuted, by mighty princes, remained withal 
unaffected by either, and sang and fought in 
the cause of justice. Alfieri was a nobleman, 
haughty and rich; and yet he panted up the hill 
of Parnassus, to proclaim from its summit uni- 
versal freedom. Montesquieu was a servant of 
the state; and yet he sent forth his ‘Persian 
Letters,’ in which he mocked at courts, and 
his ‘Spirit of the Laws,’ wherein he exposed 
the defects of the French government. Voltaire 
was a courtier; but he only courted the great in 
smooth words, and never sacrificed his princi- 
ples to them. He wore, it is true, a well pow- 
dered wig, and was fond of lace ruffles, silk 
coats and stockings; but when he heard the 
cry of the persecuted, he did not hesitate to 
wade through the mud to their rescue, and 
with his own ennobled hands snatch from the 
scaffold the unjustly condemned victim. Rous- 
seau was a poor, sickly beggar, and needed 
aid; but he was not seduced by tender care ; 
neither could friendship, even from the great, 
produce a change in his principles. He con- 
tinued proud and free, and died in poverty. 
Milton, whilst engaged in the composition of 
his divine poetry, forgot not, though in poverty, 
the necessities of his fellow-citizens, but labored 
for liberty and right. Such men were also 
Swift, Byron, &c.; and such are, at the present 
moment, Moore, Campbell, and others. But 
how has Goethe exhibited himself to his coun- 
trymen and to the world? As the citizen of a 
free city, he merely recollected that he was the 
grandson of a mayor, who, at the coronation of 
the emperor of Germany, was allowed to hold 
the temporary office of Chamberlain. As the 
child of honest and respectable parents, he was 
delighted when once a dirty boy in the street 
called him a bastard, and wandered forth in 
imagination (the imagination of a future poct) 
the son of some prince, questioning himself as 
to which he might perchance belong. Thus 
he was, and thus he remained. Not once has 
he ever advanced a poor, solitary word in his 
country’s cause,—he, who, from the lofty height 
which he had attained, might have spoken out 
what none other but himself could dare to pro- 
nounce. Some few years since, he petitioned 
‘their high and highest Mightinesses’ of the 
German Confederation to grant his writings 
their all-powerful protection against piracy ; but 
he did not remember to include in his prayer 
an extension of the same privilege to his liter- 
ary contemporaries. Ere I would have allow- 
ed my fingers to pen thus a prayer for my indi- 
vidual right, and that only, I would have per- 
mitted them to be lamed and maimed by the 
ruler’s edge, like a school-boy !”’ * 


* Haas. Gleanings from Germany (London, 1839). pp. 
381, 392. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


GOETHE’S OWN VIEW OF THIS SUBJECT. 


“JT sHouxp like to know what is the mean- 
ing of those phrases: —‘ Love your country,’ 
‘ Be an active patriot,’ and so forth. If a poet 
has employed himself during a long life in com- 
batjng pernicious prejudices, overcoming narrow 
views, elevating the intellect, and purifying the 
taste of the country, what could he possibly do 
better than this? How could he be more patri- 
otic? To make such impertinent and unthank- 
ful demands upon a poet is as if I should de- 
mand of the head of a regiment to become a 
ringleader in all political novelties, and neglect 
thereby his soldiers and their discipline. The 
head of a regiment ought to have no other 
fatherland than his regiment; and his best way 
to become a patriot is, to have no concern with 
politics, but in so far as they affect the discharge 
of his duties, and to direct bis whole energies 
to the training and conversation of his,troops, 
to the end, that, when his fatherland really re- 
quires their service, they may be able to acquit 
themselves like men. 

‘“¢] hate all intermeddling with subjects that 
one does not understand, as I hate sin itself; 
and, of all intermeddling bunglers, political 
bunglers are to fhe the most odious, for their 
handiwork involves thousands and millions in 
destruction. 

** You know well it is not my custom to con- 
cern myself much about what people say or 
write of me; but I have heard, and I know 
very well, that, though I have worked like a 
slave all my life long (so sauer ich es mir auch 
mein Lebelang habe werden lassen), there are 
nevertheless certain people who consider all 
that I have done as worse than nothing, for no 
other reason than because I have uniformly re- 
fused to mix myself up with party politics. To 
please these gentlemen, I must have become a 
member of a Jacobin club, and a preacher of 
murder and bloodshed! But enough of this 
sorry theme, lest I should lose my reason in 
attempting to reason against that which is alto- 
gether unreasonable.” * 


MENZEL’S VIEW OF GOETHE. 


“ GorrHe had all Lessing’s subtilty, and a 


much richer imagination, but without his man- || 


liness ; and all the softness, sensibility, and uni- 
versal resignation of Herder, but without his 
faith. In relation to the beautiful treatment of 
every subject he chose to handle, he was in- 
disputably the greatest of our poets; but he felt 
no enthusiasm for any thing but himself, and all 
the subjects he treated were employed merely 
to portray and to flatter himself. As in his 
study at Weimar he managed, by an artful dis- 
position of the light, to appear, on the first salu- 
tation of a visiter, under the most favorable pic- 
torial light and shade, so all his works were 
merely the same kind of artificial means of illu- 


* ECKERMANN, Gesprache mit Goethe. 2 vols. Leipzig. 
1836. 8vo.—Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XVIII. 


RS 


minating himself. For the world he had no 
sympathy, except so far as it served him for the 
same end. Of the cathedral at Cologne he 
desired to have a little ‘show chapel’ in his 
garden; all he cared for was the fashion; but 
the august and solemn spirit which dwelt in 
the cathedral passed with him for nothing. He 
not only had no feeling for the exigencies of the 
country, but they were absolutely odious to 
him. He not only berhymed Napoleon, because 
Napoleon flattered him, but shut himself up 
during the great war of liberation, and prose- 
cuted the study of Chinese, out of disgust for 
an age which acknowledged something more 
important than himself. This man appeared to 
his contemporaries to be the greatest of men, 
because he could not flatter himself without 
speaking from the heart, as it were, of an innu- 
merable multitude of other selfish creatures ; 
because he smoothed over all the inclinations, 
which the boasted aristocracy of the refined, in 
his deeply degraded nation, at that time shared 
with him. Lessing had frightened the weak- 
lings; they had wondered at him, but had 
turned away in disgust. Goethe was their dar- 
ling, because he persuaded them that their 
weakness was beautiful.’ * 

The following is a part of the powerful and 
elaborate, but hostile, analysis of Goethe’s char- 
acter and influence, in the same writer’s “ Ger- 
man Literature.” 

“‘ The entire phenomenon of Goethe, the sum 
and substance of all his qualities and manifes- 
tations, is a reflex, a closely compressed and 
variously colored image of his age. But this 
was an age of national degeneracy ; of political 
imbecility and disgrace ; of a malicious unbelief; 
of a coquettish and sensual cant; of a deep de- 
moralization ; of a passion for pleasure, smooth- 
ed over by an appearance of taste, under the 
mask of refined manners ; of contempt for every 
public interest, and an anxious care for self. 
All these sad phenomena of the times, which oc- 
casioned the downfall of the German empire, and 
brought about the triumph of France over our 
despised and neglected country, Goethe has not 
resisted like a hero, or bewailed like a prophet. 
He has merely given back their images, and 
poetically embellished them; nay, not merely 
applauded them indirectly, but in express terms. 

“¢ We recognize in Goethe the exact opposite 
of Lessing. As Lessing emancipated the Ger- 
man mind from foreign influence, Goethe sub- 
jected it to this influence by toying with every 
people under the sun; and as Lessing opposed 
the sentimental style with all the force and 
gracefulness of his manly spirit, so Goethe ad- 
hered to that effeminate enervation of the age, 
and led the affections to its snares by the sweet- 
ness of his strains. To all the luxurious, soft, 
effeminate vices that have made their way into 
German literature by the sentimental spirit, 
and to all the false, perverted, and foppish 


* MeEnzew, Geschichte der Deutschen (Stuttgart und 
Tiibingen, 1837). pp. 1054, 1055. 


GOETHE. 
SST a TIER Ro SR we a aS eA es RL OR Huse SDE UAN A EIN “3 


285 


mannerisms that have been introduced by aping 
foreigners, Goethe lent the most powerful aid, 
and elevated imbecility and unnaturalness to a 
law. The only good which he had with this 
bad tendency, and that by which he attained so 
great power, was his form, — his talent of lan- 
guage, of representation, of dress. 

“¢ When we pierce through the many-colored 
cloud of the Goethean form, we perceive ego- 
tism to be the inmost essence of his poetry, as 
of his whole life; not, however, the egotism of 
the hero and the heaven-storming Titan, but 
only that of the Sybarite and the actor, the ego- 
tism of the passion for pleasure and the vanity 
of art. Goethe referred every thing to himself, 
made himself the centre of the world; exclud- 
ed from his neighbourhood, and from contact 
with himself, every thing that did not minister 
to his desires; and really exercised a magic 
sway over weak souls by his talent: but he did 
not make use of his power and his high rank 
to elevate, improve, and emancipate men, or to 
announce and support any great idea whatever, 
or to fight in the battles which his contempora- 
ries were waging, for right, freedom, honor, and 
country. By no means. He only carried the 
world away with him, like the stage princess, — 
to enjoy it, to play his part before it, to get ad- 
miration and pay. If he but found applause, 
he cared nothing for the sufferings of his coun- 
try; nay, he took occasion to utter his venom- 
ous hate against the free and mighty movements 
of the times, the moment he was disagreeably 
affected and disturbed by them. The prevail- 
ing feebleness of his age, the aping of foreign 
manners, which had become the fashion even 
before him, as well as the sentimental tone of 
the day, made it easy for him to turn his own 
weaknesses to good account; and, when he had 
at length gained sufficient fame and applause 
by his really extraordinary talent, he gave him- 
self up, like an adored stage-princess, to all his 
pleasures and petty caprices. He not only 
ceased to put the least disguise upon his ego- 
tism, but made it a matter of pride, and imposed 
upon his slavish readers by the unabashed dis- 
play of his thousand vanities. 

‘But Goethe’s age is past, never to return. 
A wakeful life has succeeded to the place of 
the soft slumbers which conjured up his varie- 
gated dreams before him. Goethe’s profound- 
est doctrine, which he laid down in ¢ Wilhelm 
Meister’s Apprenticeship,’ was, ‘Seriousness 
surprises us.’ Yes; it must surprise those, who, 
taken up with sports and dreams, have paid no 
heed to the realities about them. Against this se- 
riousness Goethe turned to a chrysalis, and wove 
the insect web around him, and buried himself 
among his ten thousand bawbles ; and his disci- 
ples have encircled him with a laurel grove like 
a wall. But he is now dead; his pleasure-garden 
is as desolate as Versailles, and the spirit of the 
age, passing earnestly by, bestows scarcely a 
transient look upon the ostentatious sepulchre.”’ 


pune ere en were Re LLC 


son peianane ais=-aieriinns eeanineuaen ae 


BI 9 Sa pan pe 


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JEAN PAUL’S VIEW OF GOETHE. 


“On the second day, I threw away my fool- 
ish prejudices in favor of great authors. They 
are like other people. Here, every one knows 
that they are like the earth, that looks from a 
distance, from heaven, like a shining moon, but, 
when the foot is upon it, it is found to be made 
of boue de Paris (Paris mud). An opinion con- 
cerning Herder, Wieland, or Goethe, is as much 
contested as any other. Who would believe 
that the three watch-towers of our literature 
avoid and dislike each other? I will never 
again bend myself anxiously before any’ great 
man, only before the virtuous. Under this im- 
pression, I went timidly to meet Goethe. Ev- 
ery one had described him as cold to every thing 
upon the earth. Madame von Kalb said, ‘ He 
no longer admires any thing, not even himself. 
Every word is ice. Curiosities, merely, warm 
the fibres of his heart.’ Therefore I asked 
Knebel to petrify or incrust me by some min- 
eral spring, that I might present myself to him 
like a statue or a fossil. Madame von Kalb ad- 
vised me, above all things, to be cold and self. 
possessed, and I went without warmth, merely 
from curiosity. His house, palace rather, pleased 
me; it is the only one in Weimar in the Italian 
style, — with such steps! a Pantheon full of 
pictures and statues. Fresh anxiety oppressed 
my breast. At last the god entered, cold, one- 
syllabled, without accent. ‘The French are 
drawing towards Paris,’ said Knebel. ‘Hm!? 
said the god. His face is massive and animated, 
his eye a ball of light. But, at last, the conver- 
sation led from the campaign to art, publica- 
tions, &c., and Goethe was himself. His con- 
versation is not so rich and flowing as Herder’s, 
but sharp-toned, penetrating, and calm. At 
last he read, that is, played for us, an unpub- 
lished poem, in which his heart impelled the 
flame through the outer crust of ice, so that he 
pressed the hand of the enthusiastic Jean Paul. 
(It was my face, not my voice; for I said not a 
word.) He did it again when we took leave, 
and pressed me to call again. By Heaven! we 
will love each other! He considers his poetic 
course as closed. His reading is like deep- 
toned thunder, blended with soft-whispering 
rain-drops. There is nothing like it.” * 


— 


MADAM CATALANI AND GOETHE. 


“Her want of literary attainments, joined 
to her vivacity in conversation, sometimes pro- 
duced ludicrous scenes. When at the court of 
Weimar, she was placed, at a dinner-party, by 
the side of Goethe, as a mark of respect to her 
on the part of her royal host. The lady knew 
nothing of Goethe, but, being struck by his 
majestic appearance, and the great attention of 
which he was the object, she inquired of the 


* Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter (2 vols, Boston, 
1842). Vol. I., pp. 329, 330, 


GERMAN POETRY. 
Ps 


gentleman on the other side what was his 
name. ‘The celebrated Goethe, Madam,’ was 
the answer. ‘Pray, on what instrument does 
he play?’ was the next question. ‘ He is no per- 
former, Madam,—he is the renowned author of | 
‘¢ Werther.” "+O, yes, yes, I remember,’ said 
Catalani; and turning to the venerable poet, 
she addressed him, —‘ Ah, Sir, what an admirer 
I am of ‘ Werther!’’’ 

‘‘A low.bow was the acknowledgment for 
so flattering a compliment. ‘I never,’ contin- 
ued the lively lady, —‘I never read any thing 
half so laughable in all my life. What a cap- 
ital farce it is, Sir!’— ‘Madam,’ said the poet, 
looking aghast, —‘“‘ The Sorrows of Werther’ a 
farce ?’—‘O, yes; never was any thing so ex- 
quisitely ridiculous!’ rejoined Catalani heartily, 
as she enjoyed the remembrance. And it turned 
out that she had been talking all the while of a 
ridiculous parody of ‘ Werther,’ which had been ' 
performed at one of the minor theatres of Paris, 
and in which the sentimentality of Goethe’s 
tale had been unmercifully ridiculed. The poet 
did not get over his mortification the whole 
evening; and the fair singer’s credit at the 
court of Weimar was sadly impaired by this dis- 
play of her ignorance of the illustrious Goethe 
and ‘The Sorrows of Werther.’ ’’ * 


a eed 


HEINE’S VIEW OF GOETHE. 


‘In some future articles I shall speak of the 
new poets who flourished under the imperial 
reign of Goethe. They resemble a young for- 
est, whose trees first show their own magnitude, 
after the oak of a hundred years, whose branch- 
es had towered above and overshadowed them, 
has fallen. There was not wanting, as already 
stated, an opposition that strove with embit- 
tered zeal against Goethe, this majestic tree. 
Men of the most warring opinions united them- 
selves for the contest. The adherents of the 
old faith, the orthodox, were vexed that in the 
trunk of the vast tree no niche with its holy 
image was to be found; nay, that even the 
naked Dryads of paganism were permitted there 
to play their witchery ; and gladly, with con- 
secrated axe, would they have imitated the 
holy Boniface, and levelled the enchanted oak 
with the ground. The partisans of the new 
faith, the apostles of liberalism, were vexed, 
on the other hand, that this tree could not 
serve as the tree of liberty, or, at any rate, as 
a barricade. In fact, the tree was too high, no 
one could plant the red cap upon its summit, 
or dance the Carmagnole beneath its branches. 
The many, however, venerated this tree, for 
the very reason that it reared itself with such 
independent grandeur, and so graciously filled 
the world with its odor, while its branches, 
streaming magnificently toward heaven, made 
it appear as if stars were only the golden fruit 
of its wondrous limbs. 


fi at eae a 
* Hocartu. Memoirs of the Musical Drama. 


LE ener —— weet IN te 


= = == nd 


ee 5 2 ae theta A inch han i di deni nana EN! 


GOETHE. 287 
a a FE es th, lao Sl 


“In truth, that accordance of personal ap- 
pearance with genius, which we ever desire to 
see in distinguished men, was found in perfec- 
tion in Goethe. His outward appearance was 
just as imposing as the word that lives in his 
writings. Even his form was symmetrical, ex- 
pressive of joy, nobly proportioned, and one 
might study the Grecian art upon it as well as 
upon an antique. 

‘¢ His eyes were calm as those of a god. It 
is the peculiar characteristic of the gods, that 
their gaze is ever steady, and their eyes roll 
not to and froin uncertainty. Therefore, when 
Agni, Varuna, Yama, and Indra assume the 
form of Nala, at the marriage of Damayantis, 
she discovers her beloved by the twinkle of his 
eye; for, as I have said, the eyes of the gods 
are ever motionless. ,The eyes of Napoleon 
had this peculiarity ; therefore I am persuaded 
that he was a god. The eye of Goethe re- 
mained, in his latest age, just:as divine as in 
his youth. Time, indeed, had covered his head 
with snow, but could never bow it. To the 
last he bore it proud and lofty; and when he 
spoke he became still more majestic, and when 
he stretched forth his hand it was as if his fin- 
ger were to prescribe to the stars their courses 
in the heavens. Aroand his mouth some pro- 
fess to have seen a trait of egotism, but even 
this is peculiar to the immortal gods, and espe- 
cially to the Father of the gods, the mighty Ju- 
piter, to whom Goethe has already been com- 
pared. Verily, when I visited him in Weimar, 
and stood in his presence, I involuntarily turned 
my eyes one side, to see.if the eagle, with the 
thunderbolts in his beak, were not attendant 
upon him. I was just on the point of address- 
ing him in Greek; but, when I perceived that 
he spoke German, I told him, in that language, 
‘That the plums, upon the road between Jena 
and Weimar, had an excellent relish.’ Many 
a long winter night had I thought with myself, 
how much that was lofty and profound I should 
say to Goethe, if ever I should see him; and, 
when at last I saw him, I told him that the 
Saxon plums were excellent!—-And Goethe 
smiled. He smiled with those very lips with 
which he once had kissed the beauteous Leda, 
Europa, Danae, Semele, and so many other 
princesses or common nymphs.” * 


NIEBUHR’S VIEW OF GOETHE. 


“‘Our fathers, before we, now advanced in 
years, were born, recognized in ‘ Gotz,’ and 
the other poems of a young man who was of 
the same age as Valerius in his first consulship 
(twenty-three), the poet who would rise far 
above all our nation possessed, and who could 
never be excelled. This acknowledgment 


* Heine. Letters Auxiliary to the History of Modern 
Polite Literature in Germany. Translated by G. W. Haven 
(Boston, 1836). pp. 56-58, 81, 82. 


Goethe has been enjoying for more than half a 
century; the third generation of mature men 
already look up to him as the first man of the 
nation, without a second and a rival, and the 
children hear his name as the Greeks did that 
of Homer. He has lived to see our literature, 
especially on his account, recognized and hon- 
ored in foreign countries: but he has outlived 
its time of poetry and youth, and has been left 
solitary.’’ * 
CARLYLE’S VIEW OF GOETHE. 

““ But, as was once written, ‘Though our 
clock strikes when there is a change from hour 
to hour, no hammer in the horologe of Time 
peals through the universe to proclaim that 
there is a change from era to era.’ The true 
beginning is oftenest unnoticed, and unnotice- 


able. Thus do men go wrong in their reckon- 
ing; and grope hither and thither, not knowing 


where they are, in what course their history 
runs. Within this last century, for instance, 
with its wild doings and destroyings, what hope, 
grounded in miscalculation, ending in disap- 
pointment! How many world-famous victories 
were gained and lost, dynasties founded and 
subverted, revolutions accomplished, constitu- 
tions sworn to; and ever the ‘new era’ was 
come, was coming, yet still it came not, but the 
time continued sick! Alas! all these were but 
spasmodic convulsions of the*death-sick time ; 
the crisis of cure and regeneration to the time 
was not there indicated. The real new era was 
when a Wise Man came into the world, with 
clearness of vision and greatness of soul to ac- 
complish this old high enterprise, amid these 
new difficulties, yet again: a Life of Wisdom. 
Such a man became, by Heaven’s preappoint- 
ment, in very deed, the Redeemer of the time. 
Did he not bear the curse of the time? He was 
filled full with its skepticism, bitterness, hollow- 
ness, and thousand-fold contradictions, till his 
heart was like to break; but he subdued all 
this, rose victorious over this, and manifoldly 
by word and act showed others that come after 
how to do the like. Honor to him who first, 
‘through the impassable, paves a road!’ Such, 
indeed, is the task of every great man; nay, of 
every good man in one or the other sphere, — 
since goodness is greatness, and the good man, 
high or humble, is ever a martyr, and a ‘ spirit- 
ual hero that ventures forward into the gulf for 
our deliverance.’ The gulf into which this 
man ventured, which he tamed and rendered 
habitable, was the greatest and most perilous of 
all, wherein, truly, all others lie included: The 
whole distracted existence of man in an age of 
unbelief. Whoso lives, whoso with earnest 
mind studies to live wisely in that mad ele- 
ment, may yet know, perhaps too well, what 
an enterprise was here; and for the chosen of 
our time, who could prevail in that same, have 


* Nizpuur. History of Rome (3 vols. Lonuvn, .842). 
Vol. III., pp. 125, 126, note. 


0 SE ecicaillSR Set Sa sas 


288 


the higher reverence, and a gratitude such as 
belongs to no other. 

‘“‘How far he prevailed in it, and by what 
means, with what endurances and achieve- 
ments, will in due season be estimated ; those 
volumes called ‘ Goethe’s Works’ will receive 
no further addition or alteration ; and the record 
of his whole spiritual endeavour lies written 
there, — were the man or men but ready who 
could read it rightly ! A glorious record ; where- 
in he that would understand himself and his 
environment, and struggles for escape out of 
darkness into light, as for the one thing needful, 
will long thankfully study. For the whole 
chaotic time, what it has suffered, attained, and 
striven after, stands imaged there; interpreted, 
ennobled, into poetic clearness. From the pas- 
sionate longings and wailings of ‘ Werther,’ 
spoken as from the heart of all Europe ; onwards 
through the wild, unearthly melody of ¢ Faust’ 
(like the spirit-song of falling worlds); to that 
serenely smiling wisdom of ‘ Meisters Lehrjah- 
re, and the ‘ German Hafiz,’-—what an interval ! 
and all enfolded in an ethereal music, as from 
unknown spheres, harmoniously uniting all! 
A long interval; and wide as well as long ; for 
this was a universal man. History, science, art, 
human activity under every aspect; the laws 
of light in his ‘ Farbenlehre’; the laws of wild 
Italian life in his ‘ Benvenuto Cellini’ ; — noth- 
ing escaped him, nothing that he did not look 
into, that he did not see into. Consider, too, 
the genuineness of whatsoever he did; his 
hearty, idiomatic way; simplicity with lofti- 
ness, and nobleness, and aerial grace ; — pure 
works of art, completed with an antique Gre- 
cian polish, as ‘Torquato Tasso,’ as ‘ Iphige- 
nie’; proverbs, ‘ Xenien,’— patriarchal sayings, 
which, since the Hebrew Scriptures were closed, 
we know not where to match; in whose home- 
ly depths lie often the materials for volumes,” * 

Besides the numerous editions of his separate 
works, the following collective editions may be 
mentioned : — that published at Stuttgart and 
Tubingen, 1827-35, in fifty-six volumes; the 
complete and newly arranged edition of his 
works in forty volumes, 1840; and the beauti- 
ful edition in two large volumes, 1836-38. 
His life was written by H. Doring, Weimar, 
1828. The “ Correspondence between Goethe 
and Zelter,” six volumes, appeared at Berlin, 
1833 —34 ; “+ Goethe’s Correspondence with a 
Child,” three volumes, Berlin, 1832; second 
edition, 1837; his * Letters to the Countess 
Auguste zu Stolberg,”’ Leipzig, 1839 ; his “ Cor- 
respondence with Schiller,” in six parts, Stutt- 
gart, 1828-29. 

Goethe’s genius has been amply illustrated 
by many English writers, particularly by Mrs. 
Austin, Carlyle, and Taylor. His “ Faust” has 
been translated eight or nine times; his “* Wil- 
APNE kh ILL oO | Os a 


* CaRLYLE. Critical and Miscellaneous Essays (4 vols, 
Boston, 1839), Vol. III., pp. 200-202. 


GERMAN POETRY. 
a Da a a Sn 


helm Meister” has been excellently rendered by 
Carlyle. Among his scientific works, his “ Far- 
benlehre,”’ or Theory of Colors, has excited re- 
cently much attention in the valuable transla- 
tion of Mr. Eastlake. 


EXTRACTS FROM FAUST. 


DEDICATION. 
AGAIN ye come, again ye throng around me, 
Dim, shadowy beings of my boyhood’s dream! 
Still shall I bless, as then, your spell that bound 


me? 
Still bend to mists and vapors, as ye seem? 
Nearer ye come! —I yield me, as ye found me 


In youth, your worshipper; and as the stream 
Of air that folds you in its magic wreaths 
Flows by my lips, youth’s joy my bosom 

breathes. : 


Lost forms and loved ones ye are with you 
bringing, i 
And dearest images of happier days ; 
First-love and friendship in your path upspring- 
ing, 
Like old Tradition’s half-remembered lays ; 
And long-slept sorrows waked, whose dirge-like 
singing — By att 
Recalls my life’s:strange labyrinthine maze, 
And names the heart-mourned, many a stern 
doom, mie 
Ere their year’s summer, summoned to the tomb. 


They hear not these my last songs, they whose 
greeting 
Gladdened my first, — my spring-time friends 
have gone ; 
And gone, fast journeying from that place of 
meeting, 
The echoes of their welcome, one by one. 
Though stranger-crowds, my listeners since, are 
beating 
Time to my music, their applauding tone 
More grieves than glads me, while the tried and 
true, 
If yet on earth, are wandering far and few. 


A longing long unfelt, a deep-drawn sighing 
For the far Spirit- World, o’erpowers me now; 
My song’s faint voice sinks fainter, like the dying 
Tones of the wind-harp swinging from the 
bough ; 
And my changed heart throbs warm, —no more 
denying 
Tears to my eyes, or sadness to my brow: 
The Near afar off seems, the Distant nigh, 
The Now a dream, the Past reality. 


THE CATHEDRAL. 


[Margaret amongst a number of people. Evil Spirit be- 


hind Margaret.] 
EVIL SPIRIT. 
How different was it with thee, Margaret, 
When, still full of innocence, 


aa 


GOETHE. 


Thou camest to the altar here, — 

Out of the well worn little book 

Lispedst prayers, 

Half child-sport, 

Half God in the heart! 

Margaret, 

Where is thy head ? 

In thy heart 

What crime ? 

Prayest thou for thy. mother’s soul, — who 
Slept over into long, long pain through thee? 
Whose blood on thy threshold ? — 

And under thy heart 

Stirs it not quickening even now, 
Torturing itself and thee 

With its foreboding presence ? 


MARGARET. 
Woe! woe! 


Would that I were free from the thoughts 
That come over me and across me, 
Despite of me! 


CHORUS, 
Dies ire, dies illa, 
Solvet seclum in favilld. 
[Organ plays. 
EVIL SPIRIT. 
Horror seizes thee ! 
The trump sounds ! 
The graves tremble ! 
And thy heart 
From the repose of its ashes, 
For fiery torment 
Brought to life again, 
Trembles up! 


MARGARET, 
Would that I were hence! 
I feel as if the organ 
Stifled my breath, — 
As if the anthem 
Dissolved my heart’s core! 


CHORUS. 
Judex ergo cum sedebit, 
Quidquid latet adparebit, 
Nil inultum remanebit. 


MARGARET. 
I feel so thronged ! 
The wall-pillars 
-Close on me! 
The vaulted roof 
Presses on me !— Air! 


EVIL SPIRIT. 
Hide thyself! Sin and shame 
Remain, unhidden. 
Air? Light? 
Woe to thee! 

CHORUS. 

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, 
Quem patronum rogaturus, 
Cum viz justus sit securus ? 


‘ EVIL SPIRIT. 
The glorified from thee 


Avert their faces. 
The pure shudder 
To reach thee their hands. 
Woe! 
CHORUS, 
Quid sum miser tune dicturus ? 


MARGARET. 
Neighbour! your smelling-bottle ! 
[She swoons away. 


MAY-DAY NIGHT, 


[Scene. —The Hartz Mountain, a desolate Country. ] 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
Woutp you not like a broomstick? As for me, 
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride; 
For we are still far from the appointed place. 


FAUST. 
This knotted staff is help enough for me, 
Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good 
Is there in making short a pleasant way ? 
To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, 
And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling 

springs 

Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, 
Is the true sport that seasons such a path. 
Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, 
And the hoar pines already feel her breath: 
Shall she not work also within our limbs? 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Nothing of such an influence do I feel ; 
My body is all wintry, and I wish 
The flowers upon our path were frost and snow. 
But see, how melancholy rises now, 
Dimly uplifting her belated beam, 
The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, 
And gives so bad a light, that, every step, 
One stumbles ’gainst some crag! With your 

permission, 
I ’}l call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid: 
I see one yonder burning jollily. 
Halloo, my friend ! may I request that you 
Would favor us with your bright company ? 
Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? 
Pray, be so good as light us up this way. 


IGNIS-FATUUS. 
With reverence be it spoken, I will try 
To overcome the lightness of my nature : 
Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
Ha! ha! your worship thinks you have to deal 
With men. Go straight on, in the Devil’s name, 
Or I shall puff your flickering life out. 


IGNIS-FATUUS. 
Well, 
I see you are the master of the house ; 
I will accommodate myself to you. 
Only consider, that to-night this mountain 
Is all enchanted; and if Jack -a- Lantern 


ll 37 Me 


qi 


290 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Shows you his way, though you should miss 
your own, 
You ought not to be too exact with him. 


FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and IGNIS-FATUUS (in alternate 
chorus). 
The limits of the sphere of dream, 
The bounds of true and false, are past. 
Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, 
Lead us onward, far and fast, 
To the wide, the desert waste. 


But see, how swift advance and shift 
Trees behind trees, row by row, — 

How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift 
Their frowning foreheads as we go! 
The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! 
How they snort, and how they blow ! 


Through the mossy sods and stones 
Stream and streamlet hurry down, 
A rushing throng! A sound of song 
Beneath the vault of heaven is blown: 
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones 
Of this bright day, sent down to say 
That paradise on earth is known, 
Resound around, beneath, above. 
All we hope and all we love 
Finds a voice in this blithe strain, 
Which wakens hill and wood and rill, 
And vibrates far o’er field and vale, 
And which Echo, like the tale 
Of old times, repeats again. 


| 


Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! near, nearer now 

The sound of song, the rushing throng ! 
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay, 
All awake, as if ’t were day? 


See, with long legs and belly wide, 
A salamander in the brake ! 
Every root is like a snake, 

And along the loose hill-side, 
With strange contortions, through the night, 
Curls, to seize or to affright; 
And, animated, strong, and many, 
They dart forth polypus-antenne, 
To blister with their poison spume 
The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom 
The many-colored mice, that thread 
The dewy turf beneath our tread, 
In troops each othe1’s motions cross, 
Through the heath and through the moss ; 
And, in legions intertangled, 

The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng, 
Till all the mountain depths are spangled. 


Tell me, shall we go or stay ? 
Shall we onward? Come along! 
Every thing around is swept 
Forward, onward, far away ! 
Trees and masses intercept 
The sight, and wisps on every side 
Are puffed up and multiplied. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain 


This pinnacle of isolated crag. 
One may observe with wonder, from this point, 
How Mammon glows among the mountains. , 


FAUST. 
Ay,— 
And strangely, through the solid depth below, 
A melancholy light, like the red dawn, 
Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss 
Of mountains, lightening hitherward : there, rise 
Pillars of smoke; here, clouds float gently by ; 
Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air, 
Or the iJlumined dust of golden flowers ; 
And now it glides like tender colors spreading ; 
And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth ; 
And now it winds, one torrent of broad light, 
Through the far valley, with a hundred veins ; 
And now once more, within that narrow corner, 
Masses itself into intensest splendor. 
And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, 
Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness ; 
The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains, 
That hems us in, are kindled. 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
Rare, in faith ! 
Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate 
His palace for this festival? It is 
A pleasure which you had not known before. 
I spy the boisterous guests already. 


FAUST. 
How : 

The children of the wind rage in the air ! 
With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck! 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. 
Beware ! for if with them thou warrest, 
In their fierce flight towards the wilder- 
ness, 
Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and 
drag 
Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 
A cloud thickens the night. 
Hark! how the tempest crashes through the 
forest ! 
The owls fly out in strange affright ; 
The columns of the evergreen palaces 
Are split and shattered ; 
The roots creak, and stretch, and groan ; 
And, ruinously overthrown, 
The trunks are crushed and shattered 
By the fierce blast’s unconquerable stress ; 
Over each other crack and crash they all, 
In terrible and intertangled fall: 
And through the ruins of the shaken mountain 
The airs hiss and howl, — 
It is not the voice of the fountain, 
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
Dost thou not hear ? 
Strange accents are ringing 
Aloft, afar, anear ; 
The witches are singing! 
The torrent of a raging wizard-song 
Streams the whole mountain along. 


ee a nn APSE ST SAE BBE IT I TR ET II IPR ST AT SP A A EET CITES SE PET ST SARE AD a EN 


CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, 
Now to the brocken the witches go ; 

The mighty multitude here may be seen 
Gathering, wizard and witch, below. 

Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air ; 
Hey over stock ! and hey over stone ! 
’Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be 

done? 
Tell it who dare! tell it who dare ! 


A VOICE. 


Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, 
Old Baubo rideth alone. 


CHORUS. 

Honor her to whom honor is due : 
Old Mother Baubo, honor to you! 
An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, 
Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honor! 
The legion of witches is coming behind, 
Darkening the night, and outspeeding the 

wind. 


A VOICE. 
Which way comest thou ? 


A VOICE. ; 
Over Ilsenstein. 


The owl was awake in the white moonshine : 
I saw her at rest in her downy nest, 
And she stared at me with her broad, bright eye. 


VOICES. 
And you may now as well take your course on 
to hell, 
Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. 


A VOICE. 
She dropped poison upon me as I passed. 
Here are the wounds 


CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

Come away ! come along! 
The way. is wide, the way is long, — 
But what is that for a Bedlam throng ? 
Stick with the prong, and scratch with the 

broom ; 

The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, 
And the mother is clapping her hands. 


SEMI-CHORUS OF WIZARDS I. 
We glide in 
Like snails, when the women are all away ; 
And from a house once given over to sin 
Woman has a thousand steps to stray. 


SEMI-CHORUS II. 
A thousand steps must a woman take, 
Where a man but a single spring will make. 


VOICES ABOVE, 
Come with us, come with us, from Felunsee. 


VOICES BELOW. 
With what joy would we fly through the upper 
sky ! 


GOETHE. 


291 


We are washed, we are ’nointed, stark naked 
are we ; . 
But our toil and our pain are for ever in vain. 


BOTH CHORUSES. 
The wind is still, the stars are fled, 
The melancholy moon is dead ; 
The magic notes, like spark on spark, 
Drizzle, whistling through the dark. 
_Come away! 


VOICES BELOW. 


Stay, O, stay! 


VOICES ABOVE, 
Out of the crannies of the rocks 
Who calls ? 


VOICES BELOW. 
O, let me join your flocks! 
I three hundred years have striven 
To catch your skirt and mount to heaven,— 
And still in vain. O, might I be | 
With company akin to me! | 


BOTH CHORUSES. 
Some on a ram and some on a prong, 
On poles and on broomsticks, we flutter along ; 
Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night. | 


A HALF-WITCH BELOW. 
I have been tripping this many an hour : 
Are the others already so far before ? 
No quiet at home, and no peace abroad ! 
And less, methinks, is found by the road. 


CHORUS OF WITCHES. 
Come onward away! aroint thee, aroint! 
A witch, to be strong, must anoint, —anoint, — 
Then every trough will be’ boat enough ; 
With a rag for a sail we can sweep through 
the sky ; — 
Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly ? 


BOTH CHORUSES. 
We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the 
ground: 
Witch-legions thicken around and around ; 
Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. 
{They descend. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 
What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling! 
What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling! 
What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning! 
As heaven and earth were overturning ! 
There is a true witch element about us. 
Take hold on me, or we shall be divided : — 
Where are you? 


W Faust (from a distance). 
ere! 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
What ! 
I must exert my authority in the house. 
Place for young Voland.— Pray, make way, 
good people ! 
Take hold on me, Doctor, and with one step 


Tt = = ; ta 
GERMAN POETRY. 
a 


. Let. us escape from this unpleasant crowd : 


292 


They are too mad for people of my sort. 

Just there shines a peculiar kind of light, — 
Something attracts me in those bushes. Come 
This way : we shall slip down there in a minute. 


FAUST. 
Spirit of contradiction! Well, lead on, — 
"T’ were a wise feat indeed to wander out 
Into the brocken, upon May-day night, 
And then to isolate one’s self in scorn, 
Disgusted with the humors of the time. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
See yonder, round a many-colored flame 
A merry club is huddled all together : 
Even with such little people as sit there, 
One would not be alone. 


FAUST, 


Would that I were 

Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, 
Where the blind million rush impetuously 
To meet the evil ones! there might I solve 
Many a riddle that torments me. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 


Yet 

Many a riddle there is tied anew 

Inextricably. Let the great world rage ! 

We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings. 
‘Tis an old custom. Men have ever built 
Their own small world in the great world of all. 
I see young witches naked there, and old ones 
Wisely attired with greater decency. 


_ Be guided now by me, and you shall buy 


A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble. 

I hear them tune their instruments, — one must 

Get used to this damned scraping. Come, I ’ll 
lead you 

Among them; and what there you do and see 

As a fresh compact ’twixt us two shall be. — 

How say you now? This space is wide enough : 

Look forth, you cannot see the end of it. 

A hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they 

Who throng around them seem innumerable ; 

Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love, 

And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend, 

What is there better in the world than this? 


FAUST. 
In introducing us, do you assume 
The character of wizard or of devil ? 


MEPHISTOPHELES., 

In truth, I generally go about 

In strict incognito; and yet one likes 

To wear one’s orders upon gala-days. 

I have no ribbon at my knee; but here, 

At home, the cloven foot is honorable. 

See you that snail there ? — she comes creeping 
u ? 

And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out some- 
thing : 

I could not, if I would, mask myself here. 

Come now, we ’ll go about from fire to fire : 


- 
* a 


Ill be the pimp, and you shall be the lover. — 


[To some old women, who are sitting round a heap 
of glimmering coals. 


Old Gentlewomen, what do you do out here? 
You ought to be with the young rioters, 
Right in the thickest of the revelry ; — 

But every one is best content at home. 


GENERAL. 
Who dare confide in right or a just claim ? 
So muchas I had done for them! and now— 
With women and the people ’t is the same, 
Youth will stand foremost ever—age may go 
To the dark grave unhonored. 


MINISTER, a 
Now-a-days, | 
People assert their rights; they go too far : 
But as for me, the good old times I praise : 
Then we were all in all; ’t was something 
worth 
One’s while to be in place and wear a star; 
That was indeed the golden age on earth. 


_ PARVENU. 
We, too, are active, and we did and do 
What we ought not, perhaps; and yet we now 
Will seize, whilst all things are whirled round 
and round, 
A spoke of Fortune’s wheel, and keep our 
ground. 


AUTHOR. 
Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense 
And ponderous volume? ’T is impertinence 
To write what none will read; therefore will I 
To please the young and thoughtless people 
try. 
MEPHISTOPHELES (who at once appears to have grown 
very old). 
I find the people ripe for the last day, 
Since I last came up to the wizard mountain; 
And as my little cask runs turbid now, 
So is the world drained to the dregs. 


PEDLER WITCH. 
Look here, 


Gentlemen ! do not hurry on so fast, 

And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. 

I have a pack full of the choicest wares 

Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle 

Is nothing like what may be found on earth; 

Nothing that in a moment will make rich 

Men and the world with fine, malicious mis- 
chief: 

There is no dagger drunk with blood; no bowl 

From which consuming poison may be drained 

By innocent and healthy lips; no jewel, 

The price of an abandoned maiden’s shame ; 

No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose, 


Or stabs the wearer’s enemy in the back ; 
No 


* 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
Gossip, you know little of these times. 
What has been has been; what is done is past. 
They shape themselves into the innovations 


i ? . 


They breed, and innovation drags us with it. 
The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us: 
You think to impel, and are yourself impelled 


FAUST. 
Who is that yonder ? 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
| Mark her well. It is 
Lilith. 
FAUST. 
Who? 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 


Lilith, the first wife of Adam. 

Beware of her fair hair, for she excels 

All women in the magic of her locks ; 

And when she winds them round a young man’s 
neck, 

She will not ever set him free again. 


FAUST. 
There sit a girl and an old woman, — they 
Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play. 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
There is no rest to-night for any one : 
When one dance ends, another is begun. 
Come, let us to it; we shall have rare fun. 


[Faust dances and sings with a girl, and Mephistophe- 
les with an old woman. 


BROCTO-PHANTASMIST, 
What is this cursed multitude about? 
Have we not long since proved, to demonstration, 
That ghosts move not on ordinary feet ? 
But these are dancing just like men and women. 


THE GIRL. 
What does he want, then, at our ball ? 


FAUST. 
O, he 

Is far above us all in his conceit ! 

Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment; 
And any step which in our dance we tread, 
If it be left out of his reckoning, 

Is not to be considered as a step. 

There are few things that scandalize him not : 
And when you whirl round in the circle now, 
As he went round the wheel in his old mill, 
He says that you go wrong in all respects, 
Especially if you congratulate him 

Upon the strength of the resemblance. 


BROCTO-PHANTASMIST, 

Fly ! ; 
Vanish! Unheard-of impudence! What! still 

there ? 
In this enlightened age, too, since you have been 
Proved not to exist ? — But this infernal brood 
Will hear no reason and endure no rule. 
Are we so wise, and is the pond still haunted ? 
How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish 
Of superstition, — and the world will not 
Come clean with all my pains! It is a case 
Unheard of. 


THE GIRL. 
Then leave off teasing us so. 


BROCTO-PHANTASMIST, 
I tell you, Spirits, to your faces now, 
That I should not regret this despotism 
Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. 
To-night I shall make poor work of it; 
Yet I will take a round with you, and hope, 
Before my last step in the living dance, 
Jo beat the poet and the devil together. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

At last he will sit down in some foul puddle! 
That is his way of solacing himself; 
Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, 
Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. — 

[To Faust, who has seceded from the dance. 
Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, 
Who sang so sweetly to you in the dance ? 


FAUST. 
A red mouse, in the middle of her singing, 
Sprang from her mouth, 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
That was all right, my friend ; 
Be it enough that the mouse was not gray, 
Do not disturb your hour of happiness 
With close consideration of such trifles. 


FAUST. 
Then saw [— 
MEPHISTOPHELES, 
What ? 
FAUST. 


Seest thou not a pale, 

Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away ? 

She drags herself now forward with slow steps, 
And seems as if she moved with shackled feet: 
I cannot overcome the thought that she 

Is like poor Margaret. 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 
Let it be, — pass on, — 
No good can come of it, ~ it is not well 
To meet it, —it is an enchanted phantom, 
A lifeless idol; with its numbing look, 
It freezes up the blood of man; and they 
Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone 
Like those who saw Medusa. 


? 


FAUST. 
O, too true! 
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse 
Which no beloved hand has closed, alas ! 
That is the breast which Margaret yielded to 
me, — 
Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed ! 


MEPHISTOPHELES, 


It is all magic, poor, deluded fool ! 
She looks to every one like his first love. 


FAUST. 
O, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn 
My looks from her sweet, piteous countenance. 
How strangely does a single blood-red line, 
Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, 


Adorn her lovely neck! 
v2 


el 


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"4 
44 


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et 


———e 


294 GERMAN POETRY. | 
ay 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
Ay, she can carry 
Her head under her arm, upon occasion ; 
Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures 
End in delusion. — Gain this rising ground, — 
It is as airy here as in the Prater ; 
And if I am not mightily deceived, 
I see a theatre. — What may this mean ? 


ATTENDANT, 
Quite a new piece, — the last of seven; for ’t is 
The custom now to represent that number. 
'T is written by a dilettante, and 
The actors who perform are dilettanti. 
Excuse me, Gentlemen; but I must vanish, — 
I am a dilettante curtain-lifter. 


THE LOVED ONE EVER NEAR. 


I ruinx of thee, when the bright sunlight shim- 
mers 
Across the sea ; 
When the clear fountain in the moonbeam 
glimmers, 


I think of thee. 


I see thee, if far up the pathway yonder 
The dust be stirred ; 

If faint steps o’er the little bridge to wander 
At night be heard. 


I hear thee, when the tossing waves’ low rum- 
bling 
Creeps up the hill ; 
I go to the lone wood and listen, trembling, 
When all is still. 


I am with thee, wherever thou art roaming, — 
And thou art near! 
The sun goes down, and soon the stars are 
coming : 
Would thou wert here! 


——— 


SOLACE IN TEARS. 


Come, tell me why this sadness now, 
When all so glad appears ? 

One sees it in thine eyes, my friend : 
Thou ’st surely been in tears. 


“And if I go alone and weep, 
"T is grief I can ’t impart; 

And ’t is so sweet, when tears will flow, 
And ease the heavy heart.” 


Thy gladsome friends, they call to thee : 
O, come unto our breast ! 

And whatsoe’er thy heavy loss, 
Confide it to the rest. 


“Ye talk and stir, and do not dream 
What ’t is that ails poor me: 
Ah, no! ’t is nothing I have lost, 


Then gather up thy spirits once ; 
Thy blood is youthsome yet : 

To youth like thine there wanteth not 
The strength to seek and get. 


“Ah, no! to get it, that were vain: 
It stands off all to far; 

It dwells so high, it shines so fair, — 
As fair as yonder star.” 


The stars we do not seek to have; 
We but enjoy their light, 

As we look up in ecstasy, 
On every pleasant night. 


«¢ And I look up in ecstasy, 
Full many a lovely day ; 

So leave me to my mood at night, 
To weep while weep I may.” — 


THE SALUTATION OF A SPIRIT. 


Hieu on the castle’s ancient walls 
The warrior’s shade appears, 

Who to the bark that ’s passing calls, 
And thus its passage cheers : — 


‘“‘ Behold! these sinews once were strong, 
This heart was firm and bold ; 

"Mid war and glory, feast and song, 
My earthly years were told. 


‘* Restless through half of life I ran, 
In half have sought for ease. 
What then? Thou bark, that sail’st with 
man, 
Haste, haste to cleave the seas!’ 


TO THE MOON. 


Fitxest hill and vale again, 
Still, with softening light! 
Loosest from the world’s cold chain 
All my soul to-night ! 


Spreadest round me, far and nigh, 
Soothingly, thy smile ; 

From thee, as from friendship’s eye, 
Sorrow shrinks the while. 


Every echo thrills my heart; — 
Glad and gloomy mood, 

Joy and sorrow, both have part 
In my solitude. 


River, river, glide along ! 
I am sad, alas! 
Fleeting things are love and song, — 
Even so they pass ! 


I have had and I have lost 
What I long for yet ; 
Ah! why will we, to our cost, 


Though somewhat wanting be.” Simple joys forget? 
u 


aE SI ON 


GOETHE. 


River, river, glide along, We troubled the foe with sword and flame, — 
Without stop or stay ! And some of our friends fared quite the same. 
Murmur, whisper to my song, I lost a leg for fame. 


In melodious play, — 
Now I’ve set my heart upon nothing, you see; 


Whether on a winter’s night Hurrah ! 
Rise thy swollen floods, And the whole wide world belongs to me. 
Or in spring thou hast delight : Hurrah ! 
Watering the young buds. The feast begins to run low, no doubt; 


But at the old cask we ’ll have one good bout: 


Happy he, who, hating none, Come, drink the lees all out! 


Leaves the world’s dull noise, 
And, with trusty friend alone, 


Quietly enjoys 


MAHOMET’S SONG, 


See the rocky spring, 


What, for ever unexpressed, Clear as joy, 
Hid from common sight, Like a sweet star gleaming ! 
Through the mazes of the breast O’er the clouds, he 
Sofily steals by night! In his youth was cradled 
By good spirits, 
: ’Neath the bushes in the cliffs. 
: __ VANITAS. . 
I’vE set my heart upon nothing, you see ; nigameeh ps alate 
j 8 / From the cloud he dances 
Ae Down upon the rocky pavement ; 
And so the world goes well with me. Theha Pe Iti yp : 
1ence, exulting 
Hurrah ' Leaps to heaven. 
And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, P j 
Why, let him take hold and help me drain For a while he dallies 
These mouldy lees of wine. Round the summit, 
. Through its little channels chasing 
: I set my heart at first upon wealth ; Motley pebbles round and round ; 
Hurrah ! Quick, then, like determined leader, | 
And bartered away my peace and health ; Hurries all his brother streamlets | 
But, ah! Off with him. | 
The slippery change went about like air ; fee, 
And when I had clutched me a handful here, There, all round him in the vale, | 
Away it went there. Flowers spring up beneath his footstep, 
And the meadow 


I set my heart upon woman next ; Wakes to feel his breath. 
Hurrah ! But him holds no shady vale, 
For her sweet sake was oft perplexed ; No cool blossoms, 
But, ah! Which around his knees are clinging, 
The false one looked for a daintier lot, And with loving eyes entreating 
The constant one wearied me out and out, Passing notice ;—- on he speeds, 
The best was not easily got. Winding snake-like. 


I set my heart upon travels grand, Social brooklets 
Earrah:| Add their waters. Now he rolls 


O’er the plain in silvery splendor, 
And the plain his splendor borrows ; 
And the rivulets from the plain 

And the brooklets from the hill-sides 
All are shouting to him: ‘ Brother, 
Brother, take thy brothers too, 


And spurned our plain old fatherland ; 
But, ah! 
Naught seemed to be just the thing it should, 
Most comfortless beds and indifferent food, 
My tastes misunderstood. 


I set my heart upon sounding fame ; Take us to thy ancient Father, 
Hurrah ! To the everlasting ocean, 
And, lo! I’m eclipsed by some upstart’s name; Who e’en now, with outstretched arms, 
And, ah! Waits for us, — 
When in public life I loomed quite high, Arms outstretched, alas! in vain, 
The folks that passed me would look awry : To embrace his longing ones ; 
Their very worst friend was I. For the greedy sand devours us ; 
Or the burning sun above us 
And then I set my heart upon war. Sucks our life-blood; or some hillock ‘f 
Hurrah ! Hems us into ponds. Ah! brother, = 
| We gained some battles with eclat. Take thy brothers from the plain, . 
Hurrah ! Take thy brothers from the hill-sides 


ee 


_ ST 


GERMAN POETRY. 


With thee, to our Sire with thee !? — PROMETHEUS. 
“Come ye all, then !*? — 
Now, more proudly, Bracksn thy heavens, Jove, | 
On he swells; a countless race, they With thunder-clouds, | 
Bear their glorious prince aloft ! And exercise thee, like a boy 
On he rolls triumphantly, Who thistles crops, f 
Giving names to countries. Cities With smiting oaks and mountain-tops ! 
Spring to being ‘neath his foot. Yet must leave me standing 

My own firm Earth ; 
Onward, with incessant roaring, Must leave my cottage, which thou didst 
See! he passes proudly by not build, 
Flaming turrets, marble mansions, — And my warm hearth, 
Creatures of his fulness all. Whose cheerful glow 


Thou enviest me. 


Cedar houses bears this Atlas 

On his giant shoulders. Rustling, 
Flapping in the playful breezes, 
Thousand flags about his head are 
Telling of his majesty. 


I know naught more pitiful 
Under the sun than you, Gods! 
Ye nourish scantily, 

With altar-taxes 

And with cold lip-service, 

This your majesty ; — 

Would perish, were not 
Children and beggars 
Credulous fools. 


And so bears he all his brothers, 
And his treasures, and his children, 
To their Sire, all joyous roaring, 
Pressing to his mighty heart. 


SONG OF THE SPIRITS. When I was a child, 

And knew not whence or whither, 

I would turn my wildered eye 

To the sun, as if up yonder were 

An ear to hear to my complaining, — 
A heart, like mine, 

On the oppressed to feel compassion. 


THE soul of man is 
Like the water : 

From heaven it cometh, 
To heaven it mounteth, 
And thence at once 

’T must back to earth, 
For ever changing. 


Who helped me, 


Swift from the lofty When I braved the Titans’ insolence ? 
Rock down darteth Who rescued me from death, | 
The flashing rill ; From slavery ? 
Then softly sprinkleth Hast thou not all thyself accomplished, 
With dewy kisses Holy-glowing heart? 
The smooth, cold stone ; And, glowing young and good, 
And, fast collected, Most ignorantly thanked 
Veiled in a mist, rolls, The slumberer above there ? 
Low murmuring, 
Adown the channel. IT honor thee? For what ? 
Hast thou the miseries lightened 
If jutting cliffs Of the down-trodden ? 
His course obstruct, down Hast thou the tears ever banished 
Foams he angrily, From the afflicted ? 
Leap after leap, Have I not to manhood been moulded 
To the bottom. By omnipotent Time, 


And by Fate everlasting, — 


In smooth green bed he My lords and thine ? 


Glideth along through the meadow, 
And on the glassy lake 


Bask the bright stars all Dreamedst thou ever om 
Sweetly reflected. I should grow weary of living, 
And fly to the desert, 
Wind is the water’s Since not all our 
Amorous wooer ; Pretty dream-buds ripen ? 
Wind from its depths up- Here sit J, fashion men 
Heaves the wild waves. In mine own image, — 
A race to be like me, 
Soul of a mortal, To weep and to suffer, 
How like thou to water! To be happy and to enjoy themselves, — 
Fate of a mortal, All careless of thee too, 


How like to the wind! As I! 


FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD GRAF ZU 
STOLBERG. 


TuIs writer, a younger brother of Christian 
Stolberg, was born November 7th, 1750, at 
Bramstedt. Like his brother, he was Gentle- 
man of the Bedchamber at the Danish court. 
In 1777, he was the Minister at Copenhagen 
from the Ecclesiastical See of Libeck ; in 1789, 
Ambassador at Berlin; in 1791, President at 
Eutin. In 1800, he resigned his official em- 
ployments and went to Minster. Soon, after, 
he joined the Catholic Church, and wrote much 
in its defence. In 1812, he removed to Taten- 
feld, near Bielefeld, and afterwards to Sonder- 
muhlen in Osnabrtick. His last days were em- 
bittered by a violent controversy with Voss. 
He died December 6th, 1819. 

He was a poet of a rich imagination, and of 
great enthusiasm for country and religion. His 
poems are chiefly lyrical. He wrote ballads, 
odes, lyrical poems, and excellent popular 
songs; besides didactic poems, dramas, transla- 
tions of a part of the “Iliad,” and of four trag- 
edies of Auschylus, and many other miscella- 
neous works. An edition of the writings of 
the two brothers was published at Hamburg, in 
twenty parts; of the poems, at Leipsic, in 1821, 
and at Vienna, 1821. 


—— 


SONG OF FREEDOM. 


Why dost thou linger thus, O morning sun? 
Do the cool waves of ocean stay thy march? 
Why dost thou linger thus, 
Sun of our day of fame? 
Rise ! a free people waits to hail thy ray. 
Turn from yon world of slaves thine eye of fire ; 
On a free people shed 
The glories of thy beam ! 
He climbs, he climbs aloof, and gilds the hills; 
A rosier radiance dances on the trees ; 
Sparkling, the silver brook 
To the dim valley flies. 


Now thou art bright, fair stream ; but once we 
saw 
Blood in thy waves, and corses in thy bed, 
And grappling warriors choked 
Thy swollen and troubled flood. 
With fluttering hair. the flying tyrants sped, — 
Pale, trembling, headlong, to thy waters sped, — 
Into thine angry wave 
Pursuing freemen sprang. 
Blood of the horses dyed ‘thy azure stream, — 
Blood of the riders dyed thy azure stream, — 
Blood of the tyrant’s slaves, — 
Blood of the tyrant’s slaves. 
Red was the meadow, red thy rushy brink, 
Reeking with slaughter. In the bush of thorn 
Clothes of the flying stuck, 
Hair of the dying stuck. 


At the rock’s foot the nation-curber lay ; 
Apollyon’s sceptre-wielding arm was stiff, 
38 


F. L. STOLBERG. 


Broken his long, long sword, 
Wounded his groaning horse. 
Dumb the blasphemer’s, the commander’s tongue, 
Nor hell nor man gave heed: his conscious eye 
Still rolled, as if to ask 
The brandished spear for death ; 
But not a son of Germany vouchsafed 
With pitying hand the honorable steel. 
Was not the curse of God 
Upon his forehead stamped ? 
As o’er her prey the screaming eagle planes, 
O’er him was seen the wrath of Heaven to lower. 
He lay till midnight wolves 
Tore out the unfeeling heart. 


But, ah! the young heroic Henry fell ; 

The castle-walls of Remling rang with groans ; 
Mother and sister wept 
Their fallen, their beloved ; 

His lovely wife not e’en a parent’s hope 

Could lift above the crushing load of woe, — 
She, and the babe unborn, 
Partook his early tomb. 


Not one of all the slavish crew escaped. 
Like to the fallow leaves which storm-winds 
throw, 
Their corses far and wide 
Lay weltering in the field ; 
Or floated on the far-polluted stream, 
Welcome not now where health or pity dwells. 
Back from the bloody wave 
The thirsting horse withdréw ; 
The harmless herd gazed and forebore to taste ; 
The silent tenants of the wood forebore ; 
Only the vulture drank, 
The raven, and the wolf. 


The glee of the victor is loud on the hill; 
Like nightingales singing where cataracts rush, 
The song of the maiden, 
The warriors’ music, 
In thundering triumph are mingled on high, 
Or call on the echoes to bound at the dance, 
With drum and with cymbal, 
With trumpet and fife. 
High in the air the eagle soars of song, 
Beneath him hawks, our lesser triumphs, flit ; 
O’er the last battle now 
His steadier wing is poised. 


Fierce glowed the noon; the sweat of heroes 
bathed 
The trampled grass; and breezes of the wood 
Reached but the foe, who strove 
Three hours in doubtful fight. 
Like standing halm that rocks beneath the wind, 
The hostile squadrons billow to and fro ; 
But slow as ocean ebbs, 
The sons of freedom cede, — 
When on their foaming chargers forward sprang 
Two youths, their sabres lightening; and their 
name, 
Stolberg ; — behind them rode, 
Obeying, thousand friends. 


298 


Vehement, as down the rock the floody Rhine 
Showers its loud thunder and eternal foam, — 
Speedy, as tigers spring, 
They struck the startled foe. 
The Stolbergs fought and sank; but they 
achieved 
The lovely bloody death of freedom won. 
Let no base sigh be heard 
Beside their early grave! 
Time was, their grandsire wept a burning tear 
Of youthful hope that he might perish so ; 
Upon his harp it fell, 
To exhale not quite in vain ; 
Then, through the mist of future years, he saw 
Battles of freedom tinge the patrial soil, 
Saw his brave children fall, 
And smiled upon their doom. 


Sunk was the sun of day ; with roseate wing 
The evening fanned the aged Rhine ; but still 
The battle thundered loud, 
And lightened far and wide. 
Glad, from the eaves of heaven, through purple 
clouds, 
Herman and Tell, Luther and Klopstock, leaned, 
And godlike strength of soul 
And German daring gave. 
To the pale twilight wistful looked the foe ; 
Dimmed was the frown of scorn, the blush of 
shame ; 
They fled, wide o’er the field 
Their scattering legions fled. 
With dripping swords we followed might and 
main. 
They hoped the mantle of the night would hide, 
When o’er the fires arose, 
Angry and fell, the moon. 
Night of destruction, dread retributress, 
Be dear and holy to a nation freed ! 
The country’s birth-day each 
More than his own should prize, — 
More than the night which gave his blushing 
bride. 
Thy song of triumph in our cities shout, 
The song which heroes love, 
The song to freedom dear! 
Voices of virgins mingle in the lay, 
As floats its music o’er rejoicing crowds: 
So murmur waterfalls 
Beside the ocean’s roar. 


Germania, thou art free! Germania free! 
Now may’st thou stately take thy central stand 
Amid the nations; now 
Exalt thy wreathed brow, 
Proud as thy Brocken, when the light of dawn 
Reddens its forehead, while the mountains round 
Still in wan twilight sleep, 
And darkness shrouds the vale. 


Welcome, great century of Liberty, 

Thou fairest daughter of slow-teeming Time ! 
With pangs unwont she bare, 

But hailed her mighty child; 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Trembling, she took thee with maternal arm ; 
Glad shudders shook her frame; she kissed thy 
front, 
And from her quivering lip 
Prophetic accents broke : — 
“Daughter, thou tak’st away thy mother’s 
shame ; 
Thou hast avenged thy weeping sisters’ woe. — 
Each to the yawning tomb 
Went with unwilling step: 
Each in her youth had hoped to wield thy sword 
And hold thy balance, dread retributress ! 
Bold is thy rolling eye, 
And strong thy tender hand ; 
And soon beside thy cradle shall be heard 
The tunes of warfare and the clash of arms, — 
And thou shalt hear with smiles, 
As on thy mother’s breast. 
I see thee quickly grow ; with giant step, 
With streamy golden hair, with lightening eye, 
Thou shall come forth, and thrones 
And tyrants tread to dust. 
Thy urn, though snatched with bloody hand, 
shall pour 
O’er Germany the stream of liberty ; 
Each flower of paradise 
Delights to crown its brink.” 


THE STREAM OF THE ROCK. 


UnpErisHineG youth ! 
Thou leapest from forth 
The cleft of the rock. 
No mortal eye saw 
The mighty one’s cradle ; 
No ear ever heard 
The lofty one’s lisp in the murmuring spring. 


How beautiful art thou, 
In silvery locks ! 
How terrible art thou, 
When the cliffs are resounding in thunder 
around ! 
Thee feareth the fir-tree : 
Thou crushest the fir-tree, 
From its root to its crown. 
The cliffs flee before thee : 
The cliffs thou engraspest, 
And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown. 


The sun weaves around thee 

The beams of its splendor ; 
It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris 
The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray. 


Why speedest thou downward 
Toward the green sea? 
Is it not well by the nearer heaven ? 
Not well by the sounding cliff ? 
Not well by the o’erhanging forest of oaks? 
O, hasten not so 
Toward the green sea! 
Youth! O, now thou art strong, like a god! 
Free, like a god! 


FLOR Sp PERE = lah epeey CS Soh ae 


F. L. STOLBERG. 


Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness, 
The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea, 
Now silvered o’er by the swimming moonshine, 
Now golden and red in the light of the west ! 


Youth, O, what is this silken quiet, 

What is the smile of the friendly moonlight, 

The purple and gold of the evening sun, 

To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses ? 
Now streamest thou wild, 
As thy heart may prompt! 

But below, oft ruleth the fickle tempest, 

Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea! 


O, hasten not so 
Toward the green sea ! 
Youth, O, now thou art strong, like a god, — 
Free, like a god ! 


TO THE SEA. 


Tuov boundless, shining, glorious Sea, 
With ecstasy I gaze on thee; 
Joy, joy to him whose early beam 


Kisses thy lip, bright Ocean-stream ! 


Thanks for the thousand hours, old Sea, 
Of sweet communion held with thee ; 
Oft as I gazed, thy billowy roll 

Woke the deep feelings of my soul. 


Drunk with the joy, thou deep-toned Sea, 
My spirit swells to heaven with thee ; 

Or, sinking with thee, seeks the gloom 
Of nature’s deep, mysterious tomb. 


At evening, when the sun grows red, 
Descending to his watery bed, 

The music of thy murmuring deep 
Soothes e’en the weary earth to sleep. 


Then listens thee the evening star, 

So sweetly glancing from afar ; 

And Luna hears thee, when she breaks 
Her light in million-colored flakes. 


Oft, when the noonday heat is o’er, 

I seek with joy the breezy shore, 
Sink on thy boundless, billowy breast, 
And cheer me with refreshing rest. 


The poet, child of heavenly birth, 
Is suckled by the mother Earth ; 
But thy blue bosom, holy Sea, 
Cradles his infant fantasy. 


The old blind minstrel on the shore 
Stood listening thy eternal roar, 
And golden ages, long gone by, 
Swept bright before his spirit’s eye. 


On wing of swan the holy flame 
Of melodies celestial came, 

And Iliad and Odyssey 

Rose to the music of the Sea. 


TO THE EVENING STAR. 


EREWHILE on me, leader of silent eve, 

Thou glancedst joys brief as the dying’s smiles, 
The evanescent hues 
That play i’ th’ western breeze ! 


Yet, dear to me, dear as to thirsty halm 

The early dews; but, ah! they vanished soon | 
Now seldom looks thine’ eye, 
And troubled then, on me ! 


Hast thou a veil? or shedd’st thou blinding tears ? 
Art thou, as I, the prey of carking cares? 

An heir of woe? and are 

Thy radiant brethren heirs? 


Is yon blue vest, full of enlightening suns, 
And set with moons, only a web of grief? 
And do the spheres resound 
With everlasting moan? 


Or am J alone wretched? ‘Thou art mute, 
Inexorable! yet, a Saviour, thou 

Bringest the welcome eve, 

No ruddy morn precedes. 


THE SEAS. 


Tuovu pleasest mine ear, 
Thy murmur I know, 
The siren song of thy billows! 
Baltic, thou claspest me, 
With loving arms, often 
To thy cool bosom ! 


Thou art fair ! 
Nymph, how fair! 
Betrothed of the wood-covered shore, 
Oft the zephyr escapes from the tops of the 
grove, : 
And glides over thy billows with hovering wing ! 


Thou art fair! 
Nymph, how fair! 
Yet is the goddess 
Fairer than thou ! 
Louder than thou 
Thunders Atlantic, 
Rises, white in her pride, and shakes the shores 
with her foot. 


Stronger and freer than thou, 
Dances she her own dance, 
Nor waits for the voice of the 
Mastering wind ; 
Rises and sinks, 
When, veiled within clouds, 
In his secret chamber slumbers the tempest’s 
head. 


I saw the keel, once, 
Of the lightning-armed vessel 
Hasten over her here ; — 
Then the pennon sank, 
And the quivering streamer sank, 
But the breezes in Hellebek’s beeches were still. 


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—— 


GERMAN POETRY. 


By what name 
Shall my song make thee known? 
Boreal-main, ocean, goddess, the infinite, 
The earth-girding one, cradle of the all-enlight- 
ening 
Sun, the heaven-wandering 
Moon, and the numberless 
_Stars, which there, in melodious 
Dance, themselves mirror, both when the flood 
rises and sinks. 


On thy great waters 
God’s spirit did brood, 
While yet the earth lay 

In silence and sorrow, — 

‘Lhe joys of a mother not known! 

Over thee hovered 

In mystical motion, 
Flowing and ebbing, 

Yet visibly, the Omnipotent’s breath ! 


On rapture’s ecstatic 
Pinions upsoaring, 

Flew my spirit to thee ! 
Goddess, I pray thee, 
Take me, O Goddess! 

Take me into thy bosom of power ! 
Ah! but thou passedst me, 
Proud, and in thunder, by ! 
Then grasped I the pinions 

Of the birds of the billows, 
And swam for the margins stretching afar. 
Thou thunderedst louder, 
From thy strand of the rock! 
There hastened I on 

To the strand of the rock; 
Then hastened I down; 

There clasped I thee, Goddess, 
With sinewy arm, 

In the hall of the rock ! 
Over me toppled 
Menacing summits ; 
Vortices wildly 

Thronged through the clefts of the rocks. 


And, covered with kisses, 
How gladsome was I, 
Embraced in the bosom 
Of a goddess immortal ! 


Hail to thee, hail, 
Goddess! and thank 
For the blessed enjoyment 
In the hall of the rock ! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Yer seize I the lyre, — 
It trembleth yet 

With Rafael’s praises ; 
Yet tremble thereon 

Of the still horror 

Tears that were trickled. 
In trance beatific, 

Began I to swoon, — yet 


Still hovered lightly, 
Ay, in my soul’s twilight, 

By Rafael created, the forms of gods. 
Yet haunted me, breathed from 
The genius of Rafael, 

His pencil’s devices, 

Like shapes of evanishing visions about. 
Then trembled the earth, 

Then panted the air, 

And it rushed through the lyre with terrible 

sound, — 
When, veiled all in clouds, 
Stood, wrathful, before me, 
A terrible one. 
My hair rose erect, 
My eyes stared aghast, 
Yet spake I to him: — 


‘Fiery one! Who art thou? 
Thou angry, threatening shape ! 
More mighty than shadows, 
Yet as terrible ; spare me!” 

(Here the semblance aerial blazed abroad, as 

from tna, 
Billow-like dashing, vapors upblaze.) 
“ Yes, it is thou! thou art 
Michael Angelo! spare me, 
O jealous Spirit ! 
‘Lower the flaming 

Torch of the pencil! 

Thou plungest in brightness 
Thy pencil beneath ! 

How long I mistook thee ! 
Although thou life givest 
Unto the cold marble, 

Yet look not my heart 
Thy marble into !— 

(Ha! how thou lookest 
With Sirius’ look ! —) 

I saw of the pencil 

The magic, the wonder, 
And the whiteness of terror 
And the redness of joy 
Did shiver me through. 
Then hasten, impelled on 
The wings of the storm, 
The red-troubled clouds, 
And fleece-mantled sky, 

To the hovering shapes on the trembling sea!” 


He heard it, and paused 
With milder solemnity, 
High over the melting clouds quick he arose. 
He stilled the lulled air, — 
The lyre yet emitted 
A murmur of love, 
While to its sound vanished the spirit appeased. 


——~ 


JOHANN HEINRICH VOSS. 


Turs celebrated scholar and author was born 
February 20th, 1751, at Sommersdorf, in Meck- 
lenburg, where his father was a farmer. He 
went to school in Penzlin, till his fourteenth 


ean g 


VOSS. 301 


year; but in 1766, he was placed at school in 
New Brandenburg. He became a private tutor 
in order to obtain the means of entering the 
University. Poetry and the classics early en- 
gaged his attention, and his recreations, after 
six hours of daily teaching, were music and 
Greek. In 1772, through the influence of Boje, 
he was drawn to Gottingen, where he joined 
the poetical circle to whom German literature 
is greatly indebted. He studied theology, but 
soon gave his whole time to philology, under 
the teaching of Heyne, with whom, however, 
he afterwards quarrelled. In 1775, he took up 
his residence in Wandsbeck ; in 1778, he was 
appointed Rector at Otterndorf, in Hadeln. In 
1782, he went to Eutin, and became a Court 
Councillor in 1786. In 1802, he laid down 
his office, and lived privately at Jena. In 
1805, he went to Heidelberg to assist in organ- 
izing the University, and became a Court Coun- 
cillor of Baden. He continued in Heidel- 
berg until his death, which took place March 
29th, 1826. 

He was a man of great ability and learning, 
a classically cultivated taste, and immense lite- 
rary industry, but not of high creative imagina- 
tion. His original works are idyls, ‘+ Luise,” a 
sort of pastoral epic in hexameters, songs, odes, 

@legies, and epigrams. An important part of 
his literary influence and reputation is founded 
upon his numerous translations. Among these 
are the “Iliad”’ and “ Odyssey,’ in German 
hexameters ; the whole of Virgil and Horace ; 
afterwards, Hesiod, Theocritus, Bion, and Mos- 
chus; Tibullus and Lygdamus; Aristophanes 
and Aratus;— besides these, he undertook a 
translation of Shakspeare, which was never 
completed. His merits as a translator have been 
very differently estimated by different writers. 
Pyschon says, ‘*As a translator, he is highly 
famed; but he forces the German language into 
Hellenic and Vossian fetters, and represents 
Shakspeare and Horace often in a wholly un- 
German style.”’ Menzel’s judgment is more 
severe, and perhaps somewhat prejudiced. It 
may be cited as an extreme opinion against 
Voss and his system; and we may remark, that, 
whatever may be the defects of Voss’s style as 
a translator, he at least led the way to a more 
close and faithful adherence to the original than 
had been common before his day. He was the 
first to show that the proper object of translat- 
ing is, not to reproduce the work as it may be 
imagined the author would have written it, had 
he written in the language of the translator, 
but to reproduce it just as it is in the language 
in which the author actually wrote. 

‘Voss cultivated the antique taste in relation 
to the form. Here he is the master. The 
proper Grecomania began with him. Voss is 
the error to which Klopstock inclined, the 
extreme of the whole of this false tendency in 
our poetry. It could not go farther astray. A 
freak of nature, by which sometimes the strang- 
est things become objects of appetite, impelled 


Voss, the most extraordinary of all literary 
pedants, to a tragicomical passion for Grecian 
grace, which he imitated by the most ludicrous 
capers. For more than half a century, he un- 
dertook the Sisyphean toil of rolling the rough 
runestone of the German language up the Gre- | 
cian Parnassus; but 

‘Back again down to the plain rebounded the ragged rock 

swiftly.’ 

‘‘He had the fixed idea, that the German 
language must be fitted to the Greek in me- 
chanical fashion, syllable for syHable. He con- 
founded his peculiar talent for these philological 
trifles, and the predilection which fiowed out 
of it, with a universal capacity and with a 
universal want of the German language and 
poetry, as if a rope-dancer were to insist upon 
every body’s dancing on the rope. The most 
obvious means of trailing the German language 
over the espalier of the Greek was naturally 
translations. Here the German language was 
brought so near the Greek, that it was forced 
to follow all its movements, like a wild elephant 
harnessed to a tame one. Voss is celebrated 
as the most faithful translator, but only so far 
as regards the materials of language and its 
mechanical laws; spirit and soul have always 
vanished under his clumsy fingers. In _ his 
translations he has banished the peculiar char- 
acter and the natural grace of the German 
language, and put a strait jacket upon the love- 
ly captive, which allowed her to move only in 
a stiff, unnatural, and constrained manner. His 
great merit consists in having introduced into 
the language of literature a great aumber of 
good, but antiquated, words, or those used only 
among the common people. He was forced to 
this, because it was necessary that he should 
have a wide range of words to choose from, in 
order to fill out always the prescribed Greek 
measure with the greatest exactness. He has, 
moreover, like Klopstock, developed the pow- 
ers of the German language, by these difficult 
Greek exercises; just as the money-diggers, 
though they found no money, yet made the 
soil more fertile. J am very far from denying 
him this merit with regard to the language, — || 
a service as laborious as it was useful; but his |}. 
studies cannot pass for masterpieces; they were |, 
only the apparatus, the scaffolding, the school, ||: 
and not the work of art itself. They were || 
distortions of the language, in order to show 
how far its capability extended, but did not 
exhibit the grace of its proper movement. No 
one could talk as Voss wrote. Every body 
would have thought it vexatious and ridiculous, 
who had been required to arrange his words 
like Voss. They never sound like any thing 
but a stiff translation, even when he does not || 
in fact translate. These translations, however, 
are often so slavishly close, and, therefore, not 
German, that they are unintelligible, until we 
read the original. And yet that fidelity could || 
not express the spirit and the peculiar character 


of the foreign author, together with the sound || 
Z 


camemcmee 2 


302 


of the words. On the contrary, the painful 
stiffness of constraint is the universal badge of 
all his translations; and in this they are all 
alike; this was the last, upon which he 
stretched them all. Whether Voss translates 
Hesiod, Homer, Theocritus, Virgil, Ovid, Hor- 
ace, Shakspeare, or an old Minnesong, every- 
where we hear only the goat-footed steed of 
his prose trotting along; and even the mighty 
genius of Shakspeare cannot force him out of 
his own beat for a moment.”’ * 

The collected poems of Voss were published 
at Konigsberg, in seven parts, in 1802; again, 
with last corrections, in 1825. His translations 
have been many times republished. His life 
was written by Paulus, Heidelberg, 1826. 


a 


THE BEGGAR. AN IDYL. 


JURGEN. 
Why! my heart’s child! Thy dog salutes thee, 
— see, — 
Glad-whining; and thy sheep, too, bleats, by 
thee, — 
With bread made gentle. Why in the dew so 
early ? 


The morning air blows cold ; scarce reddens yet 
The sun above the fir-hill. In my fold 

At night I’m almost frozen. Come, and kiss 
Me warm again. 


MARIE. 

Thou frozen? In the rose-moon ? 

O lambkin, weak and tender, that e’en lies 

I’ th’ mid-day sun, and trembles! Take the 
kiss, — 

Thy lip is warm enough, thou false one ! 

Is thy hand too. 


So 


JURGEN. 
Why in such haste? Thine eyes 
Are not so clear as wont, and smile compelled. 


MARIE. 
Beloved, hear, and vex me not. Yestreen 

I knitted in the bower, pleased to behold 

The field of rye-grass wave in the golden gleam, 
And hear the yellow-hammer, cuckoo, and quail 
In emulation sing, and thought the while 

The same delighted Jiirgen. Then there came 
The old lame Tiess, and begged. ‘Father,’ 

said I, 

“ Ts all the bread consumed I let you bake 
Last holiday? Sure, you grow shameless!” 


Tiess 
Would speak, but I was angry and o’erruled 
him. 
“God may again assist you, Tiess!' The host 
Supply you brandy gratis! Go!” But then 


I saw his bald head tremble in the gleam 

Of the evening sun, and a big tear flow down 

From his gray twinkling eyes. ‘Speak yet,” 
said I; 


* Menzet. German Literature, Vol. II., pp. 373-375. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


= ms — PS tee 


‘‘Father, how is it?’’ ‘* Maiden,’’ answered he, 

““T beg not for myself, but for the old curate, — 

Good God! whom they to us degraded! He 

Lies in the wood, with the poor forester, 

Who has his house of children full, and wants!” 

‘QO father! ’’—TI sprang up, and had almost 

Embraced him,—‘ you are a good man! Come 
here.” 

Then took I what my hand might seize, and 
stuffed 

His wallet full of sausages, and groats, 

Bacon, and cheese, and bread. ‘ Now, father, 
yet 

A glass of kimmelschnap?”’ “‘ No, maiden, no; 

My head’s too weak. God recompense you!” 
Forth 

He hobbled on his crutch unto the wood 

In moonlight, that he might not be observed. 


JURGEN. 
Well knowI Father Tiess. His comrade told me, 
That when a soldier, in the foeman’s land, 
He rather gave than took. O, great reproach! 
Our curate is so poor the beggar tends him, 
And we wist not of it! 


MARIE. 
I dreamed of him, — 
How good he was, in preaching, catechizing, \ 
To counsel and to comfort in all chances, 
And at the sick-bed. Young and old, all loved 
him. 
And when some sneak accused him of false 
doctrine, 
So that he ultimately lost at once 
His office and his bread,—all prayed and wept, 
Till he himself commanded their obedience. 
Wild from my dream I roused, and found with 
tears 
My cushion moistened. 
crowed, 
I rose, and peas out of the garden took, 
And yellow wurzel, with this pair of pigeons, — 
And hasten now to the old man therewith. 
The huntsman’s wife, besides, brings in a basket 
His breakfast to his bed: he may be glad once. 


Scarce the cock had 


JURGEN. 

Glad is he ever, though he suffer wrong. 

He who acts honestly trusts God in sunshine 
And storm,—so taught he.’ Yet he was dis- 

graced ! 

Take also, Mary, my good-hearted maid, 

This piece of Dutch cheese in the basket; yes, 
And say, I'll bring a lamb to him at evening. 
Fie! shall a man of hunger die, because 

He teacheth what God saith, not men’s tradi- 


tions ? 

Wolves in sheep’s clothing! hang your heads 
for shame ! 

Nathless, God be your judge! Old Tiess, and 
thou, 


Have so subdued my heart, that it resolves, 
Sunday, please God, to share their evening 
meal. 


—— 


EXTRACT FROM LUISE. 


Mary the blessing of God, my dearest and love- 
liest daughter, 

Be with thee ! yea, the blessing of God on this 
earth and in heaven ! 

Young have I been, and now am old, and of joy 
and of sorrow, 

In this uncertain life, sent by God, muth, much 
have I tasted : 

God be thanked for both! 
now with my fathers 

Lay my gray head in the grave! how fain! for 
my daughter is happy: 

Happy, because she knows this, that our God, 
like a father who watches 

Carefully over bis children, us blesses in joy 
and in sorrow. 

Wondrously throbs my heart at the sight of a 
bride young and beauteous, 

Dressed and adorned, while she leans, in affec- 
tionate, childlike demeanour, 

On the arm of the bridegroom, who through 

| life’s path shall conduct her : 

Ready to bear with him boldly, let whatsoever 
may happen ; 

And feeling with him, to exalt his delight and 
lighten his sorrow ; 

And, if it please God, to wipe from his dying 
forehead the last sweat ! 

Even such my presentiments were, when, after 
the bridal, 

I my young wife led home. Happy and serious, 
I showed her, at distance, 

All the extent of our fields, the church-tower, 
and the dwellings, and this one, 

Where we together have known so much both 
of good and of evil. 

Thou, my only child! then in sorrow I think 
of the others, 

When my path to the church by their blooming 
graves doth conduct me. 

Soon, thou only one, wilt thou track that way 
whereon I came hither, — 

Soon, soon my daughter’s chamber, soon ’t will 
be desolate to me, 

And my daughter’s place at the table! In vain 
shall I listen 

For her voice afar off, and her footsteps at dis- 
tance approaching ! 

When with thy husband on that way thou from 
me art departed, 

Sobs will escape me, and thee my eyes bathed 
in tears long will follow ; 

For I am a man and a father, —and my daugh- 
ter, who heartily loves me, ‘ 

Heartily love! But I will in faith raise my head 
up to heaven, 

Wipe my eyes from their tears, and with folded 
hands myself humble 

E’en in prayer before God, who, as a father 
watches his children, * 

Both in joy and in sorrow us blesses, for we are 

his children. 


O, soon shall I 


TIEDGE. 


Yea, for this is the law of the Eternal, that 
father and mother 

Ever they shall forsake, who as husband and 
wife are united. 

Go, then, in peace, my child! forsake thy fam- 
ily and thy 

Father’s dwelling, —go, by the youth guided, 
who to thee must hence be 

Father and mother! Be to him like a vine that 
is fruitful 

In his house ; round his table thy children like 
branches of olive ' 

Flourish! So will the man be blessed in the 
Lord who confideth. 

Lovely and fair to be is nothing; but a God- 
fearing wife brings 

Honor and blessing both! for and if the Lord 
build the house not, 

Surely the builders but labor in vain. 


—= 


CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE, 


Tars lyric poet was born Dec. 13, 1752, at 
Gardelegen, in the Altmark, Prussia. He was, 
for a time, a private teacher in a noble family 
in Ellrich, where he became acquainted with 
Gleim. In 1792, he was made Private Secreta- 
ry of the Canon of Stedern ; afterwards he lived 
in Magdeburg, Halle, and Berlin. In 1819, he 
removed to Dresden, where he died in 1840. 
He was not a poet of very vigorous genius, but 
his works are delicate and graceful. He be- 
came known, first, by his ‘+ Letters of Two Lov- 
ers’’; these were followed by his elegies, ‘* Ura- 
nia,’ a poem abounding in fine passages, and 
several other works of less note. 

Tiedge’s works were published by A. G. Eber- 
hard, Halle, 1823-29, in eight volumes. The 
fourth edition, in ten volumes, appeared in 1841. 
The life of Tiedge was written by Falkenstein, 
in 1841. 

Of Tiedge’s sentimentality, Menzel * remarks, 
rather ill-naturedly :— “ He was of a soft, almost 
womanish, nature ; and these natures, we know, 
work themselves up into such a state of emo- 
tion by the force of fancy, that they can ery be- 
tween the soup and the boiled; so that they can 
see nothing, hear nothing, do nothing, without 
giving it a sentimental twang. Hence, also, 
Tiedge by no means observes so judicious a 
measure as Matthisson, and cannot govern him- 
self so well; but gives a loose rein to his melan- 
choly, and bathes in the stream of tears he has 
himself shed, with a feeling of comfort; and 
would not merely, like Matthisson, please peo- 
ple, but infect them too, and sweep away every 
thing by the stream of tears. In his ¢ Urania,’ 
he guides this stream, like another milky way, 
through heaven, and dissolves astronomy into 
amazement, ecstasy, and admiration of the great- 


* German Literature, Vol. II[., pp. 81, 82. 


Sh ty Se x alas 


pees Sat 


ness of God, sorrow for our littleness, and, final- 
ly, tears of emotion, of thanks, and of resigna- 
tion,” 


— 


TO THE MEMORY OF KORNER. 


Proupty, e’en now, the young oak waved on 
high, 
Hung round with youthful green full gor- 
geously ; 
And calmly graceful, and yet bold and free, 
Reared its majestic head in upper sky. 
Hope said, ‘How great, in coming days, 
shall be 
That tree’s renown!”’ Already, far or nigh, 
No monarch of the forest towered so high. 
The trembling leaves murmured melodiously 
As love’s soft whisper ; and its branches rung 
As if the master of the tuneful string, 
Mighty Apollo, there his lyre had hung. 
But, ah! it sank. A storm had bowed its 
pride ! + 
Alas! untimely snatched in life’s green spring, 


My noble youth, the bard and hero, died! 


Where sleeps my youth upon his country’s 
breast ? 
Show me the place where ye have laid him 
down. 
"Mid his own music’s echoes let him rest, 
And in the brightness of his fair renown. 
Large was his heart; his free soul heavenward 
pressed ; 
Alternate songs and deeds his brow did crown. 
Where sleeps my youth upon his country’s 
breast ? 
Show me the place where ye have laid him 
down. 
“The youth lies slumbering where the battle- 
ground 
Drank in the blood of noble hearts like rain” ; 
There, youthful hero, in thine ear shall sound 
A grateful echo of thy harp’s last strain: 
“¢O Father, bless thou me!’ shall ring again ; 
That blessing thou in calmer world hast found. 


Ye who so keenly mourn the loved one’s death, 
’ Go with me to the mound that marks his 
grave, 
And breathe awhile the consecrated breath 
Of the old oak whose boughs high o’er him 
wave. 
Sad Friendship there hath laid the young and 
brave ; 
Her hand shall guide us thither. 
saith, 
“Beneath the hallowed oak’s cool, peaceful 
breath 
These hands had dug the hero’s silent grave ; 
Yet were the dear remains forbid to rest 
Where lip to lip in bloody strife was pressed, 
And ghastly death stares from the mouldering 
heap ; 
A statelier tomb that sacred dust must keep ; 
A German prince hath spoken : This new guest, 
And noblest, in a princely hall shall sleep.” 


Hark! she 


GERMAN POETRY. 


There rests the Muses’ son, — his conflicts o’er. 
Forget him not, my German country, thou ! 
The wreath that twined around his youthful 

brow 

May deck his urn, — but him, alas! no more. 

Dost ask, thou herdsmaid, for those songs of 

yore? 
Though fled his form, his soul is with us now. 

And ye who mourn the hero gone before, 

Here on his grave renew the patriot vow; 

Through freedom’s holy struggle he hath made, 
Ye noble German sons, his heavenward way. 
Feel what he felt, while bending o’er his clay ; 

Thus honor him, while, in the green-arched 

shade, 

Sweet choirs of nightingales, through grove and 

glade, 
Awake the memory of his kindling lay. 


THE WAVE OF LIFE. 


“ WauitTHeEr, thou turbid wave? 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou?” 


“Tam the Wave of Life, 

Stained with my margin’s dust; 

From the struggle and the strife 

Of the narrow stream I fly : 
To the sea’s immensity, 

To wash from me the slime 

Of the muddy banks of time.” 


—¢—_ 


LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN. 


THE poet Kosegarten was born February 1st, 
1758, at Grevismiihlen, in Mecklenburg. He 
studied at Greifswald, then became a private 
tutor in the family of a Pomeranian nobleman. 
In 1792, he was appointed a preacher at Al- 
tenkirchen, in the island of Rigen. On this 
island he lived quietly and happily ; occupying 
his leisure hours with literature and poetry, 
until, in 1807, he was appointed Professor of 
History in Greifswald. He died October 26th, 
1818. He was a poet of deep feeling and 
lively imagination, but sometimes indulged in 
false pathos. He wrote epic idyls, legends, 
lyric and elegiac poems, dramas, and novels. 
He also translated from the English, especially 
Richardson's “ Clarissa.” His works were pub- 
lished at Greifswald, in 1824-25. His life 
was written by his son, J. G. L. Kosegarten, 
in 1826. 


—— 


THE AMEN OF THE STONES. 


Buinp with old age, the Venerable Bede 

Ceased not, for that, to preach and publish forth 

The news from heaven,—the tidings of great 
joy. ' 

From town to town,—through all the villages,— | 


7) 


ns 


lll net RELAIS EA gma tk I AS lH ln Carll SRN Aisa at ata Aad 


KOSEGARTEN.--SCHILLER. 


With trusty guidance, roamed the aged saint, 
And preached the word with all the fire of youth. 


One day his boy had led him to a vale 

That lay all thickly sowed with mighty rocks. 
In mischief, more than malice, spake the boy : 
‘¢ Most reverend father ! there are many men 
Assembled here, who wait to hear thy voice.” 


The blind old man, so bowed, straightway rose 
up, 

Chose him his text, expounded, then applied; 

Exhorted, warned, rebuked, and comforted, 

So fervently, that soon the gushing tears 

Streamed thick and fast down to his hoary beard. 

When, at the close, as seemeth always meet, 

He prayed “Our Father,’’ and pronounced 
aloud, 

“Thine is the kingdom and the power, thine- 

The glory now and through eternity,’? — 

At once there rang through all that echoing vale 

A sound of many thousand voices crying, 

«Amen! most reverend Sire, amen! amen!” 


Trembling with terror and remorse, the boy 

Knelt down before the saint, and owned his sin. 

“Son,” said the old man, “hast thou, then, 
ne’er read, 


‘¢When men are dumb, the stones shall cry 


aloud ’ ? — 
Henceforward mock not, son, the word of God! 
Living it is, and mighty, cutting sharp, 
Like a two-edged sword. And when the heart 
Of flesh grows hard and stubborn as the stone, 
A heart of flesh shall stir in stones themselves! ”’ 


VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. 


Turoveu night to light !—And though to mor- 
tal eyes 
Creation’s face a pall of horror wear, 
Good cheer! good cheer! The gloom of mid- 
night flies ; 
Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. 


Through storm to calm!—And though his 
thunder-car 
The rumbling tempest drive through earth 
and sky, 
Good cheer! good cheer! The elemental war 
Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh. 


Through frost to spring!— And though the bit- 
ing blast 
Of Eurus stiffen nature’s juicy veins, 
Good cheer! good cheer! When winter’s wrath 
is past, 
Soft-murmuring spring breathes sweetly o’er 
the plains. 


Through strife to peace!—-And though, with 
bristling front, 
A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, 
Good cheer! good cheer! Brave thou the bat- 
tle’s brunt, 


For the peace-march and song of victory. 
: 39 


305 


Through sweat to sleep!-And though the 
sultry noon, 
With heavy, drooping wing, oppress thee now, 
Good cheer! good cheer! The cool of eve- 
ning soon 
Shall lull to sweet repose thy weary brow. 


Through cross to crown!—And though thy 
spirit’s life 
Trials untold assail with giant strength, 
Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter 
strife, 
And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at 
length. 


Through woe to joy!—And though at morn 
thou weep, 
And though the midnight find thee weeping 
still, 
Good cheer! good cheer! The Shepherd loves 
his sheep ; 
Resign thee to the watchful Father’s will. 


Through deatif to life!——-And through this 
vale of tears, 
And through this thistle-field of life, ascend 
To the great supper in that world whose years 
Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end. 


——_—}>—- 


JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH 
VON SCHILLER. 


Scuitter, the illustrious friend of Goethe, — 


was born Nov. 10, 1759, at Marbach, in War- 
temberg. He manifested early an ardent im- 
agination, and a love for poetry. The poet- 
ical passages of the Old Testament, and the 
works of Klopstock, were his favorite reading. 
His first desire was to study theology, but, in 
1773, Charles, the duke of Wiirtemberg, offered 
to educate him at his military school ; an offer 
which Schiller’s father did not feel at liberty to 
decline. Here he Jived in almost monastic se- 
clusion from the world. In addition to the 
military-studies of the place, that of jurispru- 
dence was pursued there. The school was 
afterwards removed to Stuttgart, and the science 
of medicine included in its plan of studies, to 
which Schiller gladly devoted himself. Latin 
and poetry also occupied part of his time. At 
the age of sixteen, he publishéd a translation of 
part of the “ Aineid,” in hexameters. He also 
began an epic, the hero of which was Moses; 
this was afterwards destroyed. The reading of 
Shakspeare kindled in him an enthusiasm for 
the drama, and he began two pieces, which were 
burned. His original power first appeared in 
“The Robbers,’ which he commenced in 1777, 
at the age of eighteen years. In 1780, he was 
appointed Military Physician in Stuttgart; and 
this situation secured to him a greater degree of 
liberty than he had before enjoyed. He print- 


ed “The Robbers” at his own expense. In 
Tae 


atl 


1782, the play, having undergone some changes, 
was performed at Mannheim. The representa- 
tion was soon after repeated ; and Schiller, hav- 
ing left his post without obtaining leave of ab- 
sence, was put under arrest. During his deten- 
tion, he planned the ‘Cabal and Love,” and 
the “ Conspiracy of Fiesco.”” Being now sat- 
isfied of the impossibility of continuing in his 
present career, he left Stuttgart secretly, and 
lived for a time at the house of Madame von 
Wollzogen in Bauersbach, where he completed 
his *¢ Fiesco”’ and ‘* Cabal and Love.”’ In 1783, 
he became attached to the theatre in Mannheim, 
and formed the plan of his ‘* Don Carlos”’ and 
“ Mary Stuart.”” In 1785, he went to Leipsic, 
and in the same‘ year to Dresden, where he tre- 
mained till 1787. ‘Don Carlos’’ was written 
during this period. In 1737, he went to Wel- 
mar, where he was kindly received by Wieland 
and Herder. The next year, he wrote the “ His- 
tory of ‘the Revolt of the Netherlands,” a work 
suggested by the preparatory studies for ‘¢ Don 
Carlos.’ His acquaintance with Goethe began 
the same year.~ In 1789, he was appointed, 
through the influence of Goethe, Professor Ex- 
traordinary of History at Jena, where he taught 
both history and esthetics. For some years he 
occupied himself chiefly with history, esthetics, 
the Kantian philosophy, and with the composi- 
tion of that very able and interesting historical 
work, the “ History of the Thirty Years’ War.”’ 
In 1790, he married. In 1793, he formed the 
plan of publishing the ‘ Hours,” in which he 
was supported by the best writers of Germany. 
He now became intimately acquainted with 
Goethe, and published many of his finest lyrical 
poems soon after this time. In 1796, he be- 
came Ordinary Professor in the University -of 
Jena. In 1797, he produced his first ballads. 
The magnificent dramatic composition, ‘* Wal- 
lenstein,’” was finished in 1799. -From this 
time he lived in Weimar, where, in 1800 and 
1801, he produced “* Mary Stuart” and the 
“¢ Maid of Orleans.’ In 1802, he was ennobled 
by the emperor of Germany, In 1803, appear- 


_ed the * Bride of Messina’’ and * William 


Tell.” In 18Q4, he went.to Berlin, where he 
attended a representation of ‘ William Tell,” 
and was enthusiastically received. He returned 
ill, and died May 9, 1805, at the early age of 
forty-six. 

Schiller was a man of a profound and earnest 
character. He was by far the greatest tragic 
poet of Germany, and one of the greatest in 
modern literature. His lyrical poems are noble 
productions. As a historian and philosopher he 
held a very distinguished rank. The moral 
elevation of his works is one of their most strik- 
ing characteristics. His name is an immortal 
possession for Germany. 

Menzel* has given an eloquent analysis of 
his character, which, though animated by the 
warmth of an enthusiastic admirer, is hardly 


GERMAN POETRY. 


} 


overcolored. The whole is too long for quota- 
tion, but the following passages contain the 
most prominent parts. 

‘“« He first perceived, that, while modern poe- 
try had, indeed, returned from the false ideals 
of the Gallomania to simple nature, on the 
other hand, it had again become the problem 
of romantic poetry to return from false nature 
to pure ideals. Most of the storm-and-pressure 
poets and romanticists, up to this time, had 
contented themselves with holding up the pic- 
tures of other times and manners, contrasted 
with the modern character; often other cos- 
tumes merely, or fantastic, dreamy states, con- 
jured up for the gratification of every whim and 
every vanity. But Schiller took up the matter 
more profoundly, and would not have one age 
opposed to another, but the everlasting ideal 
contrasted with temporary vulgarity, so that we 
might not rest satisfied with costume, and ex- 
ternal circumstances and conditions, but might 
represent man in great pictures of character. 
Whether antique, romantic, or modern, it is all 
the same; human nature is alike through all 
ages. It ennobles or degrades every age; and 
the poets, according as they take it up, contrib- 
ute to the elevation or degradation of men. 
Therefore Schiller believed it was the highest 
problem of the poet to treat human nature after 
the spirit of the noblest ideality, as Greek art 
had done at its most flourishing period, though 
only in the representation of’ corporeal beauty ; 
that is, it had represented the godlike form of 
man. In this, the highest of problems, all the 
controversy of the school appeared to him to 
be annihilated; and he himself, though Goethe 
was constantly urging him, was averse to mak- 
ing a strong distinction between the antique, 
romantic, and modern, and to wearing one 
mask after another, like his aristocratic friend. 
Modern in ‘Cabal and Love,’ romantic in 
‘Wallenstein’ and the ‘Maid of Orleans,’ an- 
tique in the ‘Bride of Messina,’ Schiller is 
nevertheless the same in all, and variety of form 
disappears before identity of spirit. 


“That which has lent Schiller’s works such 
great power over the minds of men is, at the 
same time, their most amiable characteristic ; 
namely, their youthful spirit. He is the poet 
of youth, and will always continue so; for all 
his feelings correspond to the earliest aspiration 
of the yet uncorrupted youthful heart, of love 
yet pure, of faith yet unshaken, of hope still 
warm, of the vigor of young souls not ener- 
vated. But he is, also, the favorite of all who 
have preserved their virtue, —— whose sense of 
truth, and right, and greatness, and beauty, has 
not perished in the mart of vulgar life. | 

“ Schiller appeared with youthful vigor, in a 
corrupt and decrepit age, with a heart of won- 
drous strength, and, at the same time, of virgin 
purity. He has purified and regenerated Ger- 
man poetry. He has warred with the immoral 
tendency of the prevailing taste of his age 


SEY Hise SUEY WMD Fe 7 Te 


SCHILLER. 


more powerfully and victoriously than any 
other. Undazzled by the brilliant wit of his 
time, he has ventured to appeal again to the 
purest and most original feelings of man, and 
to oppose to the scoffers an austere and holy 
earnestness. To him belongs the glory of hav- 
ing purified, cleared, and ennobled the spirit of 
poetry. Germany already enjoys the fruits of 
this transformation ; for, since the appearance 
of Schiller, all our poetry has adopted a digni- 
fied tone. And even neighbouring nations have 
been seized by this spirit; and Schiller exerci- 
ses upon that great change that is now going 
on in their taste and poetry a mighty influence, 
which they themselves loudly acknowledge. 

“We have to thank him for yet more than 
the purification of the temple of art. His poet- 
ical creations have had, beyond the province of 
art, an immediate effect upon life itself. The 
mighty charm of his song has not only touched 
the imaginations of men, but even their con- 
sciences; and the fiery zeal with which he 
entered into conflict with all that is base and 
vulgar, the holy enthusiasm with which he 
vindicated the acknowledged rights and the 
insulted dignity of man, more frequently and 
victoriously than any before him, make his 
name illustrious, not only among the poets, but 
among the noblest sages and heroes, who are 
dear to mankind. 

“Schiller has concentrated his whole poet- 
ical power upon the representation of man; 
and, in fact, of the ideal greatness and beauty 
of the human soul,—the highest and most 
mysterious of all miracles. The external world 
he looked upon only as a foil, —as a contrast 
or comparison for man. He the moral 
power of man in opposition to the blind force 
of nature, to exhibit the former with its more 
elevated nobleness, or strugghng with victorious 
strength, as in ‘The Diver’ and ‘The Surety’ ; 
or he assigns a human sense to nature, and 
gives a moral meaning to her blind powers, as 
in ‘The Gods of Greece,’ ‘The Lament of 
Ceres,’ ‘Hero and Leander,’ ‘The Cranes of 
Ibycus,’ ¢The Bell,’ and others. Even in his 
historical writings, he is less concerned for the 
epical course of the whole, corresponding to 
natural necessity, than for the prominent char- 
acters, and for the element of human freedom 
as opposed to that necessity. 


. . . . . 


set 


«¢ Raphael’s name has forced itself involun- 
tarily upon me; and it is undeniable that the 
spirit of moral beauty hovers over Schiller’s 
poetical creations, as the spirit of visible beauty 
hovers over Raphael’s pictures. The moral 


element appears in the changes and the,ife of 
history ; and action, struggle, is the sphere in 
which it moves: visible beauty, like all nature 
together, is confined to quiet existence. 

“Thus, Schiller’s ideals must show them- 
selves in conflict; those. of Raphael, in gentle 
and sublime repose. 


Schiller’s genius could 


307 


not shun the office of the warlike angel Mi- 
chael; Raphdel’s genius was only the gentle 
angel who bears his name. That original and 
inexplicable charm, however, the heavenly 
magic, the reflected splendor of a higher world, 
which belongs to the faces of Raphael, belongs 
also to the characters’of Schiller. No painter 
has been able to represent the human face, no 
poet the human soul, with this loveliness and 
majesty of beauty. And as Raphael’s genius 
remains the same, and as that angel of light 
and peace, under many names and forms, al- 
ways gazes upon us from amidst repose and 
transfigured glory, so Schiller’s genius is always 
alike, and we see the same militant angel in 
Charles Moor, Amalia, Ferdinand, Louisa, Mar- 
quis Posa, Max Piccolomim, Thekla, Mary 
Stuart, Mortimer, Joan of Orleans, and William 
Tell. The former genius bears the palm, the 
latter the sword. The former rests in the con- 
sciousness of a peace never to be disturbed, 
absorbed in his own splendor; the other turns 
his lovely and angelic countenance, menacing 
and mournful, towards the monsters of the 
deep. 

“Schiller’s heroes are distinguished by a 
nobleness of nature which produces at once 
the effect of pure and perfect beauty, like the 
nobleness expressed by the pictures of Raphael. 
There is about them something kingly, that at 
once excites a holy reverence. But this beam 
of a higher light, falling upon the dark shadows 
of earthly corruption, can but shine the bright- 
er: among the spectres of hell, an angel be- 
comes the lovelier. 

“ The first secret of this beauty is the angelic 
inocence which dwells eternally in the noblest 
natures. This nobleness of innocence recurs, 
with the same celestial features of a pure young 
angel, in all the great poetic creations of Schil- 
ler. In the clearest transfiguration, like the 
purity of childhood, perfectly unarmed, and yet 
unassailable, like the royal infant, who, accord- 
ing to the legend, played unharmed and smil- 
ing among the wild beasts of the forests, — this 
innocence stands forth in the noble picture of 
Fridolin, 

“If it becomes conscious of its own happi- 
ness, it then excites the envy of the celestial 
powers. With this new and touching charm, 
we see it in ‘Hero and Leander.’ Adorned 
with the warrior’s helm, its blooming cheeks 
blushing with the fire of noble passion, youth- 
ful innocence goes forth against all the dark 
powers of hell. Thus has Schiller delineated 
it in* The Diver,’ and ‘The Surety,’ and in 
those unhappy lovers, Charles Moor and Ama- 
lia, Ferdinand and Louisa, and, above all, in 
Max Piccolomini and Thekla. Over these 
moving pictures a magic of poetry hovers, 
which is nowhere equalled. It is the flute- 
tone amidst wild and shrieking music, a blue 
glimpse of heaven in a storm, a paradise within 
the abyss of a crater. 


| 
| 


= =:;!| 


aie 


- ane 
oT 3 a — aaa ‘ 
Fal TES ag AP WR pe pia eicinde Si TS 


——s 
ee 


ae ee. et 


308 


“The holy innocence of the virgin appears’ 
under the noblest light when she is selected as 
the champion of God. The profound mystery 
of Christianity, and of Christian poetry, is the 
fact, that the salvation of the world comes from 
a pure virgin, the highest power from the purest 
innocency. In this spirit Schiller has com- 
posed his ‘Maid of Orleans’; and she is the 
most perfect manifestation of that warlike angel 
who bears the helmet and banner of Heaven. 

“« Again, in another way Schiller has had the 
art of wedding this innocence to every noble 
development of genuine manliness. Here three 
holy and heroic forms tower above the rest, — 
that martial youth, Max Piccolomini, pure, un- 
corrupted, among all the vices of the camp and 
court; the Marquis Posa, whose mind, armed 
with all intellectual culture, had remained a 
pure temple of innocence; finally, that robust 
and powerful son of the mountains, William 
Tell, after his way a complete counterpart to 
the Maid of Orleans. 

“If in these cases innocence shines with its 
purest glory, Schiller knew also the contest 
of original innocence with the contamination 
of self-contracted guilt, through the violent pas- 
sions; and he has conjured it up before our 
souls with the like love and the sanie perfect 
art. How deeply the Magdalen character af- 
fects us in Mary Stuart! What can be more 
touching than the self-conquest of Charles 
Moor? With what unsurpassable spirit, truth, 
and terror is the conflict in the great souls of 
Fiesco and Wallenstein represented ! 

‘We turn now to the second secret of the 
beauty belonging to Schiller’s ideal characters. 
This is their nobleness, — their honorableness. 
His heroes and, heroines never discredit the 
pride and the dignity which announce a loftier 
nature; and all their outward acts bear the 
stamp of magnanimity and inborn nobleness. 
Its perfect opposite is the vulgar character, and 
that conventional spirit which serves for a bri- 
dle and leading-strings to the vulgar nature. 
Strong, free, independent, original, following 


only the guidance of a noble spirit, Schiller’s 


heroes rend asunder the web encompassed by 
which vulgar men drag along their common- 
place existence. It isa very distinctive mark 
of Schiller’s poetry, that all his heroes bear 
that impress of genius; they have that impos- 
ing character which in real life usually aceom- 
panies the highest nobleness of human nature. 
All his heroes wear the stamp of Jove upon 
their brows. In his earliest poems, we might, 
perhaps, consider this free and bold demeanour 


-somewhat uncouth and sharp-cornered; and | 


even the poet, at elegant Weimar, suffered 
himself to be seduced into giving his robbers 
a little touch of civilization. But who would 
not look through the. rough outside, into the 
solid and pure diamond germ of the nobler 
nature? Whatever follies are to be found in 
‘Charles Moor,’ in ‘Cabal and Love,’ and in 
*Fiesco,’ I can consider them under no other 


GERMAN POETRY. 


light than the follies of that old German Par- 
cifal, who gave a proof, whena rough boy in 
child’s clothes, of his noble and heroic heart, 
to the shame of all scorners; nay, the force of 
moral beauty in a noble nature can nowhere 
operate more touchingly and affectingly than 
where it is thus unconsciously laid open to 
one-sided derision. 

“The third and highest secret of the beauty 
of Schiller’s characters is the fire of noble pas- 
sions. Every great heart is touched with this 
fire: it is the sacrificial fire to the heavenly 
powers; the vestal flame, guarded by conse- 
crated hands in the temple of God; the Pro- 
methean spark, stolen from heaven, to give a 
godlike soul to men}; the Pentecost fire of in- 
spiration, into which souls are baptized; the 
pheenix fire, in which our race renews its youth 
for ever. Without the glow of noble passions, 
nothing great can flourish, either in life or in 
poetry. Every man of genius bears this fire 
in his bosom, and all his creations are pervaded 
with it. Schiller’s poetry is a strong and fiery 
wine; all his words are flames of the noblest 
sentiment. The ideal characters which he has 
created are genuine children of his glowing heart, 
and parted rays of his own fire. But, before all 
other poets, Schiller maintains the prerogative 
of the purest, andat the same time the strong- 
est passion. No one of so pure a heart ever 
sustained this fire; no one of such fire ever 
possessed this purity. Thus we see the dia- 
mond, the purest of earthly substances, when 
it is kindled, burn with a brillianey and an 
inward strength of heat, compared to which 
every other fire appears feeble and dim.” 

Schiller’s works were published at Stuttgart 
and Tubingen in 1827-28, in eighteen parts; 
editions, in one large volume, appeared in 1829, 
1834, and 1840; a beautiful octavo edition, in 
1835-36, in twelve volumes; a pocket edi- 
tion, in 1838—39, in twelve volumes. His 
life was written by H. Doring; also by Car- 
oline von Wollzogen, 1830; another by Hoff- 
meister. The “ Life of Schiller,” in English, by 
Thomas Carlyle, is ‘a very interesting and ele- 
gant work. His ‘“‘ Letters to Dalberg” appear- 
ed in 1819; “ Correspondence between Schil- 


‘ler and Goethe,” Stuttgart, 1828-29; “ Cor- 


respondence between William Humboldt and 
Schiller,” 1830. The principal poetical works 
of Schiller have been translated into English, 
some of them many times; ‘ Wallenstein,” by 
Coleridge, and again by Mr. Moir; “ William 
Tell,’ “* Mary Stuart,” and others, by W, Peter; 
“William Tell,” also, by Rev. C. T. Brooks, 
and “ Don Carlos,” by Mr. Calvert, with much 


skill and fidelity. The lyrical poems and ballads 


have occupied the pens of some of the most 
distinguished writers of the times. The ‘ Song 
of the Bell”’ has been several times translated 
in England, and twice in America, namely, by 
S.A. Eliot, and J. 8. Dwight, — both transla- 
tions are excellent. A translation of the poems 


and. ballads has just appeared in England, | 


: 


| 


‘ 


SCHILLER. 


from the pen of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton ; 
and a volume by John Herman Merivale, con- 
taining “the Minor Poems of Schiller, of the 
Second and Third Periods, with a few of those 
of earlier date, translated for the most part into 
the same metres with the original.” 


SONG OF THE BELL. 


FastTeNeD deep in firmest earth, 
Stands the mould of well burnt clay. 
Now we ’|l give the bell its birth ; 
Quick, my friends, no more delay ! 
From the heated brow 
Sweat must freely flow, 
If to your master praise be given: 
But the blessing comes from Heaven. 


To the work we now prepare 
A serious thought is surely due; 
And cheerfully the toil we ’1l share, 
If cheerful words be mingled too. 
Then let us still with care observe 
What from our strength, yet weakness, 
springs ; 
For he respect can ne’er deserve 
Who hands alone to labor brings. 
"T is only this which honors man ; 
His mind with heavenly fire was warmed, 
That he with deepest thought might scan 
The work which his own hand has formed. 


With splinters of the driest pine 
Now feed the fire below ; 
Then the rising flame shall shine, 
And the melting ore shall flow. 
Boils the brass within, 
Quickly add the tin; 
That the thick metallic mass 
Rightly to the mould may pass. 


What with the aid of fire’s dread power 

We in the dark, deep pit now hide, 
Shall, on some lofty, sacred tower, 

Tell of our skill and form our pride. 
And it shall last to days remote, 

Shall thrill the ear of many a race ; 
Shall sound with sorrow’s mournful note, 

And call to pure devotion’s grace. 
Whatever to the sons of earth 

Their changing destiny brings down, 
To the deep, solemn clang gives birth, 

That rings from out this metal crown. 


See, the boiling surface, whitening, 
Shows the whole is mixing well; 
Add the salts, the metal brightening, 
Ere flows out the liquid bell. 
Clear from foam or scum 
Must the mixture come, 
That with a rich metallic note 
The sound aloft in air may float. 


ger Pe NSE EPC NR OO MERESTAESTTUREN ED AUER” | WEL SENS 


Now with joy and festive mirth 

Salute that loved and lovely child, 
Whose earliest moments on the earth 

Are passed in sleep’s dominion mild. 
While on Time’s lap he rests his head, 
The fatal sisters spin their thread ; 

A mother’s love, with softest rays, 

Gilds o’er the morning of his days. — 
But years with arrowy haste are fled. 
His nursery bonds he proudly spurns ; 

He rushes to the world without ; 
After long wandering, home he turns, 

Arrives a stranger and in doubt. 
There, lovely in her beauty’s youth, 

A form of heavenly mould he meets, 
Of modest air and simple truth ; 

The blushing maid he bashful greets. 
A nameless feeling seizes strong 

On his young heart. He walks alone ; 
To his moist eyes emotions throng ; 

His joy in ruder sports has flown. 
He follows, blushing, where she goes; 

And should her smile but welcome him, 
The fairest flower, the dewy rose, 

To deck her beauty seems too dim. 
O tenderest passion ! Sweetest hope! 

The golden hours of earliest love! 
Heaven’s self to him appears to ope ; 

He feels a bliss this earth above. 
O, that it could eternal last ! 
That youthful love were never past! 


See how brown the liquid turns! 
Now this rod I thrust within ; 
If it’s glazed before it burns, 
Then the casting may begin. 
Quick, my lads, and steady, 
If the mixture ’s ready ! 
When the strong and weaker blend, 
Then we hope a happy end: 
Whenever strength with softness joins, 
When with the rough the mild combines, 
Then all is union sweet and strong. 
Consider, ye who join your hands, 
If hearts are twined in mutual bands ; 
For passion ’s brief, repentance long. 
How lovely in the maiden’s hair 
The bridal garland plays ! 
And merry bells invite us there, 
Where mingle festive lays. 
Alas! that all life’s brightest hours 
Are ended with its earliest May ! 
That from those sacred nuptial bowers 
The dear deceit should pass away ! 
Though passion may fly, 
Yet Jove will endure ; 

The flower must die, 
The fruit to insure. 

The man must without, 
Into struggling life ; 
With toiling and strife, 
He must plan and contrive ; 
Must be prudent to thrive ; 
With boldness must dare, 
Good fortune-to share. 


The softest of wool, and the linen snow-white: 


310 


| 
| *T’is by means such as these, that abundance is 
poured y 
| In a full, endless stream, to increase all his 
hoard, 
While his house to a palace spreads out. 
Within doors governs 
The modest, careful wife, 
The children’s kind mother ; 
And wise is the rule 
Of her household school. 
She teaches the girls, 
And she warns the boys; 
She directs all the bands 
Of diligent hands, 
And increases their gain 
By. her orderly reign. 
And she fills with her treasures her sweet- 
scented chests ; 
From the toil of her spinning-wheel searcely 
she rests ; 
And she gathers in order, so cleanly and bright, 


The useful and pleasant she mingles ever, 
And is slothful never. 
The father, cheerful, from the door, 

' His wide-extended homestead eyes; 
Tells all his smiling fortunes o’er ; 
The future columns in his trees, 

His barn’s well furnished stock he sees, 
His granaries e’en now o’erflowing, 
While yet the waving corn is growing. 
He boasts with swelling pride, 
‘Firm as the mountain’s side 
Against the shock of fate 
Is now my happy state.” 
Who can discern futurity ? 
Who can insure prosperity ? 
Quick misfortune’s arrow flies. 


Now we may begin to cast ; 
Allis right and well prepared : 
Yet, ere the anxious moment’s past, 
A pious hope by all be shared. 
Strike the stopper clear ! 
God preserve us here! 
Sparkling, to the rounded mould 
It rushes hot, like liquid gold. 
- How useful is the power of flame, 
If human skill control and tame ! 
And much of all that man can boast, 
Without this child of Heaven, were lost. 
But frightful is her changing mien, 
When, bursting from her bonds, she’s seen 
To quit the safe and quiet hearth, 
And wander lawless o’er the earth. 
Woe to those whom then she meets! 
Against her fury who can stand? 
| Along the thickly peopled streets 


ee ey ee ene ee 


| She madly hurls her fearful brand. 


Then the elements, with joy, 
Man’s best handiwork destroy. 
From the clouds 

Falls amain 
The blessed rain: 


GERMAN POETRY. 


.His choicest treasures still remain : 


eee = 


From the clouds alike 
Lightnings strike. 
Ringing loud the fearful knell, 
Sounds the bell. 
Dark blood-red 
Are all the skies ; 
But no dawning light is spread. 
What wild cries 
From the streets arise ! 
Smoke dims the eyes. —~ 
Flickering mounts the fiery glow 
Along the street’s extended row, 
Fast as fiercest winds can blow. 
Bright, as with a furnace glare, 
And scorching, is the heated air; 
Beams are falling, children crying, 
Windows breaking, mothers flying, 
Creatures moaning, crushed and dying, — 
Allis uproar, hurry, flight, 
And light as day the dreadful night. 
Along the eager living lane, 
Though all in vain, 
Speeds the bucket. The engine’s power 
Sends the artificial shower. 
But see, the heavens still threatening lower! | 
The winds rush roaring to the flame. 
Cinders on the store-house frame, 
And its drier stores, fall thick ; 
While kindling, blazing, mounting quick, 
As though it would, at one fell sweep, 
All that on the earth is found 
Scatter wide in ruin round, 
Swells the flame to heaven’s blue deep, 
With giant size. 
Hope now dies. 
Man must yield to Heaven’s decrees. 
Submissive, yet appalled, he sees 
His fairest works in ashes sleep. 


All burnt over 
Is the place, 
The storm’s wild home. How changed its face ! 
In the empty, ruined wall 
Dwells dark horror ; 
While heaven’s clouds in shadow fall : 
Deep within. 


One look, 
In memory sad, 
Of all he had, 
The unhappy sufferer took, — 
Then found his heart might yet be glad. 
However hard his lot to bear, 


He calls for each with anxious pain, 
And every loved one’s with him there. 


-To the earth it’s now committed. 


With success the mould is filled. 
To skill and care alone ’s permitted 
A perfect work with toil to build. 
Is the casting right? 
Is the mould yet tight? 
Ah! while now with hope we wait, 
Mischance, perhaps, attends its fate. } a] 


so pate A NS RN A NAO al a aT et ANN Naser sn ARNEL eS alas ei tate DES AREA Napa RAMS hd Si MAL TLRS TESS shee 


To the dark lap of mother earth 
We now confide what we have made ; 
As in earth too the seed is laid, 
In hope the seasons will give birth 
To fruits that soon may be displayed. 
And yet more precious seed we sow 
With sorrow in the world’s wide field ; 
And hope, though in the grave laid low, 
A flower of heavenly hue ’t will yield. 


Slow and heavy 
Hear it swell! 
’T is the solemn 
Passing bell ! 
Sad we follow, with these sounds of woe, 
Those who on this last, long journey go. 
Alas! the wife, — it is the dear one, — 
Ah! it is the faithful mother, 
Whom the shadowy king of fear 
Tears from all that life holds dear ; — 
From the husband, — from the young, 
The tender blossoms, that have sprung 
From their mutual, faithful love, 
’T was hers to nourish, guide, improve. 
Ah! the chain which bound them all 
Is for ever broken now ; 
She cannot hear their tender call, 
Nor see them in affliction bow. 
Her true affection guards no more ; 
Her watchful care wakes not again: 
O’er all the once loved orphan’s store 
The indifferent stranger now must reign. 


Till the bell is safely cold, 
May our heavy labor rest ; 
Free as the bird, by none controlled, 
Each may do what pleases best. 
With approaching night, 
Twinkling stars are bright. 
Vespers call the boys to play ; 
The master’s toils end not with day. 


Cheerful in the forest gloom, 
The wanderer turns his weary steps 
To his loved, though lowly home. 
Bleating flocks draw near the fold ; 
And the herds, 
Wide-horned, and smooth, slow-pacing come 
Lowing from the hill, 
The accustomed stall to fill. 
Heavy rolls 
Along the wagon, 
Richly loaded. 
On the sheaves, 
With gayest leaves 
They form the wreath ; 
And the youthful réapers dance 
Upon the heath. 
Street and market all are quiet, 
And round each domestic light 
Gathers now a circle fond, 
While shuts the creaking city-gate. 
Darkness hovers 
O’er the earth, 


SCHILLER. | ay | 


a aa er a aaa eR or ee a ee 


Safety still each sleeper covers 
As with light, 
That the deeds of crime discovers ; 
For wakes the law’s protecting might. 


Holy Order! rich with all 

The gifts of Heaven, that best we call, — 
Freedom, peace, and equal laws, — 

Of common good the happy cause ! 

She the savage man has taught 

What the arts of life have wrought ; 
Changed the rude hut to comfort, splendor, 
And filled fierce hearts with feelings tender 
And yet a dearer bond she wove, — 

Our home, our country, taught to love. 


A thousand active hands, combined 
For mutual aid, with zealous heart, 
In well apportioned labor find 
Their power increasing with their art. 
Master and workmen all agree, 
Under sweet Freedom’s holy care, 
And each, content in his degree, 
Warns every scorner to beware. 
Labor is the poor man’s pride, — 
Success by toil alone is won. 
Kings glory in possessions wide, — 
We glory in our work well done. 


Gentle peace ! 
Sweet union ! 
Linger, linger, 
Kindly over this our home! 
Never may the day appear, 
When the hordes of cruel war 
Through this quiet vale shall rush ; 
When the sky, 

With the evening’s softened air, 
Blushing red, 

Shall reflect the frightful glare 

» Of burning towns in ruin dread. 


Now break up the useless mould : 
Its only purpose is fulfilled. 
May our eyes, well pleased, behold 
A work to prove us not unskilled. 
Wield the hammer, wield, 
Till the frame shall yield! 
That the bell to light may rise, 
The form in thousand fragments flies. 


The master may destroy the mould 

With careful hand, and judgment wise. 
But, woe ! — in streams of fire, if rolled,, 

The glowing metal seek the skies! 
Loud bursting with the crash of thunder, 

It throws aloft the broken ground ; 
Like a volcano rends asunder, 

And spreads in burning ruin round. 
When reckless power by force prevails, 

The reign of peace and art is o'er; 
And when a mob e’en wrong assails, 

The public welfare is no more. 


SSS A LL ST EIT LER FEE MY EATS TC TTT TCC EA a EL CT - 


nw 6 nee mrs ee ow mene ote ed 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Alas! when in the peaceful state 
Conspiracies are darkly forming ; 

The oppressed no longer patient wait ; 
With fury every breast is storming. 

Then whirls the bell with frequent clang; 
And Uproar, with her howling voice, 

Has changed the note, that peaceful rang, 
To wild confusion’s dreadful noise. 


Freedom and equal rights they call, — 

And peace gives way to sudden war; 
The street is crowded, and the hall, — 

And crime is unrestrained by law: 
E’en woman, to a fury turning, 

But mocks at every dreadful deed ; 
Against the hated madly burning, 

With horrid joy she sees them bleed. 
Now naught is sacred ; — broken lies 

Each holy law of honest worth ; 
The bad man rules, the good man flies, 

And every vice walks boldly forth. 


There ’s danger in the lion’s wrath, 
Destruction in the tiger’s jaw ; 

But worse than death to cross the path 
Of man, when passion is his law. 

Woe, woe to those who strive to light 
The torch of truth by passion’s fire ! 

Tt guides not ; —it but glares through night 
To kindle freedom’s funeral pyre.! 


God has given us joy to-night ! 

See how, like the golden grain 
From the husk, all smooth and bright, 
The shining metal now is ta’en! 
From top to well formed rim, 

Not a spot is dim ; 
K’en the motto, neatly raised, 
Shows a skill may well be praised. 


Around, around, 
Companions all, take your ground, 
And name the bell with joy profound ! 7 
Concorpia is the word we ’ve found 
Most meet to express the harmonious sound, 
That calls to those in friendship bound. 


Be this henceforth the destined end 
To which the finished work we send 
High over every meaner thing, 
In the blue canopy of heaven, 
Near to the thunder let it swing, 
A neighbour to the stars be given. 
Let its clear voice above proclaim, 
With brightest troops of distant suns, 
The praise of our Creator’s name, 
While round each circling season runs. 
To solemn thoughts of heart-felt power 
Let its deep note full oft invite, 
And tell, with every passing hour, 
Of hastening time’s unceasing flight. 
Still let it mark the course of fate ; 
Its, cold, unsympathizing voice 
Attend on every changing state 
Of human passions, griefs, and joys. 


And as the mighty sound it gives 
Dies gently on the listening ear, 
We feel how quickly all that lives 
Must change, and fade, and disappear. 


Now, lads, join your strength around ! 
Lift the bell to upper air ! 
And in the kingdom wide of sound 
Once placed, we ’ll leave it there. 
All together! heave! 
Its birth-place see it leave ! — 
Joy to all within its bound ! 
Peace its first, its latest sound ! 


THE ENTRANCE OF THE NEW CENTURY. 


Nose friend! where now for Peace, worn- 
hearted, 
Where for Freedom, is a refuge-place ? 
The old century has in storm departed, 
And the new with carnage starts its race. 


And the bond of nations flies asunder, 

e And the ancient forms rush to decline; 

Not the ocean hems the warring thunder, 
Not the Nile-god and the ancient Rhine. 


Two imperious nations are contending 
For one empire’s universal field ; 
Liberty from every people rending, ’ 
Thunderbolt and trident do they wield. 


Gold must be weighed them from each coun- 
try’s labor; 
And, like Brennus in barbarian days, 
See, the daring Frank his iron sabre 
In the balances of Justice lays! 


The grasping Briton his trade-fleets, like mighty 
Arms of the sea-polypus, doth spread ; 

And the realm of unbound Amphitrite 
Would he girdle, like his own homestead. 


To the south pole’s unseen constellations 
Pierce his keels, unhindered, resting not; 


All the isles, all coasts of farthest nations, 


Spies he ;—all but Eden’s sacred spot. 


Ah! in vain, on charts of all earth’s order, 
May’st thou seek that bright and blessed 
shore, 
Where the green of Freedom’s garden-border, 
Where man’s prime, is fresh for evermore. 


Endless lies the world that thine eye traces, 
Even commerce scarcely belts it round ; 
Yet upon its all-unmeasured spaces 
For ten happy ones is no room found. 


On the heart’s holy and quiet pinion 
Must thou fly from out this rough life’s throng ; 
Freedom lives but within Dream’s dominion, 
And the beautiful blooms but in song. 


KNIGHT TOGGENBURG. 


“‘ Kniaut, to love thee like a sister 
Vows this heart to thee ; 

Ask no other warmer feeling, — 
That were pain to me. 

Tranquil would I see thy coming, 
Tranquil see thee go ; 

What that starting tear would tell me 
I must never know.” 


He with silent anguish listens, 
Though his beart-strings bleed ; 

Clasps her in his last embraces, 
Springs upon his steed, 

Summons every faithful vassal 
From his Alpine home, 

Binds the cross upon his bosom, 
Seeks the Holy Tomb. 


There full many a deed of glory 
Wrought the hero’s arm ; 

Foremost still his plumage floated 
Where the foemen swarm ; 

Till the Moslem, terror-stricken, 
Quailed before his name. 

But the pang that wrings his bosom 

Lives at heart the same. 


One long year he bears his sorrow, 
But no more can bear ; 

Rest he seeks, but, finding never, 
Leaves the army there ; 

Sees a ship by Joppa’s haven, 
Which with swelling sail 

Wafts him where his lady’s breathing 
Mingles with the gale. 


At her father’s castle portal, 
Hark! his knock is heard ; 

See! the gloomy gate uncloses 
With the thunder-word : 

‘She thou seek’st is veiled for ever, 
Is the bride of Heaven ; 

Yester eve the vows were plighted, — 
She to God is given.” 


Then his old ancestral castle 
He for ever flees; 

Battle-steed and trusty weapon 
Never more he sees. 

From the Toggenburg descending, 
Forth unknown he glides ; 

For the frame once sheathed in iron 
Now the sackcloth hides. 


There beside that hallowed region 
He hath built his bower, 
Where from out the dusky lindens 
Looked the convent tower ; 
Waiting from the morning’s glimmer 
Till the day was done, 
Tranquil hope in every feature, 
Sat he there alone. 
40 


SCHILLER. 


a 


Gazing upward to the convent, 
Hour on hour he passed, 
Watching still his lady’s lattice, 
Till it oped at last, — 
Till that form looked forth so lovely,, 
Till the sweet face smiled 
Down into the lonesome valley, 
Peaceful, angel-mild. 


Then he laid him down to slumber, 
Cheered by peaceful dreams, 


_ Calmly waiting till the morning 


Showed again its beams. 

Thus for days he watched and waited, 
Thus for years he lay, 

Happy if he saw the lattice _ 
Open day by day ; — 


If that form looked forth so lovely, 
If the sweet face smiled 

Down into the lonesome valley, 
Peaceful, angel-mild. 

There a corse they found him sitting 
Once when day returned, 

Still his pale and placid features 
To the lattice turned. 


——_—— 


INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 


On the mat he’s sitting there: 
See! he sits upright, 

With the same look that he ware 
When he saw the light. 


But where now the hand’s clinched weight? 


Where the breath he drew, 
That to the Great Spirit late 
Forth the pipe-smoke blew ? 


Where the eyes, that, falcon-keen 
Marked the reindeer pass, 

By the dew upon the green, 
By the waving grass ? 


These the limbs, that, unconfined, 
Bounded through the snow, 

Like the stag that’s twenty-tyned, 
Like the mountain roe ! 


These the arms, that, stout and tense, 
Did the bow-string twang! 

See, the life is parted hence! 
See, how loose they hang! 


Well for him! he ’s gone his ways 
Where are no more snows; 


Where the fields are decked with maize, 


That unplanted grows ; — 


Where with beasts of chase each wood, 
Where with birds each tree, 

Where with fish is every flood 
Stocked full pleasantly. 


AA 


He above with spirits feeds ; — 
We, alone and dim, 

Left to celebrate his deeds, 

And to bury him. 


Bring the last sad offerings hither ; 
Chant the death-lament ; 

All inter with him together, 
That can him content. 


"Neath his head the hatchet hide, 
That he swung so strong ; 

And the bear’s ham set beside, — 
For the way is long ; — 


Then the knife, — sharp let it be, — 
That from foeman’s crown, 

Quick, with dexterous cuts but three, 
Skin and tuft brought down ; — 


Paints, to smear his frame about, 
Set within his hand, 

That he redly may shine out 
In the spirits’ land. 


——— 


THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH. 


“Here, take the world!” cried Jove, from his 
high heaven, 
To mortals.—‘* Take it; it is yours, ye elves; 
"T is yours, for an eternal heirdom given ; 
Share it like brothers ’mongst yourselves.” 


Then hastened every one himself to suit, 
And busily were stirring old and young. — 
The Farmer seized upon the harvest-fruit ; 
The Squire’s horn through the woodland rung. 


The Merchant grasped his costly warehouse 
loads; 
The Abbot chose him noble pipes of wine; 
The King closed up the bridges and the roads, 
And said, *“‘ The tenth of all is mine.” 


Quite late, long after all had been divided, 
The Poet came, from distant wandering ; 
Alas! the thing was everywhere decided, — 

Proprietors for every thing! 


“ Ah, woe is me! shall I alone of all 
Forgotten be ?—I, thy most faithful son?’’ 
In loud lament he thus began to bawl, 
And threw himself before Jove’s throne. 


“Tf in the land of dreams thou hast delayed,” 
Replied the god, ‘then quarrel not with me; 
Where wast thou when division here was 
made ?”’ 
“<T was,”’ the Poet said, “‘ with thee ; — 


‘¢ Mine eyes hung on thy countenance so bright, 
Mine ear drank in thy heaven’s harmony ; 
Forgive the soul, which, drunken with thy light, 

Forgot that earth had aught for me.” 


GERMAN POETRY. 


“What shall I do?”’ said Zeus; * the wont s 
all given ; 
The harvest, chase, or market, no more mine; 
If thou wilt come ana live cate me in heaven, 
As often as thou com’st, my home is thine. o 


EXTRACT FROM WALLENSTEIN’S CAMP. 


[Enter a band of Miners, and play a waltz. The First Ji- 
ger dances with the Waiting- girl, the Recruit with the 
Sutler’s Wife. . The Girl slips away, the Jager after her, 
and seizes hold of the Capuchin, who enters at this mo- 
ment. ] 

CAPUCHIN. * 

Sour and swear, ye Devil’s crew! 

He is one among ye, and I make two. 

Can these be Christians i in faith or works? 

Are we Anabaptists, Jews, or Turks ? 

Is this a time for feast or play, 

For banquet, dance, and holiday ? 

When the quickest are slow, and the earliest 

late is, 1 

Quid hic otiosi statis ? 

When the furies are loose by the Danube’s side, 

And the bulwark is low of Bavaria’s pride, 

And Ratisbon in the enemy’s claw, 

And the soldier still looks to his ravenous maw: 

For, praying or fighting, he eats and swears ; 

Less for the battle than the bottle he cares ; 

Loves better his beak than his blade to whet ; 

On an ox, not an Oxenstiern, would set. 

’T is a time for mourning, for prayer and tears; 

Sign and wonder in heaven appears : 

Over the firmament is spread 

War’s wide mantle all bloody red ; 

And the streaming comet’s fiery rod 

Betokens the rightful wrath of God. 

Whence comes ‘all this? I now proclaim 

That from your sin proceeds your shame : 

Sin, like the magnet, draws the steel, 

Which in its bowels the land must feel; 

Ruin as close on wrong appears, 

As, on the acrid onion, tears. 

Who learns his letters this may know, 

That violence produces woe, 

As in the alphabet you see 

How W comes after V. 

When the altar and pulpit despised we see, 

Uli erit spes victoria, 

St offenditur Deus? How can we prevail, 

If his house and preachers we assail ? 

The woman in the Gospel found 

The farthing dropped upon the ground ; 

Joseph again his brothers knew 

(Albeit a most unworthy crew) ; 

Saul found his father’s asses too. 

Who in the soldier seeks to find 

The Christian’s love and humble mind, 

And modesty and just restraint, 

He in the Devil seeks a saint ; 


* This exhortation of the Capuchin Friar is taken from 
one of the sermons of ABRAHAM A SancTA CLARA; for the 
character of whose eloquence, see p. 241. 


——-[COoOooQuuun eee wwe 


SCHILLER. 315 


And small reward will crown his hopes, 

Though with a hundred lights he gropes. 

The Gospel tells how the soldiers ran 

In the desert of old to the holy man, 

Did penance, were baptized, and prayed. 

Quid faciemus nos? they said ; 

Et ait illis, — he answers them : 

Concutiatis neminem, — 

No one vex, or spoil, or kill ; 

Nec calumniam, — speak no ill ; 

Contenti estote, — learn not to fret 

Stipendiis vestris, — at what you get. 

The Scripture forbids us, in language plain, 

To take the holiest name in vain: 

But here the law might as well be dumb ; 

And if for the thundering oaths which come 

From the tip of the blasphemous soldier’s tongue, 

As for Heaven’s thunder, the bells were rung, 

The sacristans would soon be dead ; 

And if, for each wanton and wicked prayer, 

Were plucked ‘from the blasphemous soldier’s 
head, 

As a gift for Satan, a single hair, 

Each head in the camp would be smooth and 
bare, . 

Ere the watch was set and the sun was down, 

Though at morn it were bushy as Absalom’s 
crown. 

A soldier Joshua was like you, 

And David tall Goliath slew ; 

They laid about them as much or more, 

But where do we read that they cursed and 
swore ? 

Yet the lips, which we open to curse and swear, 

Are not opened wider for creed or prayer ; 

But that with which the cask we fill, 

The same we must draw and the same must spill. 

Thou shalt not steal, so the Scriptures tell, 

And, for this, I grant that you keep it well; 

For you carry your plunder, and lift your prey, 

With your vulture claws, in the face of day ; 

Gold from the chest your tricks convey ; 

The calf in the cow is not safe from you; 

You take the egg and the hen thereto. 

Contenti estote, the preacher has said, — 

Be content with your ammunition bread. 


From the greatest and highest the evil came ; 
The limbs are bad, but the head as well: 
No one his faith or. his creed can tell. 


FIRST JAGER. 
Sir Priest, the soldier I count fair game ; 
So, please you, keep clear of the general’s name. 


CAPUCHIN. 
Ne custodias gregem meam! 
He is an Ahab and Jerobeam ; 
God’s people to folly he leads astray, 
To idols of falsehood he points the way. 


TRUMPETER, 
Let us not hear that twice, I pray. 


CAPUCHIN. 
Such a Bramabas, with iron hand, 
Would spoil the high places throughout the land. 


But the low and the humble ’t were sin to blame ; | 


We know, though Christian lips are loath 

To repeat the words of his godless oath, 

How Stralsund’s city he vowed to gain, 
Though it held to heaven with bolt and chain. 


TRUMPETER. 
Will no man throttle him, once for all? 


CAPUCHIN. 
A wizard, a fiend-invoking Saul, 
A Jehu; or he whom Judith slew, 
By a woman’s hand in his cups who died ; 
Like him who his Master and Lord denied, 
Who was deaf to the warning cock that crew, 
Like him, when the cock crows, he cannot hear. 


FIRST JAGER. 
Shaveling liar, thy death is near! 


CAPUCHIN. 
A fox, like Herod, in wiles and lies. 


TRUMPETER and JAGERS (pressing upon him). 
The lie in his slanderous throat! he dies! 


CROATS (interfering). 
They shall not harm thee. Discourse thy fill ; 
Give us thy sermon and fear no il. 


CAPUCHIN. 
A Nebuchadnezzar in pride and sin, 
Heretic, pagan, his heart within; 
While such a Friedland has command, 
The country is ever an unfreed land. 


[During this last speech he has been gradually making 
his retreat. The Croats, meanwhile, protecting 
him from the rest. 


es 


THE GLOVE: A TALE. 


Brrore his lion-court, 
To see the grisly sport, 
Sat the king ; 
Beside him grouped his princely peers, 
And dames aloft, in circling tiers, 
Wreathed round their blooming ring. 
King Francis, where he sat, 
Raised a finger; yawned the gate, 
And slow, from his repose, 
A Lion goes ! 
Dumbly he gazed around 
The foe-encircled ground ; 
And, with a lazy gape, 
He stretched his lordly shape, 
And shook his careless mane, 
And — laid him down again. 


A finger raised the king, 

And nimbly have the guard 

A second gate unbarred ; 

Forth, with a rushing spring, 

A TIGER sprung! 

Wildly the wild one yelled, 
When the lion he beheld ; 

And, bristling at the look, 
With his tail his sides he strook, 

And rolled his rabid tongue ; 


lene apie 
ase Nab ees 


vols ol Teen 
> See a! s 

hw 

evi 


Fy eg ope 


teas 


31. ON GERMAN POETRY. 


In many a wary ring 
He swept round the forest king, 
With a fell and rattling sound ; 
And laid him on the ground, 
Grommelling. 
v 
The king raised his finger; then 
Leaped two LEoparps from the den 
With a bound ; 
And boldly bounded they 
Where the crouching tiger lay 
Terrible ! 
And he griped the beasts in his deadly hold ; 
In the grim embrace they grappled and rolled; 
Rose the lion with a roar, 
And stood the strife before ; 
And the wild-cats on the spot, 
From the blood-thirst, wroth and hot, 
Halted still. 


Now from the balcony above 
A snowy hand let fall a glove: 
Midway between the beasts of prey, 
Lion and tiger, — there it lay, 

The winsome lady’s glove ! 


Fair Cunigonde said, with a lip of scorn, 

To the knight Delorges, ‘If the love you have 
sworn 

Were as gallant and leal as you boast it to be, 

I might ask you to bring back that glove tome!” 


The knight left the place where the lady sat; 

The knight he has passed through the fearful 
gate ; 

The lion and tiger he stooped above, 

And his fingers have closed on the lady’s glove ! 

All shuddering and stunned, they beheld him 
there, — 

The noble knights and the ladies fair ; 

But loud was the joy and the praise the while 

Ife bore back the glove with his tranquil smile ! 


With a tender look in her softening eyes, 

That promised reward to his warmest sighs, 

Fair Cunigonde rose her knight to grace ; 

He tossed the glove in the lady’s face ! 

‘Nay, spare me the guerdon, at least,’’ quoth 
he; 

And he left for ever that fair ladye ! 


THE DANCE. 


See how they float, the glad couples, along, in 
billowy motion 
Gliding, — and scarcely the ground touch 
with their feathery feet! 
Do I behold flitting shadows, escaped from the 
weight of the body ? 
Or are they moonlight elves, threading their 
aéry maze? 
As, by the west wind cradled, the light smoke 
curls into ether, 
Gently as tosses the bark, rocked by the sil- 
very flood, 


Moves the obedient foot, on the tide of melody 
bounding ; 
Poised on the warbling string, floats the ethe- 
real frame, 
Now, as the links of the dance were forcibly 
broken asunder, 
Darts through the closest ranks, madly, some 
swift-whirling pair ; 
Instant, a passage before them is made, then be- 
hind-them has vanished, — 
Seems as hy magical spell opens and closes 
the path. 
See! now it fades from their sight, — in wild 
confusion around them, 
Falling in pieces, the world’s beautiful frame 
dies away ! 
No! there exultingly soar they aloft, — the knots 
disentangle ; 
Only with varied charm, order recovers its 
sway. 
Ever destroyed, yet ever renewed, is the cir- 
cling creation, — 
Ever a fixed silent law guides the caprices of 
change. 
Say, how befalls it that figures renewed are 
yet ceaselessly shifting? 
How, that rest yet abides e’en in the form 
that is moved? 
Each man self-governed, free, to his own heart 
only obedient ; 
Yet in time’s eddying course finding his one 
‘ only road? 
Wouldst thou the reason attain? — it is Harmo- 
ny’s powerful godhead, 
Which to the social dance limits the mad- 
dening bound ; 
Nemesis-like, with the golden bridle of rhyth- 
mical measure, 
Curbs the unruly desire, chains the wild ap- 
petite down. 
And do they sweep o’er thy senses in vain, — 
those heavenly hymnings? 
Doth it not raise thee, — the full swell of this 
mystical song? . 
Nor the ecstatic note that all beings are striking 
around thee? 
Nor the swift-whirling dance, which through 
unlimited space 
Whirls swift-revolving suns in bold concentrical 
circles ? — 
That which in sport thou reverest, —Mras- 
URE, —in truth thou dost spurn. 


—_@—— 


JOHANN PETER HEBEL. 


Turis poet was born May 11th, 1760, near 
Schopfheim, in Baden. He studied in Erlang- 
en, and afterwards became an instructer in 
the “ Pxedagogium,”’ at Lérrach. In 1791, he 
was made Sub-deacon at Karlsruhe, and in 
1798 was appointed Professor in the Gymna- 
sium there; in 1805, he became Church Coun- 
cillor; in 1808, Director of the Lyceum; in 


i be si Pastis Neate Det aei Dan tht hah opel mnt tine ll a De PD tt rit OCA AeA SAI ban af iat ABE Da Rah Bit hahaa ape, 


1819, Prelate. He died at Schwetzingen, 
September 22d, 1826. For his poems, he se- 
lected the simple and popular dialect which 
prevails near Basle, and, with various modifica- 
tions, over a great part of Swabia. They contain 
beautiful delineations of nature, and pictures 
of manners. The poems were first published 
at Karlsruhe, in 1808; they have been several 
times translated into German, by Schaffner, 
Girardet, and Adrian. Hebel was also the 
author of popular tales. His works were pub- 
lished at Karlsruhe in 1832; again in 1837 
—38; and a new edition was-commenced in 


1842. 


es 


SUNDAY MORNING. 


“WELL,” Saturday to Sunday said, 
«The people now have gone to hed ; 
All, after toiling through the week, 
Right willingly their rest would seek ; — 
Myself can hardly stand alone, 

So very weary I have grown.” 


His speech was echoed by the bell, 

As on his midnight couch he fell ; 

And Sunday now the watch must keep. 
So, rising from his pleasant sleep, 

He glides, half-dozing, through the sky, 
To tell the world that morn is nigh. 


He rubs his eyes, — and, none too late, 
Knocks aloud at the sun’s bright gate ; 
She?! slumbered in her silent hall, 
Unprepared for his early call. 
Sunday excldims, “¢ Thy hour is nigh 
‘Well, well,” says she, ‘I ll come by and by.” 


1? 


Gently, on tiptoe, Sunday creeps, — 
Cheerfully from the stars he peeps, — 
Mortals are all asleep below, — 

None in the village hears him go ; 
E’en Chanticleer keeps very still, — 
For Sunday whispered ’t was his will. 


Now the world is awake and bright, 

After refreshing sleep all night ; 

The Sabbath morn in sunlight comes, 
Smiling gladly on all our homes. 

He has a mild and happy air, — 

Bright flowers are wreathed among his hair. 


He comes, with soft and noiseless tread, 
To rouse the sleeper from his bed ; 

And tenderly he pauses near, 

With looks all full of love and cheer, 
Well pleased to watch the deep. repose 
That lingered till the morning rose. 


How gaily shines the early dew, 
Loading the grass with its silver hue ! 


1 In the German language, the sun is feminine, and the 
moon is masculine, 


HEBEL.—MATTHISSON, 


And freshly comes the fragrant breeze, 
Dancing among the cherry-trees ; 

The bees are humming all so gay, — 
They know not it is Sabbath-day. 


The cherry-blossoms now appear, — 
Fair heralds of a fruitful year ; 

There stands upright the tulip proud, — 
Bethlehem-stars* around her crowd, — 
And hyacinths of every hue, — 

All sparkling in the morning dew. 


How still and lovely all things seem ! 
Peaceful and pure as an angel’s dream ! 

No rattling carts are in the streets ; — 
Kindly each one his neighbour greets : — 
‘‘Tt promises right fair to-day ”’ ; — 

“Yes, praised be God!’’— ’t is all they say. 


The birds are singing, ‘‘ Come, behold 
Our Sabbath morn all bathed in gold, 
Pouring his calm, celestial light 

Among the flowers so sweet and bright!” 
The pretty goldfinch leads the row, 

As if her Sunday-robe to show. 


Mary, pluck those auriculas, pray, 

And do n’t shake the yellow dust away ; 
Here, little Ann, are some for you, — 
T’m sure you want a nosegay too. 

The first bell rings, —away! away! 
We will go to church to-day. 


——_¢— 


FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON. 


Tus celebrated lyrical poet was born Janu- 
ary 23d, 1761, at Hohendodeleben, near Mag- 
deburg. He studied theology at the University 
in Hallé, but afterwards gave his attention to 
philology, natural science, and polite literature. 
He passed two years with Bonstetten, at Nyon; 
then became a private tutor in Lyons; after- 
wards a teacher in Dessau. In 1794, he was ap- 
pointed reader and travelling companion to the 


| princess of Dessau, and visited Rome, Naples, 


Switzerland, the Tyrol, and the North of Italy. 
In 1809, he was made a knight of the Wir- 
temberg order of Civil Service, and ennobled ; 
in 1812, he was appointed Councillor of Lega- 
tion in Stuttgart. He visited Italy again, in 
the retinue of the duke of Wirtemberg, and 
passed some time in Florence, in 1819. From 
1829, he lived in a private station at Worlitz, 
where he died March 12th, 1831. He is one 
of the most popular lyric and elegiac poets of 
Germany. He shows delicate feeling, an ex- 
quisite sense of the beauties of nature, and 
great powers of description. His verse is dis- 
tinguished for its musical flow and careful fin- 
ish; but he is not free from a sentimental man- 


2 The name of a very pretty wild flower. 
AA2 


318 


GERMAN POETRY. 


nerism, which exposed him to the ridicule of | Tales of hard-won battle fought afar, 


Schlegel and Menzel. His works were pub- 
lished at Zurich, 1825—29, in eight parts. His 
life, by H. Doring, appeared in 1833. 


ELEGY. 
WRITTEN IN THE RUINS OF AN OLD CASTLE. 


SiLEn7, in the veil of evening twilight, 
Rests the plain; the woodland song is still, 
Save that here, amid these mouldering ruins, 
Chirps a cricket, mournfully and shrill. 
Silence sinks from skies without a shadow, 
Slowly wind the herds from field and meadow, 
And the weary hind to the repose 
Of his father’s lowly cottage goes. 


Here, upon this hill, by forests bounded, 
"Mid the ruins of departed days, 
By the awful shapes of Eld surrounded, 
Sadness! unto thee my song I raise ! 
Sadly think I what in gray old ages 
Were these wrecks of lordly heritages : 
A majestic castle, like a crown, 
Placed upon the mountain’s brow of stone. 


There, where round the column’s gloomy ruins, 
Sadly whispering, clings the ivy green, 

And the evening twilight’s mournful shimmer 
Blinks the empty window-space between, 

Blessed, perhaps, a father’s tearful eye 

Once the noblest son of Germany ; 
One whose heart, with high ambition rife, 
Warmly swelled to meet the coming strife. 


*¢ Go in peace !”’ thus spake the hoary warrior, 
As he girded on his sword of fame ; 
“Come not back again, or come as victor: 
O, be worthy of thy father’s name ! ” 
And the noble youth’s bright eyes were throwing 
Deadly flashes forth; his cheeks were glowing, 
As with full-blown branches the red rose 
In the purple light of morning glows. 


Then, a cloud of thunder, flew the champion, 
Even as Richard Lion-Heart, to fight ; 
Like a wood of pines in storm and tempest, 
Bowed before his path the hostile might. 
Gently, as a brook through flowers descendeth, 
Homeward to the castle-crag he wendeth, — 
To his father’s glad, yet tearful face, — 
To the modest maiden’s chaste embrace. 


O, with anxious longing, looks the fair one 
From her turret down the valley drear! 
Shield and breastplate glow in gold of evening, 
Steeds fly forward, the beloved draws near ! 
Him the faithful right-hand mute extending, 
Stands she, pallid looks with blushes blending. 
O, but what that soft, soft eye doth say, 
Sings not Petrarch’s, nor e’en Sappho’s lay ! 


Merrily echoed there the sound of. goblets, 

_ Where the rank grass, waving in the gale, 

O’er the nests of owls is blackly spreading, 
Till the silver glance of stars grew pale. 


Wild adventures in the Holy, War, 
Wakened in the breast of hardy knight 
The remembrance of his fierce delight. 


O, what changes! Awe and night o’ershadow 
Now the scene of all that proud array ; 

Winds of evening, full of sadness, whisper, 
Where the strong ones revelled and were 

gay ; 

Thistles lonely nod, in places seated 

Where for shield and spear the boy entreated, 
When aloud the war-horn’s summons rang, 
And to horse in speed the father sprang. 


Ashes are the bones of these, — the mighty ! 

Deep they lie within earth’s gloomy breast ; 
Hardly the half-sunken funeral tablets 

Now point out the places where they rest ! 
Many to the winds were long since scattered,— 
Like their tombs, their memories sunk and shat- 

tered ! 
O’er the brilliant deeds of ages gone 
Sweep the cloud-folds of Oblivion! 


Thus depart life’s pageantry and glory ! 
Thus flit by the visions of vain might ! 
Thus sinks, in the rapid lapse of ages, 
All that earth doth bear, to empty night! 
Laurels, that the victor’s brow encircle, 
High deeds, that in brass and marble sparkle, 
Urns devoted unto Memory, 
And the songs of Immortality ! 


All, all, that with longing and with rapture 

Here on earth a noble heart doth warm, 
Vanishes like sunshine in the autumn, 

When the horizon’s verge is veiled in storm. 
Friends at evening ‘part with warm embraces,— 
Morning looks upon the death-pale faces ; 

Even the joys that Love and Friendship find 

Leave on earth no lasting trace behind. 


Gentle Love ! how all thy fields of roses 
Bounded close by thorny deserts lie ! 

And a sudden tempest’s awful shadow 
Oft doth darken Friendship’s brightest sky ! 

Vain are titles, honor, might, and glory ! 

On the monarch’s temples proud and hoary, 
And the way-worn pilgrim’s trembling head, 
Doth the grave one common darkness spread ! 


—EE 


THE SPRING EVENING. 


Brieut with the golden shine of heaven plays 
On tender blades the dew; 
And the spring-landscape’s trembling likeness 
sways 
Clear in the streamlet’s blue. 


Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge,, 
Groves stained. with golden light; 

Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge 
Of purple clouds shines bright. 


SE iss Nets Salar eal ae cca ta ee Set aS el a tt a eR le 


Fair is the meadow’s green, -—the valley’s 
copse, — 
The hillock’s dress of flowers, — 
The alder-brook, — the reed-encircled pond, 
O’er-snowed with blossom-showers. 


This manifold world of life is held in one 
By Love’s eternal band : 

The glowworm and the fire-sea of the sun 
Sprang from one Father’s hand. 


Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree 
The blossom’s leaf doth fall ; — 
Thou beckonest, — and in immensity 
Is quenched a solar ball ! 


FOR EVER THINE. 


For ever thine! though sea and land divide thee, 
For ever thine! 

Through burning wastes and winds, — whate’er 

betide me, — 

For ever thine! 

*Mid dazzling tapers in the marble palace, 
For ever thine! 

Beneath the evening moon in pastoral valleys, 
For ever thine ! 

And when the feeble lamp of life, expiring, 
Becomes divine, — 

My breaking heart will echo, still untiring, 
For ever thine! 


—_@—-. 


AUGUST FRIEDRICH FERDINAND 
VON KOTZEBUE. 


Tus celebrated person was born May 3d, 
1761, at Weimar. He entered the University 
of Jena, at the age of sixteen ; afterwards studied 
at Duisburg, but returned in 1779 to Jena and 
studied law. He showed an early passion for 
the theatre, and wrote. many dramatic pieces, in 
imitation of Goethe, Schiller, and other popular 
authors: Jn 1781, he went to St. Petersburg, 
and became secretary to Von Bawr, the general 
of the engineers, and director of the court thea- 
tre. After the death of this gentleman, he re- 
ceived the patronage of the Empress Catharine ; 
in 1783, was appointed Assessor of the Chief 
Court in Revel, the capital of the duchy of Estho- 
nia; in 1785, became President of the govern- 
ment of Esthonia, and received a patent of nobil- 
ity. In 1790, he published his notorious ‘ Doc- 
tor Bahrdt with the Iron Brow.”’ In 1795, he 
retired to a country residence in Ksthonia; then 
removed to Weimar; then returned to St. Peters- 
burg, when he was arrested and hurried away 
to Siberia, without being informed of the cause. 
He was, however, soon recalled by the Emperor 
Paul, and made Court Councillor and Director 
of the Theatre in St. Petersburg. In 1801, he re- 
turned to Weimar ; then lived as a private man 
in Berlin, where, in 1802, he was chosen a 


KOTZEBUE, 


member of the Academy of Sciences. From 
1806 to 1813, he lived in Russia; then in Wei- 
mar, whence he removed to Mannheim. He 
received a large salary from Russia, and was 
employed to report from time to time to the 
Russian cabinet on the state of affairs in Ger- 
many. His hatred of liberal institutions, and 
advocacy of political opinions which were re- 
garded by the Germans with abhorrence, drew 
upon him the detestation of many of his 
countrymen. This was carried to such a fanat- 
ical height, that a student of theology, named 
Sand, having convinced himself, after severe 
mental struggles, that it was an act of duty, as- 
sassinated him at his residence, on the 23d of 
March, 1819. 

Kotzebue was a voluminous writer, and a man 
of great talent. But his moral principles were 
lax, and his writings are filled with theatrical 
clap-traps and false and sickly sentimentality. 
His historical works are considered as of no 
value. His dramas were published at Leipsic, 
in five volumes, 1797 ; new dramas, in twenty- 
three volumes, 1798—1819. A collective edi- 
tion of his dramatic works appeared at Leipsic, 
in 1827 — 29, in forty-four volumes; a new and 
handsome edition, in forty volumes, at Leipsic, 
1840 ~42. He wrote also novels and tales. 
His life was published by H. Do6ring, Weimar, 
1830. 

Many of Kotzebue’s plays were well received 
throughout Europe. They were’ translated into 
English, French, Dutch, Danish, Polish, Rus- 
sian, and Italian. Eleven or twelve were 
brought upon the English stage. The “ Ger- 
man Theatre,’’ translated by Benjamin Thomp- 
son, six volumes, London, 1801, contains a 
large number of them. 


—ers 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF HUGO GROTIUS. 


THE FLIGHT FROM PRISON. 


CORNELIA (anxiously). 
Wuart means this firing, mother? 
Have we succeeded? Is my father safe ? 


MARIA. 
Go down,—but no. What an unusual pother! 
Has he been seized? Are these alarm-guns 
signals 


To thwart his flight? I quake for agony. 


CORNELIA (at the window). 
People are running one among the other, 
And drums are beating, — yet upon the river 


All appears quiet. — 


[ Pause. 
Our blue streamer floats 
Further and further off. See there on board 
A man, no doubt my brother, waving to us 
In triumph a white handkerchief, — he is‘safe! 


MARIA. 
Is he ?— or does the distance not deceive you? 


320 


CORNELIA. 

No, no, — the longer on the waves I rest 

My eyes, the clearer every thing becomes. 

It is my brother, — hail, beloved Felix! 

He is now set down and steering, — and the boat 

With swelling sail cuts swiftly through the 
wave. 

They ’ll soon have crossed the Maas. 
ther ’s saved ! 


My fa- 


MARIA (falls on her knees with folded hands. She tries to 
speak, and cannot, —then clasps Cornelia in her arms). 


Now be it known that I, the wife of Hugo, 

And thou, his child, are worthy of our race ! 

No word of prayer for us, now he is free ! 

We care not for their power; we cheerfully 

Shall sing athwart our grating: he is free! 

Let them from us exclude the light of heaven, 

Let them with thirst and hunger plague our 
frames, 

We suffer now for him; and he is free! 


MAURICE (enters). 
The prince of Orange unexpectedly 
Appeared before the fortress : drums were beat, 
And cannon fired, in honor of his coming. 


MARIA, 
Is our sworn foe so nigh, and at this moment ? 
Well, let him come ! 


MAURICE, 
The prince had scarce alighted 
From off his horse, when he inquired for Gro- 
tus ; 
He means to see him. 


MARIA (with a triumphant smile). 
Well, then, let him come. 


MAURICE. 
In a few minutes he will be before you. 


MARIA. 
And we are ready to receive him. 
MAURICE, 
Mother, ; 
I augur good. He is indeed our foe, — 
But a great man, who scorns the petty triumphs 
Of humbling by his presence the disarmed. 


MARIA. 
I pledge myself he ‘Il not do that. 


MAURICE, 
So be it. 


Is Hugo sleeping still ? 
MARIA, 
He is broad awake. 
[Prince of Orange enters, with the Captain. 
MAURICE, 
The general. 
PRINCE. 
Thanks, my worthy captain : 
All things I find as I expected of you. 


CAPTAIN (presenting Maria and Cornelia to the Prince), 
The wife of Grotius, — and his daughter. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


PRINCE, 
Lady, 
Though we meet not as friends, at Jeast I hope 
That we shall part as such. 


MARIA. 
I know Prince Moritz 
Values consistency e’en in a foe. 


PRINCE. 
This virtue sometimes looks like obstinacy. 


. MARIA. 
And sometimes serves ambition for a cloak. 


PRINCE. 
A truce to words that might be taken harshly : 
You ’Il learn to know me better, noble lady. 


MARIA, 
We ’ve known you ever since we ’ve been in 
prison. 
PRINCE, 
Who forced you to partake your husband’s for- 
tunes? i“ 
MARIA. 


If you were married, you would not inquire. 


PRINCE. 

Enough. The memory of the past be razed. 
MARIA. 

Are you a god? 
PRINCE. 


Lead me to Hugo Grotius ; 
And he shall reconcile me to his consort. 


CAPTAIN, 
There is his chamber. ~ 


MARIA. 
You will find in it 


Only the relics of the saint who dwelt there. 


PRINCE (startled). 

Is Hugo dead ? 

MARIA, 
And would it be a wonder, 
If these damp walls had nipped his frail exist- 

ence ? 

But I am not here to curse his murderers, 
I smile in scorn upon their impotence ; 
My husband has escaped. 


ALL, 


Escaped? Escaped? 


[ The Captain goes into the sleeping-room. 


MARIA, 
In spite of all your halberds, all your bolts, 
A woman’s cunning snatched him from your 
power, 
And love has triumphed over violence. 


CAPTAIN (returns terrified). 
She speaks the truth: he is not to be found. 


PRINCE (surprised and angry). 


How? By whose help? 


KOTZEBUE. 


4 MARIA. 
By mine. 
PRINCE, 
By what contrivance ? 


MARIA. 
Who can compel me to discover that ? 


MAURICE (aside). 
I guess. 


PRINCE, 
Speak, — whither, whither is he gone ? 


MARIA, 
Send out your spies, and track him as you can. 


PRINCE, 
Woman, beware my anger! 
t MARIA, 
I fear nothing. 
PRINCE. 
Who are the helper’s helpers? for alone 
You cannot have accomplished it. Speak out, 


Lest force extort confession from your lips. 


MARIA, 
None knew but I; therein consists my pride. 


CORNELIA (modestly). 
You rob me of my little share of merit; — 
I also knew it; but no one besides. 


PRINCE. 
And was the law unknown to you, that each 
Who breaks the prison of seditious persons 
Is subject to the penalty of death? 


CAPTAIN. 
They knew it well. 


PRINCE, 
Then give the law its course ; 
The wife, at least 


CORNELIA. 
Do not forget the daughter. 


MAURICE. 
They both have falsely testified, —’t was I, 
I only did it. 

PRINCE (astonished), 
Who are you? 

MAURICE, 

My name 
Is Maurice Helderbusch : I am a lieutenant 
Now stationed in this garrison. An orphan boy, 
Grotius first noticed me, and taught me much: 
This lady has been quite a mother to me. 
Under your Highness I have served with honor ; 
But when the fortunes of my foster-father, 
My benefactor, reached me, and I heard 
That he was here in close confinement kept, 
And his dear life in danger, I endeavoured 
To get the humbler place I occupy, 
Wishing to free him, and I have succeeded 
I only am the criminal to punish. 


MARIA, 


Fie, Maurice! Do n’t believe him,—he has lied. 


4] 


CORNELIA, 
He often has refused to me his help, 
Because he held it contrary to duty. 


MAURICE (pointing to Maria). 
This woman loves me as were I her son. 
[ Pointing to Cornelia. 
This girl has been betrothed to me as bride. 
They sacrifice themselves to rescue me. 


MARIA (deeply moved). 
Maurice, what are you doing ? 


CORNELIA, 
Prince, — by Heaven! 
He is not speaking truth. 


PRINCE. 
How, how is this? 
Who disentangles for me the enigma? 


CAPTAIN. 
I stand astonished, Prince, as you must do: 
Nor can I clearly fathom the strange contest. 
One thing I know, that Maurice Helderbusch 
Was always a brave soldier, and a man 

Of nicest honor, to whom, but last night, 
When duty took me ’cross the Maas to Gorcum, 
I handed over the command in trust. 


CORNELIA. . 
And did he not that very night prevent 
My father’s flying, by his vigilance ? 
MARIA. 
He did so. 
CAPTAIN. 
All the garrison knows that. 


MAURICE. 

I did it the more certainly to favor 

The riper purpose of this morning’s flight. 

Ask you for proofs? These have been telling 
ou 

Tisha one knows the way he left his prison. 

I know it,—I. ’T was in a chest for books 

That he was carried out. I stood beside it ; 

And called, myself, the men who took it hence. 

The sergeant, as his duty ordered him, 

Wanted to break it open. I forbade ; 

Took on myself the whole responsibility. 

Can you deny it? 


MARIA. 
Maurice, were you not 
Deceived, like him? 


MAURICE, 
O, no! I knew the whole. 
Would you have further proofs? 

Hugo, 

The same who lately broke away from prison, 
And for whose capture the States General 
Offered rewards (for that I also knew), 
Came here most rashly, and was in my power: 
I let him go, —ask all the garrison, — 
I am the guilty person. 


The son of 


PRINCE, 
Give your sword 


To the commanding officer. To-da 
By martial law the case shall be decided. 

[To the Captain. 
Till then, remain he in the very cell 
Whose doors he says he opened for this Grotius. 
Transfer these women to the castle, — there 
They ‘ll have a better lodging : but remain 
For their safe custody responsible, 
Until the trial shall allot the guilt. 
If they are criminals, let them join the fled one: 
My heart ’s a stranger to ignoble vengeance. 


CAPTAIN. 


You must be parted. Follow, noble lady. 


MARIA (painfully). 
Maurice ! 
MAURICE (in a petitioning tone). 
Now am I not again your son? 


MARIA, 
Is this your way of punishing the mother 
Who once mistook her child? —you give him 
back, 
Only to tear him the more hardly from me. 


CORNELIA. 
Beloved, — not this dreadful sacrifice ! 


CAPTAIN. 
I can allow no further conversation. 


MARIA. 
I follow. Maurice, thou hast been obedient : 
Honor thy mother’s will. 


CORNELIA. 
Thy loved one’s prayer. 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF GUSTAVUS WASA. 
THE ARREST AND ESCAPE. 
[ Scene. —Saloon in the Castle of Calmar. ] 
BRAHE. 
Tuov messenger of Heaven! Have I my senses? 
Tell me a hundred times, how does he look ? 
Whence comes he? What’s he after? 
GREGERSON, 

He himself 
Will tell you that: he follows me forthwith. 


BRAHE, 
Now I shall have a brother once again ! 
My heart will beat against a kindred heart ; 
The memory of better days return; 
And my dried eyes in milder sorrow gleam. 
Where is he? O, my throbbing breast can hardly 
Bear this impatience, now he is so near me! 


GREGERSON, 
I hope that here he’s safe ? 


BRAHE, 
That ’s a strange question ! 
Whose life is safe an hour on Sweden’s goil ? 
Tread where you will, the earth beneath you 
quakes, 
And hollow ashes hide a glowing lava: 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Through smoke and flame, athwart the yawning 
chasms, 
One path alone is safe, —the path of meanness. 


GREGERSON, 
Too crooked for my master. Let me know, 
How is the garrison disposed, — the burghers 
How? 
BRAHE, 

Who can fathom, in these times, men’s minds? 
When every one who catches himself sighing 
Looks round for fear he was not quite alone; 
Where brother trusts not brother; where the 

windows 
Are shut, that not a neighbour may suspect 
You grieve for slaughtered kinsfolk ; where the 

mourner 
In gay attire struts loyally to church, 
Joins the Te Deum in his shrillest key, 
Lest spies report: ‘‘ He sang not loud enough.” 


GREGERSON, 
If so, alas! 
BRAHE. 
Yes, that is here the watchword. 
Our country now is still and desolate 
As a Carthusian cloister,—those who dwell 
there 
Walk silent over graves, and, when they meet, 
Whisper with hollow voice: Memento mori ! 


GREGERSON. 
God! what a picture! 


Yet there ’s light about it, — 

The lightning’s lurid light: for he, that tore 

Hence every comfort dear to better men, 

At least has robbed us of the fear of death. 

Though every day brings news of fresh-spilt 
blood, — 

We hear it without shuddering, and lie down 

Full of the thought, “Shall I outlive to-morrow?” 

But this no longer troubles our repose. 

As when a wild storm, rushing from the moun- 
tains, 

Tears trees and houses down, it also shakes 

The prison into ruin ; and the captive 

Breathes suddenly once more the air of heaven. 


[German officers enter. 


FIRST OFFICER, 
A daring stranger is arrived. 


BRAHE, 
Where? where? 
GREGERSON (goes), 
’T is he! I hasten. 


SECOND OFFICER, 
Who proclaims himself 
To be Gustavus Wasa. 


BRAHE, 


He ’s my brother. 


FIRST OFFICER. 
So much the worse. 


Is he ? 


BRAHE, 
O, lead me to him! 


SECOND OFFICER. 


He ’s standing in the market: round him throng 

The burghers, and by torch-light he harangues 
them, 

And counsels insurrection. 


FIRST OFFICER. 
I was passing, 
And saw and heard him. He is very bold: 
His eyeballs glow ; his lips spit fire; he curses 
The very king. 
BRAHE. 
How do the people take it ? 


FIRST OFFICER. 
They are quite silent. 


SECOND OFFICER. 
Sometimes by his prayers, 
Sometimes with threats, he calls on them for 
vengeance, 
And cries: ‘¢To arms!” 
BRAHE, 
Well, — but the citizens? 


SECOND OFFICER. 
They listen silently, — yet a faint murmur, 
Like subterraneous thunder, runs along them. 


FIRST OFFICER, 
It cannot pass unnoticed. Satellites 
Are gathering round him slowly. 


BRAHE, 
For what purpose ? 
FIRST OFFICER. 
Do you suppose we mean to let him go? 


SECOND OFFICER. 
A heavy price is set upon his head. 


BRAHE. 
Which you would earn? 


SECOND OFFICER. 
I ?— every one of us. 


BRAHE, 
Are you not Germans ? 


FIRST OFFICER. 
Certainly. 


BRAHE. 
And could you 

Dishonorably murder the last offspring 
Of such a noble stem ? 


SECOND OFFICER. 
Murder ? —that Christiern, 
Indeed, might choose. We only do our duty. 


BRAHE. 
Where is your captain? 


FIRST OFFICER. 
He is coming, lady. 

[Melen enters. 
BRAHE (goes towards him). 


Ate re rete 8 


KOTZEBUE. 


v: MEDAL 


MELEN. | 
I know a restless youth has undertaken 
A mad exploit. | 
BRAHE, ! 
Hoping to meet with men, 


And not with slaves. 


MELEN, 
His rashness is too likely 
To cost his life. 


BRAHE, 


How? You, too? 


MELEN, 


Noble lady, 

What can.I do? 

Were standing open. 
burghers, 

Who thronged in a respectful silence round him, 

He might have found the timely means of flight ; 

But he, as if indignant at their stillness, 

Has turned his back upon them, and is coming 

Here rashly to the castle. 


The gates of Calmar still 
Through the crowd of 


I a a I EME 


BRAHE, 


May he not 
Salute his sister ? 


FIRST OFFICER. 
He surrenders, then, 
Into our hands. 
BRAHE, 

Melen, can that be true ? 

{Melen shrugs his shoulders, 
And you would lead the hero, like a victim, 
Up to the royal butcher’s slaughter-block ? 


MELEN. 
Why must he come just hither? 


BRAHE (low). 
And will you 
Become the murderer of Brahe’s brother ? 


MELEN, 
How can I save him? 


BRAHE. 
Yet you still presume 
To fable love to me! 


MELEN. 
God! can I save him ? 


BRAHE, 
Know, Melen, on his life my own depends. 
Do what you will and may. I perish with him. 


Se a 


cusTaAvus (still behind the scene). 
O sister, sister ! 


BRAHE (going toward him). 
Brother ! 


GusTAvus (embracing her). 


Now I feel 

A heart like mine beat on my happy breast !— 
’'T is well I am with men of Germany, 

Who will not lend their hero-arms to tyrants, 
To rivet yokes upon an orphan people. 


Bernard of Melen, do you know already Yes, —at your head I shall withdraw, and feel | 


ae . a 


y 
ie 


324 GERMAN POETRY. | 


That to brave Germans it has been reserved 
To break the heavy fetters of the Swedes, 
And on the borders of the Baltic build 

A lasting monument to German virtue. 


FIRST OFFICER. 
You are mistaken, Knight. We serve the king. 


SECOND OFFICER, 
For his protection we were sent on duty. 


ALL THE OFFICERS. 
Yes, so it truly is. 
BRAHE. 
Alas, my brother ! 
GUSTAVUS, 

Men I behold, indeed, like soldiers clad ; 
But what I hear is not the warriors’ language. 
That frightened citizens stood still around me, 
And ‘shrugged their shoulders at my loud com- 

plaints, 
Might be,—but men and Germans, under 

arms 


FIRST OFFICER, 
We ’re weary of the war. 


SECOND OFFICER. 
The Admiral Norby 
Lies with his shipping off the coast hard by. 


FIRST OFFICER, 
What signify to us the acts of Sweden ? 
Why should our blood be spilt about the Swedes? 
The kingdom has submitted to the victor, 
Rightly or wrongly ; who commissions us 
To be the judges? In a word, we swim 
But with the stream 


GUSTAVUS. 
And you all think so? 


ALL, 


All, * 


GUSTAVUS. 
Then, sister, follow me! Let us retire 
Into ihe mountains, where on humble fare 
Survives as yet some Swedish truth and cour- 
age ; 
Wihare neither cowardice nor profligacy 
Have yet unnerved the arm; and no one asks, 
On hearing deeds of blood, “* What ’s that to 
ue 2? 
Come, sister. 
FIRST OFFICER. 
Hold, young man! you must not go. 
You are our prisoner. 
GUSTAVUS. 
Who? I? 


SECOND OFFICER. 


No doubt. 


GUSTAVUS, 
Trusting your honor, hospitality ? 


FIRST OFFICER. 
You are in ban. 


GUSTAVUS. 
Wherein consists my crime? 


SECOND OFFICER. 
The legate has denounced you as an outlaw. 


GUSTAVUS. 
Do n’t make me laugh! Let me retire in quiet: 
And when you hear of what I shall accomplish, 
Then gnash your teeth that it was done without 
you. f 
FIRST OFFICER. 


Why such proud words? Your sword. 


GUSTAVUS (draws his sword). 
My sword? Who ventures 
To take it from me? 


BRAHE, 
Melen, can you calmly 
Look on all this? 


MELEN, 
My brethren, what have we 
To do with these affairs? You ’re very right. 
We will stand neuter ’twixt the combatants. 
Gustavus Wasa may remain our guest, 
Here in the castle, and an honored guest, 
Who full of eoufiencd has fled to us. 
Misfortune should be honored in a foe. 
At pleasure he ’l] withdraw. 


FIRST OFFICER. 
No, Captain, no. 
We know what motives you; but give me leave 
To say the prize is precious. 


MELEN. 
And would not 


My share be greatest? Yours I will make up. 


SECOND OFFICER. 
With what? 

BRAHE (hastily). 
O, with my jewels ! 

SECOND OFFICER. 
Noble lady, 


You and your jewels are in custody. 


GUSTAVUS, 
Do I stand among Jews? 


FIRST OFFICER, 
Dare you still growl ? 


SECOND OFFICER. 
Knight, give no further useless opposition. 
You must surrender. Lay your weapon down. 


GUSTAVUS (swinging his sword), 
He who has blood to spare may come and 
fetch it. 
FIRST OFFICER. 
Now, brethren, shall a single man defy us? 
[All but Melen draw their swords, 


BRAHE (throws herself between them). 
For God’s sake, yet a word, a single word ! 
He can ’t escape you. Leave me but a moment 
With him alone. The sister’s love shall take, 
Bloodless, his sword away,—he well may hope 
For your king’s A ER ’t were in vain to stake 


LS. SN RAI 


Against you all his solitary life. 
Grant me this one last prayer, but to pass 
Two minutes with him here apart. 


FIRST OFFICER. 


So be it: 
Out of respect to you, most noble lady. 


SECOND OFFICER. 
But from the door we shall not stir at all. 


FIRST OFFICER. 
Make a short parley of it. Brethren, come. 
[All retire but Melen. 
BRAHE, 
Melen, you love me: but till now in vain 
Have tried to draw aside the widow’s weeds. 
Do you still love me? 


MELEN. 
Like my very soul. 


But what can I do here ? 
BRAHE, 
Behold the youth, 
Who soon may be your brother! Quick, decide. 
The tyrant’s instrument I marry not. 


MELEN. 
Think not I need persuasion. I am vexed 
You use the bribe of love, where honor speaks 
Aloud. But what can I against a crowd, 
Who bow to me as captain, you well know, 
While I advance the pay; but who, by Heaven! 
Will not let slip this opportunity 


Of earning costly ransom for their prisoner. 


BRAHE, 
The key into the subterraneous passage. 


MELEN (startled). 
How? 
BRAHE. 
Do you hesitate? Do you dissemble ? 
MELEN. 
No: but of what use can that passage be ? 


It leads unto the outer ditch, where mire 
Would check the passenger until too late. 


BRAHE, 
And why too late? 


MELEN. 
You see these greedy people 
Are counting minutes; they will soon pursue, 
And their shots reach our hero in the fosse. 


BRAHE, 
Is not the powder in that passage stowed ? 


MELEN, 


Yes. 


BRAHE, 
That ’s enough, —the key. 
MELEN, 
You still persist ? 
BRAHE. 
O, as you love me, give it, while there ’s time! 


MELEN. 
Well, I will stake my life to do you service, 


KOTZEBUE. 


325 


And save, if possible, the Swedish hero. 
Nor will I therefore claim the meed of love 
For doing as in honor I feel bound. 

There is the key. God guide you! 


GUSTAVUS, 
Now, my sister, 
What are you planning ? 


BRAHE (has opened the passage-door: casks of powder are 
seen in dark perspective: also a pile of torches). 
In, take the light, and bolt the door behind you. 
Off quickly ! 
GUSTAVUS. 
There are here no inside bolts. 


< BRAHE, 
Then trust in me. I stay behind on guard. 
Our father’s spirit guide thee ! 


GUSTAVUS (disappears). 
My good sister! 
BRAHE. 

Away, away! I hear the soldiers coming. 
What next is best? Shall I lock up the door, 
And fling into the ditch the key? Their anger, 
Or their revenge, I bid defiance to! 
Should they break ope the door, and so pursue, | 
Ere he ’s in safety,—and their bullets reach 

him 

[Perceiving the pile of torches, she pushes off the head 

of a powder-cask, and proceeds to light the torch. 
Better the door stand open.— Courage, now ! 
A brother’s life ’s at stake, — perhaps a country’s. 


{She places herself at the entrance with the torch in 
her hand. The officers enter, and look round with 
surprise and mistrust. 


FIRST OFFICER, 
Your time is now expired ; but where is he? 


BRAHE, 
Whom are you seeking here ?— perhaps my 
brother. 


SECOND OFFICER, i 
Hell and the Devil! What has been the matter? 
The subterraneous passage-door is open. 


FIRST OFFICER, 
There ’s treachery. 
; SECOND OFFICER, 
Let ’s follow him at once. 


BRAHE, 
Stand back, or in that powder-cask I ’1l plunge 
This burning torch. 


THE OFFICERS (stand petrified). 
The woman ’s crazy, surely. 


BRAHE, 
Look in. Yon cask is open. If but one 
Of you presume by force to enter here, . 


The die is cast, the fortress is blown up, — 


By God, and by my father’s blood, it is! 


THE OFFICERS (in consultation). 
The woman ’s crazy. We must take our horses, 
And after him. 


BRAHE. 


Thank God, he ’s safely hence! 


BB 


ees 


RRs er 


ae E 
1 - Sfaieo ae 


Bee FE 


\ 


JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS. 

Tue poet Salis was born Dec. 26th, 1762, at 
Seewis. He received his first instruction in his 
father’s house ; then lived with Pfeffel in Col- 
mar. He was afterwards captain of the Swiss 
guard at Versailles. In 1789, he became ac- 
quainted with Goethe, Wieland, Herder, and 
Schiller, while on a journey. At the beginning 
of the Revolution, he served under General 
Montesquiou in Savoy; afterwards, lived pri- 
vately at Paris, occupied with his studies. In 
1793, he returned to his country and married at 
Malans. He was obliged to leave Malans, on ac- 
count of political difficulties, and went to Ziirich, 
where he held several offices. In 1803, he re- 
turned to his family estate, where he remained 
until 1817; afterwards, to Malans, where he 
died in 1834. 

In genius he resembled Matthisson. He 
wrote only lyric poems. His works were pub- 
lished in 1790; again in 1823; and lastly, at 
Ziirich, 1839. His poems are characterized by 
a soft melancholy, and deep feeling. He pre- 
served, in all the scenes through which he pass- 
ed, at the court of France, at the Residence, 
where he spent his youth, and in the tumults 
of war, the simplicity of his tastes, and the puri- 
ty of his character. 


CHEERFULNESS. 


Serr how the day beameth brightly before us! 
Blue is the firmament, green is the earth ; 
Grief hath no voice in the Universe chorus, 
Nature is ringing with music and mirth. 
Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness ; 
Gaze! and if beauty can rapture thy soul, 
Virtue herself shall allure thee to gladness, — 
Gladness ! philosophy’s guerdon and goal. 


Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses ; 
List ! how she trills in the nightingale’s lay! 
Breathe! she is wafting the sweets from the 
roses ; 
Feel! she is cool in the rivulet’s play ; 
Taste! from the grape and the nectarine gush- 
ng, 
Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun; 
Green in the hills, the flower-groves blushing, 
Look! she is always and everywhere one. 


Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trick- 
lin 
Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom; 
Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling, 
Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb? 
Still may we battle for good and for beauty ; 
Still have philanthropy much to essay : 
Glory rewards the fulfilment of duty ; 
Rest will’ pavilion the end of our way. 


What though corroding and multiplied sorrows, 
Legion-like, darken this planet of ours ? 

Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows, 

Even when anguish hath palsied its powers ; 


326° GERMAN POETRY. 


Wherefore, though fate play the part of a traitor, 
Soar o’er the stars on the pinions of hope, — 
Fearlessly certain, that, sooner or later, 
Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. 


Look reund about on the face of creation! 
Still is God’s earth undistorted and bright; 

Comfort the captive’s too long tribulation, 
Thus shalt thou reap thy perfect delight. 

Love ! — but if love be a hollow emotion, 
Purity only its rapture should share ; 

Love, then, with willing and deathless devotion, 
All that is just, and exalted, and fair. 


Act! — for in action are wisdom and glory; 
Fame, immortality, these are its crown ; 

Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of story, 
Build on achievements thy doom of renown. 

Honor and feeling were given to cherish ; 
Cherish them, then, though all else should 

decay ; 

Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 

Stars that will shine on the duskiest day. 


Courage ! disaster and peril, once over, 
Freshen the spirits as flowers the grove ; 
O’er the dim graves that the cypresses cover, 
Soon the forget-me-not rises in love. 
Courage, then, friends! though the universe 
crumble, 
Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
Patient and trustful, and joyous and humble, 
Smiles through ruin on darkness and death! || 


SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 


Into the Silent Land ! 
Ah! who shall lead us thither ? 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O, thither, 
Into the Silent Land ? 


Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions 
Of heauteous souls! The Future’s pledge 
and band ! 
Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand 

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land! 


O Land! O Land! 
For all the broken-hearted. 
The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
Into the land of the great departed, 
Into the Silent Land! 


HARVEST SONG, 
Autumn winds are sighing, 
Summer glories dying, 
Harvest-time is nigh. 


Cooler breezes, quivering, 
Through the pine-groves shivering, 
Sweep the troubled sky. 


See the fields, how yellow! 

Clusters, bright and mellow, 
Gleam on every hill; 

Nectar fills the fountains, 

Crowns the sunny mountains, 
Runs in every rill. 


Now the lads are springing, 
Maidens blithe are singing, 
Swells the harvest strain : 
Every field rejoices ; 
Thousand thankful voices 
Mingle on the plain. 


Then, when day declineth, 
And the mild moon shineth, 
Tabors sweetly sound ; 
And, while they are sounding, 
Fairy feet are bounding 
O’er the moonlit ground. 


THE GRAVE. 


Tue grave all still and darkling lies, 
Beneath its hallowed ground; 

And dark the mists to human eyes, 
That float its precincts round. 


No music of the grove invades 
That dark and dreary way ; 
And fast the votive floweret fades 

Upon its heaving clay. 


And vain the tear in beauty’s eye, — 
The orphan’s groan is vain: 

No sound of clamorous agony 
Shall pierce its gloomy reign. 


Yet that oblivion of the tomb 
Shall suffering man desire, 

And through that shadowy gate of gloom 
The weary wretch retire. 


The bark, by ceaseless storms oppressed, 
Runs madly to the shore ; 

And thus the grief-worn heart’shall rest 
There where it beats no more. 


oa 


VALERIUS WILHELM NEUBECK. 


Turs poet was born Jan. 29th, 1765, at Arn- 
stadt, in the principality of Schwarzburg-Son- 
dershausen. He studied at the school of his na- 
tive place, and at the Knights’ Academy at Lieg- 
nitz, in Silesia; afterwards at the Universities 
of Gottingen and Jena, from the latter of which 
he received his-medical degree in 1788. He 
remained, as practising physician, some time at 
Liegnitz; but was afterwards called to Steinau, 
in Lower Silesia, where he was honored with 


SALIS.—NEUBECK. 


a 


the title of Court Councillor. He acquired his 
reputation as a didactic poet by a poem upon 
the *“* Mineral Springs,’’ an extract from which 
is given below. This was followed by a poem 
on the *“‘ Destruction of the Earth after the Final 
Judgment,” Liegnitz, 1785. He wrote, also, 
lyrical pieces, and a drama. A collection of his 
works appeared at Leipsic, in 1827. 


THE PRAISE OF IRON. 


Now strike, my lyre, thy strongest, fullest tones! 

Now sing the praise of Iron! ’Mongst the bards, 

So potent in Thuiskon’s sacred land, 

None sang the fruits of the Teutonic hills ; 

No festal lay was heard to Iron’s praise 

Beneath the sacred oaks, which stretch their roots 

Down to the silent caves, where Nature bids 

Her seeds to germ and ripe in gentle growth. 

Hail, noble present of our native heights! 

Despised by many, who, with foolish sense, 

Gold’s treacherous splendor more revere, and 
covet 

More than thee, Iron, and thy modest sheen ! — 

Ye sons of Herrmann! undervalue not, 

Scorn not, this treasure of your native moun- 
tains ! 

Hear me! Ising the worth of native wealth ! — 

Say, — whence doth War derive his glittering 
arms? 

’T is Iron, hardened in the tempering fire 

To steel, and fashioned on the anvil-head, 

Then sharpened by the artist’s busy hand, 

That arms the hero, — Iron guards his breast: 

Hail, noble tribute of our native heights ! 

Accept the incense of my song ! — thou giv’st 

The avenging sword into his hand to wage 

The war of Justice ; thou assistest him 

To conquer for his country in the field. — 

Yet greater is thy praise in peace, and fairer 

Thy blessing! Verily, I love thee more, 

My song more fervently salutes thee, when 

The workman’s hand hath on the anvil shaped 

Thee to the shining arms of Peace, which ne’er 

Inhuman warriors with the innocent blood 

Shall stain of slumbering infants. Evermore 

The softest rural joys expand my heart, 

And from my quivering lips in holy hymns 

Stream out, whene’er I see thee, shining, peep 

From out the clodded furrow; when I hear 

The sweeping scythe upon the flowery mead ; 

Or, ’midst the sinking ears, the grateful sound 

Of the shrill sickle, where the nutbrown maid 

Weaves the blue corn-flowers in the wisp of 
straw, 

To bind the fairest sheaf; when, in the time, 

The merry vintage-time, I hear the knife 

Rubbed on the grating whetstone, to collect 

The gifts of Autumn on the clustered hills. — 

Hail, useful ore! the choir of social Arts 

Join with my numbers, in thy well earned praise. 

Ne’er had Praxiteles the marble formed 

With silver chisel into breathing life ; — 

No palace from the mountain’s rocky ribs, 

Corinthian-built, had risen, without thee, 


GERMAN POETRY. 


So eee eee 


To the astonished clouds ; — without thy help, 

Arachne’s art would never know to trace 

The varied picture on the glossy silk. 

Say, would the horse, if shod with purest gold, 

More safely scour the ice, or climb the moun- 
tain-path ? 

O, how would the bold pilot in the wastes 

Of ocean find a way, when, round about, 

The heavens are hung with dreary, stormy 
clouds, 

Like curtains, shutting out the friendly stars, 

Which else, through labyrinths of treacherous 
sands 

And hurrying whirlpools, by a golden clue 

Would safely lead him, that he founder not ? 

Through the dread night art thou, respondent 
needle, 

To him a faithful oracle, which reads, 

With magic tremblings, in what cloudy range 

Of heaven the Dog-star, where Arcturus, where 

The sevenfold Pleiads, and Orion shine. 


——-G- 


FRIEDRICH LUDWIG ZACHARIAS 
WERNER. 


THis eccentric person was born Nov. 18th, 
1768, at Ko6nigsberg, in Prussia, where his 
father was Professor of History and Eloquence. 
In 1784, he attended the juridical lectures in 
the University, and heard Kant on philosophy. 
In 1798, he entered the Prussian civil service, 
and lived at several places, — among others, 
at Warsaw. He was married three times; his 
first marriage, proving unhappy, was dissolved ; 
his second having the same result, he contract- 
ed a third with a beautiful Polish lady; but the 
irregularities of his life led, a few years after, 
to a separation also from her. In 1801, he 
was recalled to K6nigsberg by the illness of 
his mother, who died in 1804; after which 
he returned to Warsaw. By the favor of the 
minister, Von Schrotter, he received, in 1805, 
a secretariship in Berlin. Soon after, he left 
the civil service, and visited Prague, Vien- 
na, Munich, Frankfort, Gotha, and Weimar, 
where, in 1807, he first became acquainted with 
Goethe. He returned to Berlin in 1808; but 
speedily resuming his travels, visited Switzer- 
land, and at Interlachen made the acquaintance 
of Madame de Staél. In the autumn of 1808, 
he visited Paris, but soon returned to Weimar, 
where he had the promise of a pension, and 
about the same time the duke of Hesse-Darm- 
stadt named him Court Councillor. He again 
visited Madame de Staél, and passed four months 
with her at Coppet. By her assistance, he trav- 
elled in Italy, visiting Turin, Florence, and 
Rome. In this last city, he was converted to 
the Catholic church, in 1811, and began to 
study theology. In 1814, he entered the sem- 
inary at Aschaffenburg, and was soon after con- 
secrated as a priest. At the time of the Congress 
in 1814, he went to Vienna, where his preach- 


ing attracted large audiences. During the years 
1816-17, he lived in Podolia, with the family 
of Count Cholonievski, by whose influence he 
was appointed Honorary Canon of Kamieniek. 
He preached with great zeal and eloquence, 
until a short time before his death, which took 
place Jan. 18th, 1823. 

Werner was a poet of a rich and fertile, 
though eccentric, genius. He was particularly 
distinguished as the author of some of the most 
remarkable of the German Destiny dramas. 
The most striking of his tragedies are “ The 
Sons of the Valley,’ “The Consecration of 
Power,” “Attila, King of the Huns,” and 
“ Wanda, Queen of the Sarmatians.’’ One of his 
most original and singular pieces is the ‘* Twen- 
ty-fourth of February.”’ A collection of his the- 
atrical pieces was: published at Vienna, 1817— 
18; his “Sermons,” twenty-five in number, 
also appeared at Vienna, in 1836. A sketch of 
his life was published by Hitzig, Berlin, 1823. 

On Werner, and the principles of the Destiny 
dramas, Menzel * has some striking remarks. 

“The highest summit of this poetry was 
reached by Werner, who strove to elevate it 
to tragical dignity. 

‘* Werner endeavoured to bring about this 
elevation and improvement by converting the 
magical powers, or mystical societies, upon 
whom the guidance and probation of the unin- 
itiated should be dependent, into God’s dele- 
gates, and brought the whole subject of the 
marvellous under the religious ideas of Provi- 
dence and Predestination. This man possessed 
the fire of poetry, and, still more, of passion, but, 
perhaps, too dry a brain, — for who can deny 
that his brain was a little scorched? Seeking 
salvation from the ames that were consuming 
him within, he threw himself into that ocean 
of Grace, where poor sinners like him common- 
ly put off the old man of earth, that they may 
put on the heavenly. Amidst his deep contri- 
tion, the poet felt, in all its severity, the truth 
of the saying of the pious, ‘ Self-justification is 
a garment of abomination before the Lord.’ 

“« He felt that a man’s own actions and vir- 
tue were vain; that man fulfils the decree of 
destiny, devoid of will and blindly ; that he is 
predestinated to every thing that he does and 
suffers. All his poetical works maintain this 
doctrine. His heroes are guided, by the leading- 
strings of destiny, into the clear realm of ‘ azure 
and light,’ or to the dark abode of ‘night and 
flames.’ A mystical society undertakes the 
guidance on earth; and we cannot fail to per- 
ceive here an analogy to the hierarchical tribu- 
nals. Those sons of the valley, those mystical 
old men, at one time, form a holy Fehme; at 
another, an inquisitorial tribunal, under a most 
venerable and holy man; and this old man of 
the valley and mountain can say, as the grand 
inquisitor of Schiller’s ‘Don Carles’ said of 
the hero of the tragedy, — 


* German Literature, Vol. III., pp. 234-236. 


a a ment 
ase wae Zam Soi Aree 


‘ His life, 

At its beginning and its end, is there 

In Saftta Casa’s holy records writ.’ 
The heroes ate destined from their birth to all 
that they have to do or to suffer. Some of them 
are ‘Sunday children,’ born angels, who, after 
some theatrical farces,— after they have, like 
Tamino, passed through fire and water, — com- 
| fortably enter the heaven destined to them time 
|| out of mind. Destiny plays at hide-and-seek 
with them a little while ; here is the mysteri- 
ous valley, and there the mystical beloved is 
hidden from the elect, and finally the bandage 
is taken from their eyes. The disciple becomes 
an adept, and the lover finds his other half. 
No matter how widely the two people were 
|| separated from each other; destiny brings them 
together, even if ‘the north pole should have 
| to bow to the south.’ 

“ As all freedom is taken away after this fash- 
ion from the heroes, this species of poetry can 
never rise to tragical dignity, however great the 
pains Werner has taken to this end. Still, his 
poems show no deficiency of religious depth, and 
of a certain ardor of devotion, particularly in the 
lyrical passages, which lend them a value off the 
stage. Moreover, he has generally taken only the 
bright side of fatalism ; his only complete night- 
piece was the ‘ Twenty-fourth of February.’ ”’ 

The limits of this volume render it impossible 
to give extracts from other distinguished writers 
of this school, as Mallner, Houwald, and Grill- 
parzer. For notices of their works the reader is 
referred to the series of elaborate and well writ- 
ten articles under the title of “* Hore Germani- 
ce,’ in the earlier volumes of ‘¢ Blackwood’s 
Magazine.” 


—_— 


FROM THE TEMPLARS IN CYPRUS. 
ADALBERT IN THE CHURCH OF THE TEMPLARS. 


[Scene. — Midnight. Interior of the Temple Church. Back- 
wards, a deep perspective of Altars and Gothic Pillars. 
On the right-hand side of the foreground, a little Chapel ; 
and in this an Altar with the figure of St. Sebastian. The 
scene is lighted very dimly by a single Lamp which 
hangs before the Altar.] 


ADALBERT (dressed in white, without mantle or doublet ; 
groping his way in the dark). 

Was it not at the altar of Sebastian 
That I was bid wait for the Unknown? 
Here should it be; but darkness with her veil 
Inwraps the figures. 

[Advancing to the altar. 
Here is the fifth pillar. 
Yes, this is he, the Sainted.—How the glimmer 
Of that faint lamp falls on his fading eye ! — 
Ah, it is not the spears o’ th’ Saracens, — 
It is the pangs of hopeless love, that, burning, 
Transfix thy heart, poor comrade!—-O my 

Agnes, 

May not thy spirit, in this earnest hour, 
Be looking on? Art hovering in that moonbeam, 
Which struggles through the painted window, 


and dies 
42 


WERNER. 


a ; 


329 


Amid the cloister’s gloom? Or linger’st thou 
Behind these pillars, which, ominous and black, 
Look down on me, like horrors of the past 
Upon the present? and hidest thy gentle form, 
Lest with thy paleness thou too much affright 
me ? 
Hide not thyself, pale shadow of my Agnes! 
Thou affrightest not thy lover.— Hush ! 


Hark! Was there not a rustling? — Father! 
You? 
pHinipe (rushing in with wild looks). 
Yes, Adalbert ! — But time is precious ! —Come, 


My son, my one sole Adalbert, come with me ! 


ADALBERT. 
What would you, father, in this solemn hour? 


PHILIP. 


This hour, or never! 
[Leading Adalbert to the altar. 


Hither !— Know’st thou him ? 


ADALBERT, 
'T’ is Saint Sebastian. 


PHILIP. 
Because he would not 
Renounce his faith, a tyrant had him murdered. 
[Points to his head. 
These furrows, too, the rage of tyrants ploughed 
In thy old father’s face. My son, my first-born 
child, 

In this great hour I do conjure thee ! Wilt thou, 
Wilt thou obey me? 


ADALBERT. 
Be it just, I will! 
PHILIP. 
Then swear, in this great hour, in this dread 


presence, 
Here by thy father’s head made early gray, 
By the remembrance of thy mother’s agony, 
And by the ravished blossom of thy Agnes, 
Against the tyranny which sacrificed us, 
Inexpiable, bloody, everlasting hate ! 


ADALBERT. 
Ha! This the All-avenger spoke through thee! 
Yes! Bloody shall my Agnes’ death-torch burn 
In Philip’s heart ; I swear it! 


PHILIP (with increasing vehemence). 
And if thou break 
This oath, and if thou reconcile thee to him, 
Or let his golden chains, his gifts, his prayers, 
His dying moan itself, avert thy dagger, 
When the hour of vengeance comes, — shall 

this gray head, 

Thy mother’s wail, the last sigh of thy Agnes, 
Accuse thee at the bar of the Eternal ? 


ADALBERT. 
So be it, if] break my oath ! 
PHILIP. 
Then man thee ! — 
[Looking up, then shrinking together, as with dazzled eyes, 
Ha! was not that his lightning? — Fare thee 


well! 
BB2 


ee ae 


J hear the footstep of the Dreaded !— Firm ! — 
Remember me,—remember this stern midnight ! 
[Retires hastily, 

ADALBERT (alone). 


Yes, Grayhead, whom the beckoning of the 
Lord 


Sent hither to awake me out of craven sleep, 
I will remember thee and this stern midnight, 
And my Agnes’ spirit shall have vengeance ! 


[Enter an Armed Man. He is mailed from head to foot 
in black harness; his visor is closed. 


ARMED MAN. 
Pray ! 
. [Adalbert kneels. 
Bare thyself! 
[He strips him to the girdle, and raises him. 
Look on the ground, and follow ! 


[He leads him into the background to a trap-door on 
the right. He descends first himself; and when 
Adalbert has followed him, it closes. 


ADALBERT IN THE CEMETERY. 


[Scene.— Cemetery of the Templars, under the Church, 
The scene is lighted only by a Lamp which hangs down 
from the vault. Around are Tombstones of deceased 
Knights, marked with Crosses and sculptured Bones. In 
the background, two colossal Skeletons, holding between 
them a large white Book, marked with a red Cross. From 
the under end of the Book hangs a long black Curtain. 
The Book, of which only the cover is visible, has an in- 
scription in black ciphers. The Skeleton on the right 
holds in its right hand a naked drawn Sword; that on the 
‘left holds in its left hand a Palm turned downwards. On 
the right side of the foreground stands a black Coffin 
open; on the left, a similar one with the body of a Tem- 
plar in full dress of his order; on both Coffins are inscrip- 
tions in white ciphers. On each side, nearer the back- 
ground, are seen the lowest steps of the stairs which lead 
up into the Temple Church above the vault. ] 


ARMED MAN (not yet visible; above on the right-hand 
stairs). 


Dreaded ! is the grave laid open? 


CONCEALED VOICES. 


Yea! 


ARMED MAN (who after a pause shows himself on the stairs). 
Shall he behold the tombs o’ th’ fathers ? 
CONCEALED VOICES, 
Yea! 
[Armed Man with drawn sword leads Adalbert carefully 
down the steps on the right hand. 


ARMED MAN (to Adalbert). 
"T is on thy life! 


[Leads him to the open coffin. 


Look down ! 


What seest.thou ? 


ADALBERT, 
An: open, empty coffin. 
ARMED MAN. 
’"T is the house 
Where thou one day shalt dwell. 
the inscription ? 


Canst read 


ADALBERT. 


No. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


ARMED MAN. 
Hear it, then: —‘ Thy wages, Sin, is death!” 
{Leads him to the opposite coffin, where the body is lying. 
Look down! ’T is on thy life !— What seest 
thou ? 


: 


[Shows the coffin. 
ADALBERT. 


A coffin with a corpse. 


ARMED MAN, 
He is thy brother ; 
One day thou art as he. —~Canst read the in- 
scription ? 
ADALBERT, 
No. 
ARMED MAN, 
Hear : — “ Corruption is the name of life.” 
Now look around; go forward, — move, and 
act ! 
[He pushes him toward the background of the stage. 


ADALBERT (observing the book). 
Here the Book of Ordination ?-— Seems 
[Approaching. 
As if the inscription on it might be read. 
[He reads it. 
“Knock four times on the ground, 
Thou shalt behold thy loved one.” 
O Heavens! And may I see thee, sainted Ag- 
nes? 


Ha! 


[Hastening close to the book, 
My bosom yearns for thee ! — 


[With the following words, he stamps four times on 
the ground, 


One, — Two, — Three, — Four ! — 


(The Curtain hanging from the Book rolls rapidly up, 
and covers it. A colossal Devil’s-head appears be- 
tween the two Skeletons; its form is horrible; it is 
gilt; has a huge golden Crown, a Heart of the same 
in its brow; rolling, flaming eyes; Serpents instead 
of hair; golden Chains round its neck, which is vis- 
ible to the breast ; anda golden Cross, yet not a Cru- 
cifix, which rises over its right shoulder, as if crush- 
ing it down. The whole Bust rests on four gilt 
Dragon’s-feet. At sight of it, Adalbert starts back 
in horror, and exclaims : — 


Defend us! 


ARMED MAN. 
Dreaded! may he hear it? 


CONCEALED VOICES. 


Yea ! 


ARMED MAN (touches the Curtain with his sword; it rolls 
down over the Devil’s-head, concealing it again; and 
above, as before, appears the Book, but now opened, 
with white colossal leaves and red characters. ‘The 
Armed Man, pointing constantly to the Book with his 
sword, and therewith turning the leaves, addresses Adal- 
bert, who stands on the other side of the Book, and near- 
er the foreground), 


List to the Story of the Fallen Master. 


[He reads the following from the Book; yet not stand- 
ing before it, but on one side, at some paces’ distance, 
and, whilst he reads, turning the leaves with his sword, 


‘So now, when the foundation-stone was laid, 
The Lord called forth the Master, Baffometus, 


$ 


And said to him: ‘Go and complete my tem- 
ple!’ 

But in his heart the Master thought: * What 
boots it 

Building thee a temple?’ and took the stones, 

And built himself a dwelling ; and what stones 

Were left he gave for filthy gold and silver. 

Now after forty moons the Lord returned, 

And spake: ‘ Where is my temple, Baffometus ?’ 

The Master said: ‘I had to build myself 

A dwelling: grant me other forty weeks.’ 

And after forty weeks, the Lord returns, 

And asks: ‘Where is my temple, Baffometus ?’ 

He said: ‘There were no stones’ (but he had 
sold them 

For filthy gold); ‘so wait yet forty days.’ 

In forty days thereafter came the Lord, 

And cried : ‘ Where is my temple, Baffometus?’ 

Then like a millstone fell it on his soul, 

How he for lucre had betrayed his Lord ; 

But yet to other sin the Fiend did tempt him, 

And he answered, saying: ‘Give me forty 
hours!’ 

And when the forty hours were gone, the Lord 

Came down in wrath: ‘ My temple, Baffometus ?’ 

Then fell he, quaking, on his face, and cried 

For mercy; but the Lord was wroth, and said: 

‘Since thou hast cozened me with empty lies, 

And those the stones I lent thee for my temple 

Hast sold them for a purse of filthy gold, 

Lo! I will cast thee forth, and with the Mam- 
mon 

Will chastise thee, until a Saviour rise 

Of thy own seed, who shall redeem thy trespass.’ 

Then did the Lord lift up the purse of gold ; 

And shook the gold into a melting-pot, 

And set the melting-pot upon the sun, 

So that the metal fused into a fluid mass. 

And then he dipped a finger in the same, 

And, straightway, touching Baffometus, 

Anoints him on the chin and brow and cheeks. 

Then was the face of Baffometus changed : 

His eyeballs rolled like fire-flames ; 

His nose became a crooked vulture’s-bill ; 

The tongue hung bloody from his throat; the 
flesh 

Went from his hollow cheeks; and of his hair 

Grew snakes, and of the snakes grew Devil’s- 
horns. 

Again the Lord put forth his finger with the 
gold, 

And pressed it upon Baffometus’ heart ; 

Whereby the heart did bleed and wither up, 

And all his members bled and withered up, 

And fell away, the one and then the other. 

At last his back itself sunk into ashes : 

The head alone continued gilt and living ; 

And instead of back, grew dragon’s-talons, 

Which destroyed all life from off the earth. 

Then from the ground the Lord took up the 
heart, 

Which, as he touched it, also grew of gold, 

And placed it on the brow of Baffometus ; 

And of the other metal in the pot 

He made for him a burning crown of gold, 


WERNER. 


331 


And crushed it on his serpent-hair, so that 
K’en to the bone and brain the circlet scorched 
him; 
And round the neck he twisted golden chains, 
Which strangled him and pressed his breath to- 
gether. 
What in the pot remained he poured upon the 
ground, 
Athwart, along, and there it formed a cross ; 
The which he lifted and laid upon his neck, 
And bent him that he could not raise his head. 
Two Deaths, moreover, he appointed warders 
To guard him: Death of Life, and Death of 
Hope. 
The sword of the first he sees not, but it smites 
him ; 
The other’s palm he sees, but it escapes him. 
So languishes the outcast Baffometus 
Four thousand years and four-and-forty moons, 
Till once a Saviour rise from his own seed, 
Redeem his trespass, and deliver him.”’ 
‘{To Adalbert. 
This is the Story of the Fallen Master. 
[With his sword he touches the Curtain, which now as 


before rolls up over the book; so that the head under 
it again becomes visible, in its former shape. 


ADALBERT (looking at the head). 
Ha! what a hideous shape ! 


HEAD (with a hollow voice). 
Deliver me! 
ARMED MAN, 
Dreaded ! shall the work begin ? 


CONCEALED VOICES, 


Yea! 
ARMED MAN (to Adalbert),. 
Take the neckband 
Away ! 
[Pointing to the head. 
ADALBERT, 
I dare not! 
HEAD (with a still more piteous tone). 
O, deliver me! 


ADALBERT (taking off the chains). 
‘Poor fallen one! 


ARMED MAN. 
Now lift the crown from ’s head ! 


ADALBERT, 
It seems so heavy ! 


ARMED MAN. 
Touch it, it grows light. 


[Adalbert takes off the crown, and casts it,as he did 
the chains, on the ground. 


Now take the golden heart from off his brow ! 


ADALBERT. 
It seems to burn! 


. 


ARMED MAN. 
Thou errest : ice is warmer. 


ADALBERT (taking the heart from the brow). 
Ha! shivering frost ! 
s 


* “*« ’ a ee 
ee ee ee ee 


ARMED MAN, 
Take from his back the cross, 
And throw it from thee ! 


ADALBERT. 
How? The Saviour’s token ? 


>, HEAD. 
Deliver, O, deliver me! 
ARMED MAN. 
This cross 
Is not thy Master’s, not that bloody one: 
Its counterfeit is this: throw ’t from thee ! 


ADALBERT (taking it from the bust, and laying it softly on 
the ground). 


The cross of the Good Lord that died for me? 


ARMED MAN. 
Thou shalt no more believe in one that died ; 
Thou shalt henceforth believe in one that liveth 
And never dies ! —- Obey, and question not, — 
Step over it ! 


ADALBERT, 
Take pity on me ! 


ARMED MAN (threatening him with his sword). 
Step! 
ADALBERT. 
I do ’t with shuddering ! 


[Steps over, and then looks up to the head, which 
raises itself as freed from a load. 


How the figure rises, 
And looks in gladness ! 


ARMED MAN. 
Him whom thou hast served 
Till now, deny ! 


ADALBERT (horror-struck). 


Deny the Lord, my God? 


ARMED MAN. 
Thy God ’t is not: the idol of this world ! — 
Deny him, or — 

[Pressing on him with the sword in a threatening posture. 
Thou diest ! 
ADALBERT. 
I deny ! 
ARMED MAN (pointing to the head with his sword). 


Go to the Fallen ! — Kiss his lips ! 


ow We, 


ERNST MORITZ ARNDT. 


Tus patriotic writer was born December 
26th, 1769, at Schoritz, in Rigen. Towards 
the end of the last century, he distinguished 
himself as a traveller, and by his published 
observations on Sweden, Italy, France, Ger- 
many, Hungary, &c. In 1806, he was ap- 
pointed Professor Extraordinary of Philosophy 
at Greifswald. He was a vehement lover of 
liberty, and, though at first a favorer of Napo- 
leon, became one of his bitterest opponents, as 
soon as he comprehended his designs of conquest. 


GERMAN POETRY. 
a aT SEC nc eecreemncrammemeamr memmaameeeareenneeareeeereeeerg ere RT ee eee alee Se ee eee 


A work published by him, called The Spirit of 
the Age,’”’ which went rapidly through several 
editions, and excited universal attention by the 
boldness of its attacks on Napoleon, made it 
necessary for him to take refuge in Stockholm, 
whence he was unable to return until 1813. 
His writings, which flowed in rapid succession 
from his indefatigable pen, exercised an im- 
mense influence upon the popular feeling, and 
contributed powerfully to excite and keep alive 
among the Germans that hatred of French 
domination which led to their unparallelled ef- 
forts and sacrifices in the War of Liberation. 
In 1818, he was appointed Professor of History 
in the recently established University of Bonn ; 
but the next year, the inquiry into the ‘ Dem- 
agogical Intrigues,” as they were termed, im- 
plicated him together with some of the other 
professors, and he remained without public 
employment until Frederic William restored 
him to the University, in 1840. 

Arndt is one of the most vigorous, animated, 
and eloquent of the German writers. His prose 
works have had an extraordinary circulation 
and effect. His patriotic and popular poems 
and his war-songs are of distinguished excel- 
lence. They were published at Frankfort, in 


1815 ; again at Leipsic, in 1840. 


THE GERMAN FATHERLAND, 


Wurcu is the German’s fatherland ? 

Is ’t Prussia’s or Swabia’s land ? 

Ist where the Rhine’s rich vintage streams? 

Or where the Northern sea-gull screams ? — 
Ah, no, no, no! 

His fatherland ’s not bounded so! 


Which is the German’s fatherland ? 

Bavaria’s or Styria’s land? 

Is ’t where the Marsian ox unbends ? 

Or where the Marksman iron rends ? — 
Ah, no, no, no! 

His fatherland ’s not bounded so. 


Which is the German’s fatherland ? 

Pomerania’s, or Westphalia’s land ? 

Is it where sweep the Dunian waves? 

Or where the thundering Danube raves ? — 
Ah, no, no, no! 

His fatherland ’s not bounded so! 


Which is the German’s fatherland ? 

O, tell me now the famous land! 

Is ’t Tyrol, or the land of Tell ? 

Such lands and people please me well. — 
Ah, tio, no, no! 

His fatherland ’s not bounded so! 


Which is the German’s fatherland? ° 

Come, tell me now the famous land. 

Doubtless, it is the Austrian state, 

In honors and in triumphs great. — 
Ah, no, no, no! 

His fatherland ’s not bounded so ! 


a 


Which is the German’s fatherland ? 

So tell me now the famous land ! 

Is ’t what the Princes won by sleight 

From the Emperor’s and Empire’s right ? — 
Ah, no, no, no! 

His fatherland ’s not bounded so! 


Which is the German’s fatherland ? 

So tell me now at last the land !— 

As far ’s the German accent rings 

And hymns to God in heaven sings, — 
That is the land, — 

There, brother, is thy fatherland ! 


There is the German’s fatherland, 
Where oaths attest the grasped hand, — 
Where truth beams from the sparkling eyes, 
And in the heart love warmly lies ; — 

That is the land, — 
There, brother, is thy fatherland ! 


That is the German’s fatherland, 

Where wrath pursues the foreign band, — 

Where every Frank is held a foe, 

And Germans all as brothers glow ; — 
That is the land, — 

All Germany ’s thy fatherland ! 


FIELD-MARSHAL BLUCHER. 


Why are the trumpets blowing? Ye hussars, 
away ! 

’'T is the Field-marshal rideth, with flying fray ; 

He rideth so joyous his mettlesome steed, 

He swingeth so keenly his bright-flashing blade! 


His oath he hath redeemed; when the battle- 
cry rang, 

Ha! the old boy! how to saddle he sprang! 

It was he who led off the last dance of the ball ; 

With besom of iron he swept clean the hall! 


At Liitzen, on the mead, there he struck such 
a blow, 

That on end with affright stood the hair of the 
foe ; 

That thousands ran off with hurrying tread ; 

Ten thousand slept soundly the sleep of the 
dead ! 


At Katzbach, by the stream, he there played 
his part ; 

He taught you, O Frenchmen, the swimmer'’s 
good art! ‘ 

Farewell to you, Frenchmen, away to the 
waves ! 

And take, ye sans-culotigs, the whales for your 
graves ! 


At Wartburg, on the Elbe, how before him all 
yielded ! 

Nor fortress nor castle the Frenchmen shielded ; 

Again they must spring like hares o’er the field, 

And the hero’s hurrah after them pealed. 


_ 


ARNDT.—TIECK. | 


At Leipsic, on the mead, — O, honor’s glorious 
freht ! — 

There he shattered the fortunes of France and 
her might ; 

There lie they all safely, since so hardly they 
fell ; 

And there the old Bltcher played the field- 


marshal well. 
4 


LUDWIG TIECK. 


Lupwic TircK, who, since the death of 
Goethe, has occupied the greatest space in 
German literature, was born May 31st, 1773, 
at Berlin. In his nineteenth year he entered 
the University of Halle, whence he went to 
G6ttingen, and at a later period to Erlangen. 
His studies here, and afterwards again at Got- 
tingen, were chiefly. devoted to history and 
ancient and modern poetry. His peculiar ten- 
dencies began to display themselves while he 
was yet at school, where he began the “ Abdal- 
lah,” published in 1795. In 1796, his William 
Lovell’ appeared. These were followed in 
rapid succession by a series of works, in which 
his narrative powers, and the romantic, as dis- 
tinguished from the classical style of composi- 
tion, were strikingly developed. About this 
time, he formed an intimate connection with 
the younger Nicolai in Berlin, and, on a jour- 
ney, became acquainted with the two Schle- 
gels, Novalis (Hardenberg), and Herder. Dur- 
ing a visit to Hamburg, he was much interested 
and excited by the acting of Schroder. His early 
love for art was further unfolded, and his views 
rendered clear, by a residence in Dresden, Mu- 
nich, and Rome. After this, he lived at Jena, 
in the society of the Schlegels and Schelling. 
Several of his best-known works, and the 
translation of “Don Quixote,” which far sur- 
passed all preceding attempts, appeared during 
the years 1799, 1800, and 1801. In the years 
1801, 1802, Tieck resided in Dresden, where, 
in conjunction with A. W. Schlegel and several 
other poets, he composed the ‘“ Musenalma- 
nach,” published at Tébingen. After this, he 
lived again at Berlin, then at Tibingen. His 
«¢ Minnesongs from the Swabian Period ’’ were 
published at Berlin in 1803, and excited a great 
interest in the ancient German literature. These 
were followed, in 1804, by his “« Emperor Octa- 
vian.” In 1805, Tieck and Friedrich Schlegel 
edited the works of Novalis. After this he 
travelled in Italy, but returned to Germany 
towards the end of 1806, and went to Munich, 
where he experienced his first severe attack of 
the gout. He passed some years in the country, 
near Frankfort on the Oder, without publishing 
any thing. In 1814-16, his “ Ancient English 
Theatre’ appeared, together with several other 
works. In 1818, he went to London to collect 
materials for his great work on Shakspeare. 
In 1819, he established himself in Dresden 


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334 GERMAN POETRY. — | 


with his family, and since then has written a 
series of tales, which form a distinct epoch in 
his literary life. In 1821, he published a com- 
plete collection of his poems, in three volumes, 
and edited the works of Heinrich von Kleist. 
In 1825, he was made Court Councillor, and 
one of the directors of the theatre in Dresden. 
In 1840, he received from his Majesty, Frederic 
William the Fourth, an honorary pension, and 
has recently lived at Potsdam. 

Tieck is not only a poet of considerable 
creative genius, but an eloquent and masterly 
prose-writer, and a profound critic. He belongs 
emphatically to the Romantic School in his 
views of poetry and art, and has strenuously 
labored to embody in his works the national 
subjects, and the poetical traditions from Ger- 
man antiquity. His services as a commentator 
and translator of Shakspeare have been highly 
important, and are applauded not only in Ger- 
many, but in England. His single works have 
passed through numerous editions. A new edi- 
tion of his complete works was begun in 1827. 


SPRING. 


Loox all around thee! 
vances ! 
New life is playing through the gay, green 
trees ; 
See how, in yonder bower, the light Jeaf dances 
To the bird’s tread, and to the quivering 
breeze ! 
How every blossom in the sunlight glances ! 
The winter-frost to his dark cavern flees, 
And earth, warm-wakened, feels through every 
vein 
The kindling influence of the vernal rain. 


How the spring ad- 


Now silvery streamlets, from the mountain 
stealing, 
Dance joyously the verdant vales along ; 
Cold fear no more the songster’s tongue is seal- 
ing ; 
Down in the thick, dark grove is heard his 
song ; 
And, all their bright and lovely hues revealing, 
A thousand plants the field and forest throng ; 
Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers, 
And mingling rainbows play among the flowers. 


SONG FROM BLUEBEARD. 


In the blasts of winter 
Are the sere leaves sighing, 
And the dreams of love 
Faded are, and dying; 
Cloudy shadows flying 
Over field and plain, 
Sad the traveller hieing 
Through the blinding rain. 
Overhead the moon 
Looks into the vale ; 
From the twilight forest 
Comes a song of wail: 


“Ah! the winds have wafted 
My faithless love away, 

Swift as lightning flashes 
Fled life’s golden ray ; — 

O, wherefore came the vision, 
Or why so brief its stay ? 


“Once with pinks and roses 
Were my temples shaded ; 
Now the flowers are withered, 
Now the trees are faded ; 
Now the spring, departed, 

Yields to winter’s sway, 
And my love false-hearted, 
He is far away.” 


Life so dark and wildered, 
What remains for thee? 
Hope and memory, bringing 
Joy or grief to me ;— 
Ah! for them the bosom 
Open still must be ! 


——y— 


LUDOLF ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO. 


Cuamisso, the poet, natural philosopher, and 
circumnavigator of the globe, was born at Bon- 
court, in Champagne, January 27th, 1781. Dur- 
ing the Revolution, he left France with his pa- 
rents, and went to Berlin, where, in 1796, he 
was appointed one of the pages’ of the court. 
He afterwards entered the army and received a 
commission. He devoted himself zealously to 
the study of the German language and litera- 
ture, and became personally acquainted with 
the principal German authors of the time. He 
formed an intimate relation with Fichte, the 
philosopher. In 1804-06, he published, with 
Varnhagen von Ense, an ** Almanac of the 
Muses.”’ At the conclusion of the peace of 
Tilsit, he left the Prussian service, returned to 
France, where his family had recovered a part 
of their estates, and for a time filled the office 
of Professor in the College at Napoleonville ; 
but he soon returned to Germany, and devoted 
himself wholly to his studies, particularly to 
natural science. In 1814, he published the 
singular story of ‘Peter Schlemihl,” the man 
who had lost his shadow, —a work well known 
in the English translation. A voyage of dis- 
covery round the world being projected by the 
Russiah chancellor, Count Romanzoff, Cha- 
misso accepted an invitation to accompany it, as 
a naturalist. He sailed from Cronstadt in 1815, 
and returned in 1818. His observations were 
published in the work containing an account 
of the voyage. Clmmisso now took up his 
residence in Berlin, where he received an ap- 
pointment in the Botanical Garden. He wrote 
on various scientific subjects, and, during the 
same period, composed sonnets, and some of the 
best and most popular ballads that have recent- 
ly appeared in German literature. Besides his 


toe 


CHAMISSO. 


other labors, he assisted Gaudy in translating 
Béranger’s songs. He died, August 21st, 1838. 
His works were published at Leipsic, in six 
volumes, 1838—39; and anew edition, 1842. 

A lively sketch of Chamisso has been given 
by Laube, in his ‘¢ Characteristics,” * from which 
the following passages are taken. 

“I know of no more delightful poet than 
Chamisso, except Rickert. There is a healthi- 
ness in him, which fills us with the greatest 
pleasure. Every poet, to be sure, is delightful, 
because he gives the best there is in his heart. 
Paes Bi But one person likes the dark eye best, 
another the blue; to me Chamisso’s has always 
seemed so strangely invigorating and refreshing, 
— awakening such life, strength, and courage,— 
so manly, confident, and commanding. ‘The suns 
of all the zones have looked into this vigorous 
and ever-straining eye; the pale and meagre 
North, — the dark, luxuriant South, —the bar- 
ren and desert island, which, like a bad debtor, 
points the thoughts to heaven, — the green and 
juicy isle, which intoxicates with the enchant- 
ments of earth. 


“To have an image of the poet Chamisso, I 
often think of him as a lofty statue upon the 
eternal summit of the Alps; he looks abroad 
over all seas and zones, to the uttermost ends of 
the earth. His poetry has such broad pinions, 
that it sweeps over the whole globe in its 
mighty flight; and our chamber and provincial 
warblers cower together in terror, as soon as 
the stroke of his wings is heard. From the far 
island of Guahia, from Russia’s icy steppes, 
from the almond-groves of Spain, from the 
Turkish kiosk, comes his song; everywhere is 
he at home. 


‘‘Such, I believe, will be Chamisso’s image 
in our literary history, and he will remain in 
the memory of the Germans as a hale, hearty, 
sinewy poet; but I shall always remember him 
as I met him, early in the spring, in the Mark- 
gravenstrasse, Berlin. Ah! then for the first 
time did I fully feel his poetry; and I recog- 
nized yet once again the truth, that the poet has 
an immortal soul. Chamisso, the prince of Gua- 
hia, the weather-beaten circumnavigator, totter- 
ed like a broken reed. His strong, flowing locks 
hung round his shrunken temples, gray with 
age and illness; his once proud and vigorous 
eye was dimmed; round his once firm and 
haughty lips were deep, deep traces of suffer- 
ing; the feeble breast no longer supported the 
mighty and majestic head; it was sunken, and 
resounded with a hollow, racking cough. The 
sturdy Chamisso crawled feebly along, leaning 
on his cane ; Chamisso, who, with the fabulous 
Peter Schlemihl, had leaped from one part of 
the world to the other in the mad boots: ah, 
how sadly I thought then of Peter Schlemihl, 


* Moderne Characteristiken, von Heinricu Lause (2 
Vol. II. p. 77. 


vols. Mannheim: 1835). 


in whom was so much strange, deep life, — so 
much delight of life! The early sunshine of 
spring feebly fell upon one side of the street, 
and the old, decrepit, palsied singer steered 
slowly after its beam, and cast his shadow, 
though tremulous, across the pavement; his 
large eye, troubled by the cough and consump- 
tion, sought the pallid sky, and seemed to ask : 
¢ What islanders shall I find in yonder silent 
ocean?’ ”’ 


THE LAST SONNETS. 


I. 


‘‘ To thy dear lips my ears were ever cleaving, 
My gentle friend, to hear thy dainty lays 
Of life and woman’s love in other days: 
With love and pleasure then my breast was 
heaving ; 
But now the spinners in thy lyre are weaving 
A mourning-flower, methinks, — thou sing’st 
no more: 
O golden singer, wilt thou not restore 
To me the olden joy, thy harp-strings leav- 
ing??? — 
‘¢ Be still, my dearest child, the time is gray; 
I bear in peace the shadow of its wings, 
Am weary now, my songs have passed away. 
I was a minstrel, like the bird that sings 
And twitters out its sunny little day ; 
The swan alone But speak of other 
things.” 


II. 


I feel, I feel, each day, the fountain failing ; 

It is the death that gnaweth at my heart: 

I know it well, and vain is every art 
To hide the fatal ebb, the secret ailing. 

So wearily the spring of life is coiling, 

Until the fatal morning sets it free : 

Then sinks the dark, and who inquires for me 
Will find a man at rest from all his toiling. 
That I.can speak to thee of death and dying, 

And yet my cheeks the loyal blood maintain, 

Seems bold to thee, and almost over-vain : 
But Death ! —no terror in the word is lying ; 

And yet the thought I cannot well embrace, 

Nor have I looked the angel in the face. 


Ill. 


He visited my dreams, the fearful guest ! 

My careless vigor, while I slumbered, stealing; 

And, huge and shadowy above me kneeling, 
Buried his wosome talons in my breast. 

I murmured,—“ Dost thou herald my hereafter? 

Is it the hour? Art calling me away? 

Lo! I have set myself in meet array.” — 
He broke upon my words with mocking laughter. 
I scanned him sharply, and the terror stood 

In chilly dew, — my courage had an end: 

His accents through me like a palsy crept. 

“Patience!” he cried; ‘I only suck thy blood : 

Didst think ’t was Death already? Not so, 
friend ; 

I am Old Age, thy fable; thou hast slept.” 


—— eee 


336 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Iv. 
They say the year is in its summer glory : 
But thou, O Sun, appearest chill and pale, 
The vigor of thy youth begins to fail, 
Say, art thou, too, becoming old and hoary ? 
Old Age, forsooth ! — what profits our complain- 
ing? 
Although a bitter guest and comfortless, 
One learns to smile beneath its stern caress, 
The fated burden manfully sustaining : 
"T is only for a span, a summer’s day. 
Deep in the fitful twilight have I striven, 
Must now the even-feast of rest be holding: 
One curtain falls, —and, lo! another play! 
** His will be done whose mercy much has 
given!” 
Ill pray, — my grateful hands to heaven 
folding. 


—_¢—- 


JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. 


Jouann Lupwieg Untanp, one of the most 
eminent among the living poets of Germany, 
was born April 26th, 1787, at Tubingen, where 
he studied law from 1805 to 1808. He then 
became an advocate in Stuttgart. He visited 
Paris in 1810, where he spent much time in 
studying the manuscripts of the Middle Ages. 
He was for a time Professor of German Litera- 
ture in the University of Tubingen. Since 1809, 
he has been a member of the Legislature of 
Wirtemberg, as a representative from Ta bingen. 
His ballads, songs, and allegories have begun a 
new epoch in German lyrical poetry. His 
dramas are less distinguished. They are enti- 
tled, “Duke Ernest of Swabia,” “Lewis the 
Bavarian,” and * Walther von der Vogelweide.”’ 
An edition of his poems appeared in 1814. The 
fourteenth edition was published at Stuttgart in 
1840. His life has been written by Schwab, in 
Wolfgang Menzel’s “ Taschenbuch.” 

Theodore Mundt, in his « History of the 
Literature of the Present,” * says of Uhland : — 

‘As German freedom and German nobleness 
of soul gave the key-note to his poetry, so it 
chimed in powerfully with those jubilant strains 
of national exaltation which German poetry 
scattered abroad with such daring enthusiasm 
at the time of the Liberation War. Belonging to 
a highly favored German race, which was not 
only distinguished by a deeper spring of poetry, 
a vigorous nature, and a profound feeling, but had 
from ancient times been in the possession of free 
and popular constitutional forms, the Swabian 
poet could not fail, at the very outset, to feel the 
benefit of these most favorable influences. Uh- 
land was also thoroughly the poet of the War- 
temberg people, whose local pecuiiarities, whose 
cheerful and hearty-nature and genuine national 
customs, he has everywhere reflected in his own 
character, and exalted to forms of beauty. The 
as EEE Pe 2h Ee 


* Die Literatur der Gegenwart, von THeopor Munopr 
(Berlin: 1542). pp. 205-203. 


charming life of nature, which is unfolded in 
Ubland’s poems, is always at the same time 
the expression of the noblest, the freest, the 
most vigorous tone of thought, which seeks to 
mould itself harmoniously into the forms of art. 
From the vine-clad hills to the peopled valleys 
below, along the margins of the brooks, and in 
the forests, everywhere is heard the voice of 
poetry and song; and the poetry is the people, 
and the song is freedom. And where the pres- 
ent is darkened over, and has no room for al 
that exulting life of love and freedom, ther 
comes the ancient legend sweeping through th 
forest with its magic mirror, and, taking poetry 
by the hand, leads her back. mto the golden age, 
into the age of the Minnelied and of heroes, into 
the Middle Ages. The connection between the 
poetry of freedom and the noble life of the 
Middle Ages appears in Uhland as a peculia 
trait of his natural temperament, and a resul 
of a sound and healthy romanticism. We have 
in Uhland the poet in whom romanticism and 
freedom do not stand apart, as two absolute op- 
posites, but blend in the unity of a full and 
vigorous life, and that through the medium of a 
genuine nationality, which even in the Middle 
Ages pervades with the spirit of freedom the 
romantic principle of life. Though Uhland 
herein had an affinity with the earlier and better 
spirit of the Romantic School, his course of cul- 
ture must yet be called an individual and inde- 
pendent one, which saved him from all the ab- 
errations into which we have seen that school, 
in its later development, led astray. ..... 
In him all was harmony and unity. In this 
sound and thorough culture we must attach 
much weight to the influence of Goethe upon 
this poet. As Uhland did not allow himself to 
be led astray by the romanticists, so, on the 
other hand, he was trained by Goethe to artisti¢ 
clearness in spirit and form. It is remarkable 
here to see the Goethean nature coming in to 
mediate, with its serene, statuesque plasticity, 
between the romantic tendency of the Middle 
Ages and the liberal historical movement of 
modern times. This influence is, no doubt, 
exercised upon Uhland, who restrained the ro- 
mantic exuberance of popular poetry by Goe- 
the’s delicate art of limitation. Many have 
professed to discover herein an imitation of the 
Goethean form, which they may point out, if 
they so choose, particularly. in Uhland’s lays 
and ballads. But that cannot be called essen- 
tially an-imitation, which is only a measure of 
representation acquired from the influence of || - 
another poet, — which is only a detected secret 
of form. Uhland has gained as much from the 
German medieval poetry, for his form, as he 
has from Goethe. Uhland participated in the 
devotion to the study of this poetry, which was 
created by the Romantic School; of this his 
essay on Walther von der Vogelweide affords 

a fine illustration. But in his Jays and ballads 
we encounter the medieval both in form and 
substance, and see how fondly the poet's heart 


UHLAND. 


lingers among these knights and sons of kings, 
these goldsmiths’ daughters, these sunken cas- 
tles and enchanted forests. Yet he loves best 
to employ the legend of his own province, 
as is shown in ‘Eberhard der Rauschebart.’ 
Uhland also sought to shape national materials 
in the dramatic form; but we cannot help 
doubting, on the whole, his vocation for dra- 
matic poetry.” 


THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 


Or Edenhall the youthful lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call ; 

He rises at the banquet board, 
And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all, 
** Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!” 


The butler hears the words with pain, — 
The house’s oldest seneschal, — 

Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking-glass of crystal tall ; 


They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 


Then said the lord, ‘* This glass to praise, 
Fill with red wine from Portugal!” 

The graybeard with trembling hand obeys ; 
A purple light shines over all ; 
It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 


Then speaks the lord, and waves it light, — 
“This glass of flashing crystal tall 

Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, 
Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! 


“°'T was right a goblet the fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall! 

We drink deep draughts right willingly ; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!” 


First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 

Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters, at last, like the thunder’s fall, 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 


‘For its keeper, takes a race of might 
The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 

It has lasted longer than is right ; 
Kling! klang !—with a harder blow than all 
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!”’ 


As the goblet, ringing, flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 

And through the rift the flames upstart ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 


In storms the foe, with fire and sword ! 
He in the night had scaled the wall ; 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord, 


But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
| The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 
43 


On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
The graybeard, inthe desert hall ; 

He seeks his lord’s burnt skeleton ; 
He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 


“©The stone wall,”’ saith he, ‘doth fall aside; 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth’s Luck and Pride; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball, 
One day, like the Luck of Edenhall !”’ 


THE MOUNTAIN BOY. 


Tue shepherd of the Alps am I, 

The castles far beneath me lie ; 

Here first the ruddy sunlight gleams, 

Here linger last the parting beams. 
The mountain boy am I! 


Here is the river’s fountain-head, 
I drink it from its stony bed ; 
As forth it leaps with joyous shout, 
I seize it, ere it gushes out. 
The mountain boy am I! 


The mountain is my own domain; 

It calls its storms from sea and plain; 

From north to south they howl afar ; 

My voice is heard amid their war. 
The mountain boy am I! 


And when the tocsin sounds alarms, 

And mountain bale-fires call to arms, 

Then I descend, I join my king, 

My sword I wave, my lay I sing. 
The mountain boy am [! 


The lightnings far beneath me lie ; 
High stand I here in clear blue sky ; 
I know them, and to them I call ; 
In quiet leave my father’s hall. 

The mountain boy am I! 


oe 


ON THE DEATH OF A COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. 


Ir in departed souls the power remain 

These earthly: scenes to visit once again, 

Not in the night thy visit wilt thou make, 
When only sorrowing and longing wake ; — 
No! in some summer morning’s light serene, 
When not a cloud upon the sky is seen, 
When high the golden harvest rears its head, 
All interspersed with flowers of blue and red, 
Thou, as of yore, around the fields wilt walk, 
Greeting the reapers with mild, friendly talk. 


THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 


“Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 
‘That castle by the sea? 

Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 


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338 


‘“‘ And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening’s crimson glow.” 


*¢ Well have I seen that castle, 
That castle by the sea, 

And the moon above it standing, 
And the mist rise solemnly.” 


‘¢The winds and the waves of ocean, 
Had they a merry chime ? 

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 
The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme ?”’ 


“The winds and the waves of ocean, 
They rested quietly ; 

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
And tears came to mine eye.” 


* And sawest thou on the turrets 
The king and his royal bride, 

And the wave of their crimson mantles, 
And the golden crown of pride? 


“Led they not forth, in rapture, 
A beauteous maiden there, 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 
Beaming with golden hair?” 


‘¢ Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride; 

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe; 
No maiden was by their side !”’ 


THE BLACK KNIGHT. 


"T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all sadness. 
Thus began the king and spake: 
“So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg’s walls 
A. Juxuriant spring shall break.’’ 


Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly. 
From balcony the king looked on ; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell al! the cavaliers 
Before the monarch’s stalwart son. 


To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable knight. 
“Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon? 
say!” 
«Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 


{?? 


I’m a prince of mighty sway ! 


When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 
And the castle ’gan to rock. 

At the first blow, 

Fell the youth from saddle-bow, — 
Hardly rises from the shock. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Pipe and viol call the dances, 

Torch-light through the high halls glances, 
Waves a mighty shadow in ; 

With manner bland 

Doth ask the maiden’s hand, 
Doth with her the dance begin : 


Danced in sable iron sark, 

Danced a measure weird and dark, 
Coldly clasped her limbs around. 

From breast and hair 

Down fall from her the fair 
Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 


. To the sumptuous banquet came 


Every knight and every dame. 

’T wixt son and daughter all distraught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient king reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 


Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took : 
«¢ Golden wine will make you whole !”’ 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank : 
“© OQ, that draught was very cool !”’ 


Each the father’s breast embraces, 

Son and daughter ; and their faces 
Colorless grow utterly. 

Whichever way 

Looks the fear-struck father gray, 
He beholds his children die. 


“ Woe! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth: 
Take me, too, the joyless father !”’ . 
Spake the grim guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast : 
‘¢ Roses in the spring I gather !”’ 


THE DREAM. 


Two lovers through the garden 
Walked hand in hand along; 

Two pale and slender creatures, 
They sat the flowers among. 


They kissed each other’s cheek so warm, 
They kissed each other’s mouth ; 
They held each other arm in arm, 
They dreamed of health and youth. 


Two bells they sounded suddenly, 
They started from their sleep ; 

And in the convent cell lay she, 
And he in dungeon deep. 


THE PASSAGE. 


Many a year is in its grave, 

Since I crossed this restless wave ; 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 


ee 


(ee er ey 


UHLAND.—SCHULZE. 339 


Then in this same boat beside 

Sat two comrades old and tried, — 
One with all a father’s truth, 

One with all the fire of youth. 


One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his grave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 


So, whene’er I turn my eye 

Back upon the days gone by, 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me, 
Friends that closed their course before me. 


But what binds us, friend to friend, 

But that soul with soul can blend ? 

Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 


Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, — 
Take, I give it willingly ; 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 


os 


THE NUN. 


. In the silent cloister-garden, 


Beneath the pale moonshine, 
There walked a lovely maiden, 
And tears were in her eyne. 


«© Now, God be praised! my loved one 
Is with the blest above : 

Now man is changed to angel, 
And angels I may love.” 


She stood before the altar 
Of Mary, mother mild, 

And on the holy maiden 
The Holy Virgin smiled. 


Upon her knees she worshipped 
And prayed before the shrine, 

And heavenward looked, —till Death came 
And closed her weary eyne. 


a 


THE SERENADE. 


«¢ What sounds so sweet awake me? 
What fills me with delight ? 

O mother, look ! who sings thus 
So sweetly through the night?” 


*¢] hear not, child, I see not ; 
O, sleep thou softly on! 

Comes now to serenade thee, 
Thou poor sick maiden, none!” 


‘¢Tt is not earthly music, 
That fills me with delight ; 
I hear the angels call me: 
O mother dear, good night !”’ 


ERNST CONRAD FRIEDRICH SCHULZE. 


22d, 1789. 
studies at Géttingen, but soon afterwards ex- 
changed theology for philology, with the design 


THE WREATH. 


THERE went a maid and plucked the flowers 
That grew upon the sunny lea; 

A lady from the*greenwood came 
Most beautiful to see ! 


Unto the maid she friendly came, 
And in her hand a wreath she bore: 

‘Tt blooms not now, but soon will bloom ; 
O, wear it evermore !”’ 


And as this maid in beauty grew, 
And walked the mellow moon beneath, 
And weeped young tears so tender, sweet, 
Began to bud the wreath. 


And when the maid, in beauty grown, 
Clasped in her arms the glad bridegroom, 
Forth from the bud’s unfolded cup 
There blushed a joyous bloom. 


And when a playsome child she rocked 
Her tender mother-arms between, 
Amid the spreading leafy crown 
A golden fruit was seen. 


And when was sunk in death and night 
The heart a wife had held most dear, 
Then shook amid her shaken locks 
A yellow leaf and sear. 


Soon lay she, too, in blenched death, 
And still this Heth loved wreath the wore, 
Then bore the wreath, —this wondrous wreath, 
Both fruit and bloom it bore. 


TO ——. 


Upon a mountain’s summit 
There might I with thee stand, 
And, o’er the tufted forest, 
Look down upon the land ; 
There might my finger show thee 
The world in vernal shine, 
And say, if all mine own were, 
That all were mine and thine. 


Into my bosom’s deepness, 
O, could thine eye but see, 
Where all the songs are sleeping 
That God e’er gave tome! , 
There would thine eye perceive it, 
If aught of good be mine, — 
Although I may not name hee ee 
That. aught of good is thine. 


aie) 


Ernst Scuutze was born at Celle, March 
In 1806, he began his theological 


ne See 
{ 


GERMAN POETRY. 


of becoming a teacher of the classics and polite 
literature. He displayed a lively poetical im- 
agination from his early youth. He was deeply 
affected by the early loss ofea lady to whom he 
was passionately attached, and, as soon as the 
first violence of his grief was calmed, he form- 
ed the resolution of immortalizing her name by 
a poem, to which he devoted all his intellectual 
energies. In three years he completed the 
work, which was published under the title of 
‘Cecilia,’ a romantic poem in twenty cantos. 
His poetical activity was interrupted, in 1814, 
by the war against France, in which he engaged 
as a volunteer. The exercise and hardships of 
military service operated favorably upon his 
spirits and his physical strength; but after his 
return to Gottingen, his health again began to 
decline. In 1816, he made a journey on foot 
through the Rhine country, and early in the 
following year visited Celle, where he died, 
June 26,1817. His works are, the above-men- 
tioned poem, which is considered by some the 
greatest romantic epic the Germans have pro- 
duced in recent times; ** The Enchanted Rose,”’ 
a romantic poem, in three cantos; lyric poems; 
and a narrative poem, ‘ Psyche.” His collected 
works were published by Bouterwek, 1819-20; 
a new edition, in four volumes, appeared in 


1822. 


SONG. 


SrreeEpDs are neighing, swords are gleaming, 
Germany’s revenge is nigh ; 

And the banners, brightly streaming, 
Wave us on to victory. 


Rouse thee, then, fond heart, and see 
For a time thy task forsaken ; 

Bear what life hath laid on thee, 
And forget what it hath taken ! 


THE HUNTSMAN DEATH. 


Tue chief of the huntsmen is Death, whose aim 
Soon levels the brave and the craven; 
He crimsons the field with the blood of his 
game, 
But the booty he leaves to the raven. 
Like the stormy tempest that flies so fast, 
O’er moor and mountain he gallops fast ; 
Man shakes 
And quakes 
At his bugle-blast. 


But what boots it, my friends, from the hunter 
to flee, 
Who shoots with the shafts of the grave? 
Far better to meet him thus manfully, 
The brave by the side of the brave ! 
And when against us he shall turn his brand, 
With his face to the foe let each hero stand, 
And await 
His fate 
From a hero’s hand. 


MAY LILIES. 


FapeEp are our sister flowers, 
Faded all and gone; 

In the meadows, in the bowers, 
We are left alone! 

Dark above our valley lowers 
That funereal sky, 

And the thick and chilling showers 
Now come blighting by. 


Drooping stood we in the strife, 
Pale and tempest-shaken, 

Weeping that our love and life 
Should at once be taken ; 

Wishing, while within its cover 
Each wan flower withdrew, 

That, like those whose life was over, 
We had withered too. 


But the air a soothing ditty 
Whispered silently ; 

How that love and gentlest pity 
Still abode with thee ; 

How thy very presence ever 
Shed a sunny glow, — 

And where thou wert smiling, never 
Tears were seen to flow. 


So to thee, thou gentle spirit, 
Are the wanderers come; 

Let the weak thy care inherit, 
Take the trembling home! 

Though the bloom that did surround us 
Withered with the blast, 

Still the scent that hangs around us 
Lives when that hath passed. 


EXTRACT FROM CECILIA. 


AND now ’t is o’er, — the long-planned work 
is done, — 
The last sad meed that love and longing gave : 
Beside thy bier the strain was first begun, 
And now [I lay the gift upon thy grave. 
The bliss, the bale, through which my heart 
bath run, 
Are mirrored in the story’s mystic wave ; 
Take, then, the song, that in my bitter grief 
Hath been my latest joy, my sole relief. 


As mariners that on the flowery side 
Of some fair coast have for a time descended, 
And many a town and many a tower descried, 
And many a blooming grove and plain ex- 
tended, 
Till, borne again to sea by wind and tide, 
They see the picture fade, the vision ended; 
So in the darkening distance do I see 


‘My hopes grow dim, my joy and solace flee. 


Such as thou didst in love and life appear, 
In joy, in grief, in pleasure, and in pain, — 
Such have I strove in words to paint thee here, 
And link thy beauties with my lowly strain. 


PEND Do aise 2D ni SIAM aN nt 


Leet apt staat SESS NMA PHA IIE HATRED sent See tt mene ae oom PAs ef 
ries cea Sek a 


APPR IU DORA mR alle ON eh se rt tN AP 


RUCKERT. 


v4l 


Still, as I sang, thy form was floating near, 

And, hand in hand with thee, the goal I gain; 
Alas, that, with the wreath that binds my brow, 
My visionary bliss must vanish now ! 


Three years in that fond dream have flitted by ; 
For, though the tempest of the time was rife, 
And, rising at the breath of destiny, 
Through peace and war hath borne my bark 
of life, 
I heeded not how clouds grew dark on high, 
How beat against the bark the waters’ strife ; 
Still in the hour of need unchangeably 
The compass of my spirit turned to thee. 


While time rolled on with ever-changing tide, 
Thou wert the star, the sun, that shone for me ; 
For thee I girt the sword upon my side ; 
Each dream of peace was consecrate to thee ; 
And if my heart was long and deeply tried, 
For thee alone [ bore my misery ; 
Watching lest autumn with his chilling breath 
Should blight the rose above thy couch of death. 


Ah me! since thou hast gained thy heavenly 
throne, 
And I, no more by earthly ties controlled, 
Have shunned life’s giddy joys, with thee alone 
Sad fellowship in solitude to hold ; 
Full many a faithless friend is changed and gone, 
Full many a heart that once was warm grown 
cold. 
All this have-I for thee in silence borne, 
And joyed to bear, as on a brighter morn. 


As vases, once with costly scents supplied, 
Long after shed around their sweet perfume ; 

As clouds the evening sun with gold hath dyed 
Gleam brightly yet, while all around is gloom ; 

As the strong river bears its freshening tide 
Far out into the ocean’s azure room ;— 

Forlorn and bruised, the heart, that once hath 

beat 
For thee, can feel no anger and no hate. 


on ed 


FRIEDRICH RUCKERT. 


Tus author, one of the most important of 
the recent German lyrical poets, and known to 
the world under the poetical pseudonym of 
Freimund Raimar, was born at Schweinfurt in 
1789, and, having pursued his preparatory stud- 
ies at the Gymnasium in that place, entered the 
University of Jena, where he devoted himself 
to an extensive range of philological and lit- 
erary studies. He commenced the career of 
private teacher in 1811, but did not long con- 
tinue it. After several changes of residence, 
he finally established himself in Stuttgart, and 
assisted in editing the ‘* Morgenblatt’’ from 
1815 to 1817. The greater part of the year 
1818 he passed at Rome and Aricia, where he 


occupied much of his time with the popular 
poetry of Italy. After his return he lived in 
Coburg, where, in the bosom of his family, he 
devoted himself to poetry, and to the study of 
the Oriental languages, especially the Persian 
and Arabic. In 1826, he was appointed Pro- 
fessor of the Oriental Languages in the Univer- 
sity of Erlangen, where he remained, until, in 
1841, he was called to Berlin. He is distin- 
guished by a bold and fiery spirit, an intense 
love of country and hatred of her oppressors. 
He is net only an original author, but an ex- 
cellent translator from the Oriental languages. 
He has also translated parts of the prophetical 
writings in the Old Testament. His collected 
poems, first part, were publisbed at Erlangen in 
1834; fifth edition, 1840 ; — second part, 1836; 
third edition, 1839 ; —third part, 1837; second 
edition, 1839 ;— parts four to six, 1837-38. A 
selection of his poems appeared at Frankfort 
on the Mayn in 1841; second edition, 1842. 


nd 


STRUNG PEARLS. 


"T is true, the breath of sighs throws mist upon 
a mirror ; 

But yet, through breath of sighs, the soul’s clear 
glass grows clearer. 

From God there is no flight, but only to him. 
Daring 

Protects not when he frowns, but the child’s 
filial bearing. 

The father feels the blow, when he corrects his 
son } 

But when thy heart is loose, rigor ’s a kindness 
done. 

A father should to God pray, each new day at 
latest, 

‘‘ Lord, teach me how to use the power thou 
delegatest !”’ 

O, look, whene’er the world thy senses would 
betray, 

Up to the steady heavens, where the stars never 
stray ! 

The sun and moon take turns, and each to each 
gives place ; 

Else were e’en their wide house but a too nar- 
row space. 

When thy weak heart is tossed with passion’s 
fiery gust, 

Say to it, “* Knowest thou how soon thou shalt 
be dust?” 

Say to thy foe, “Is death not common to us 
twain ? 

Come, then, death-kinsman mine, and we ’ll 
be friends again.” 

Much rather than the spots upon the sun’s broad 
light, 

Would love spy out the stars, scarce twinkling 
through the night. 

Thou none the better art for seeking what to 
blame, 

And. ne’er wilt famous be by blasting others’ 


fame. 
cc2 


ee -- _— 
aca peeoaits aoe 


eS ggg 
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er gs 


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342 


The name alone remains, when all beside is reft : 
O, leave, then, to the dead that little which is 


left ! 

Repentance can avail from God’s rebuke to 
save ; 

But men will ne’er forget thine errors in thy 
grave. 


Be good, and fear for naught that slanderous 
speech endangers : 

Who bears no sin himself affords to bear a 
stranger’s. 

Say to thy pride, ‘¢’T is all but ashes for the urn; 

Come, let us own our dust, before to dust we 
turn.”’ 

Be yielding to thy foe, and peace shall he yield 
back ; 

But yield nct to thyself, and thou ’rt on victory’s 
track. 

Who is thy deadliest foe?— An evil heart’s 
desire, 

That hates thee still the worse, as thy weak 
love mounts higher. 

Know’st thou where neither lords nor wretched 
serfs appear? 

Where one the other serves, for each to each is 
dear. 

Thou ‘Jt ne’er arrive at love, while still to life 
thou ‘It cling: 

I’m found but at the cost of thy self-offering. 

According as thou wouldst receive, thou must 
impart ; 

Must wholly give a life, to wholly have a heart. 


‘Till thought of thine own worth far buried from 


thee lies, 

How know I that indeed my worth’s before 
thine eyes? 

What more says he that speaks, than he that 
holds his peace ? 

Yet woe betide the heart that from thy praise 


can cease ! 

Say I, “In thee I am” ?—say I, “Thou art 
‘In me” ?— 

Thou art what in me is ; — what I am is through 
thee. 


O sun, I am thy beam! O rose, I am thy scent ! 

I am thy drop, O sea! thy breath, O firmament! 

Unmeasured mystery! what not the heavens 
‘contain 

Will here ‘be held in this small heart and nar- 
row_brain. 

Of that tree I’m a leaf, which ever new doth 
sprout: 

Hail me! my stock remains, though winds toss 
me about. 

Destruction -blows on thee, while thou alone 
dost stay : 

O, feel thee in that whole which ne’er shall 
‘pass away ! 


‘How great soe’er thyself, thou ’rt naught before 


the All; 

But, as a member there, important, though most 
small. 

The little bee to fight doth like a champion spur, 

Because not for herself, — she feels her tribe in 
her ; 


je ianstesionsethniesnsasnninashintsiinlinstiniesasheshiisientnisinumenesandhueisnacamenatartoeee ret at te 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Because so sweet her work, so sharp must be 
her sting : 

The earth hath no delight unscourged by suf: 
fering. 

From the same flower she sucks both food and 
poison up ; 

For death doth lurk alway in life’s delicious 
cup. 

The mulberry-leaf must bear the biting of a 
worm, 

That so it may be raised to wear its silken form. 

See, how along the ground the ant-hosts blind- 
ly throng! 

Yet no more than the choirs of stars can these 
go wrong. 

Toward setting sun the lark floats on in jubilee ; 

Frisking in light, the gnat to himself makes 


melody, 

Sunset, the lark’s note melts into the air of 
even ; 

To earth she falls not back; her grave is in the 
heaven. 


When twilight fades, steal forth the constella- 
tions bright ; 

Below, ’t is day that lives, —in upper air, the 
night. 

The powerful sun to earth the fainting spirit 
beats, 

Which mounts again on night’s sweet breath of 
violets. 

Through heaven, the livelong night, I ’m float- 
ing in my dreams, 

And, when aroused, my room a scanty limit 


seems. 

Wake up! the sun presents an image, in his 
rays, 

How man can shine at morn to his Creator’s 
praise. 


The flowers will tell to thee a sacred, mystic 
story, 

How moistened earthy dust can wear celestial 
glory. 

On thousand stems is found the love-inscription 
graven, 

“How beautiful is earth, when it can image 
heaven !” 

Wouldst thou first pause to thank thy God for 
every pleasure, 

For mourning over griefs thou wouldst not find 
the leisure. 

O heart, but try it once: ’t is easy good to be; 

But to appear so, such a strain and misery ! 

Who hath his day’s work done may rest him 
as he will: 

O, urge thyself, then, quick thy day’s work to 
fulfil ! 

Of what each one should be, he sees the form 
and rule, 

And, till he reach to that, his joy can ne’er be 
full. 

O, pray for life! thou feel’st, that, with those 
faults of thine, 

Thou art not ready yet with sons of God to 
shine. 


sn oe 


SSN dB td ta at Mia as i 2 


iaethnicbaalicieee denise oeesete ees nol Sainte SR ee ne ee eee ee ee een eles POL re 


From the sun’s might away may the calm planet 


rove? 

How easy, then, for man to wander from God’s 
love! 

Yet from each circle’s point to the centre lies a 
track ; 

And there ’s a way to God from furthest error 
back. 

Whoso mistakes me now but spurs me on to 
make 

My life so speak, henceforth, that no one can 
mistake, 


And though, throughout the world, the good I 
nowhere find, 

I still believe in it, for its image in my mind. 

The heart that loves somewhat is not aban- 
doned yet: 

The smallest fibre serves some root in God to set. 


Because she bears the pearl, that makes the 
shell-fish sore : 

Be thankful for the grief that but exalts thee 
more, ; 

The sweetest fruit grows not when the tree’s 
sap is full: 

The spirit is not ripe, till meaner powers grow 
dull. 

Spring weaves a spell of odors, colors, sounds : 

Come, Autumn, free the soul from these en- 
chanted bounds. 

My tree was thick with shade: O blast, thine 
office do, 

And strip the foliage off, to let the heaven shine 
through. 

They ’re wholly blown away, bright blossoms 
and green leaves: 

They ’re brought home to the barn, all color- 
less, the sheaves, 


ee 


THE SUN AND THE BROOK. 


Tue Sun he spoke 
To the Meadow-Brook, 
And said, — “I sorely blame you ; 
Through every nook 
The wild-flower folk 
You hunt, as naught could shame you. 
What but the light 
Makes them so bright, — 
The light from me they borrow ? 
Yet me you slight, 
To get a sight 
At them, and I must sorrow ! 
Ah! pity take 
On me, and make 
Your smooth breast stiller, clearer ; 
And, as I wake 
In the blue sky-lake, 
Be thou, O Brook, my mirror!” 
The Brook flowed on, 
And said anon, — 
« Good Sun, it should not grieve 


you 


RUGKERT. 


343 


That, as I run, 
I gaze upon 
The motley flowers, and leave you. 
You are so great 
In your heavenly state, 
And they so unpretending, 
On you they wait, 
And only get 
The graces of your lending. 
But when the sea 
Receiveth me, 
From them I must me sever ; 
i then shall be 
A glass to thee, 
Reflecting thee for ever.” 


NATURE MORE THAN SCIENCE. 


I nave a thousand thousand lays, 
Compact of myriad myriad words, 
And so can sing a million ways, 
Can play at pleasure on the chords 
Of tuned harp or heart ; 
Yet is there one sweet song 
For which in vain I pine and long; 
I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel- 
art. 


A shepherd sits within a dell, 
O’ercanopied from rain and heat; 
A shallow, but pellucid well 
Doth ever bubble at his feet. 
His pipe is but a leaf; 
Yet there, above that stream, 
He plays and plays, as in a dream, 
One air that steals away the senses like a thief. 


A simple air it seems, in truth, 
And who begins will end it soon ; 
Yet, when that hidden shepherd-youth 
So pours it in the ear of Noon, 
Tears flow from those anear : 
All songs of yours and mine, 
Condensed in one, were less divine 
Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet 
air to hear ! 


'T was yester noon he played it last; 

The hummings of a hundred bees 
Were in mine ears, yet, as I passed, 

I heard him through the myrtle-trees : 
Stretched all along he lay, 

"Mid foliage half decayed ; 

His lambs were feeding while he played, 
And sleepily wore on the stilly summer day. 


THE PATRIOT’S LAMENT. 


“Wat forgest, smith?’ We ’re forging 
chains; ay, chains!”’ 
«¢ Alas! to chains yourselves degraded are ! ”— 
“Why ploughest, farmer?” ‘Fields their 
fruit must bear.”’ 
“Yes, seed for foes;—the burr for thee re- 


mains! ’”’ 


ee Se OM as SPC Ss Sa a tncstnmensassematinnlstbaininaaidapehldedek sscitekescineaicabeentnee eee eka er oecaee a a ET RT Ee 


GERMAN POETRY. 


ite rte wid : : 


344 


‘What aim’st at, sportsman?” ‘ Yonder stag, 


so fat.” 

“To hunt you down, like stag and roe, they ’Il 
try.” — 

“What snarest, fisher?” ‘Yonder fish, so 
shy.” 


‘6 Who’s there to save you from your fatal net ?”’ 


“ What art thou rocking, sleepless mother?” 
‘Boys.’ 
** Yes; let them grow, and wound their coun- 
try’s fame, 
Slaves to her foes, with parricidal arm 
“ What art thou writing, poet?” ‘* Words of 
flame ; 
I mark my own, record my country’s harm, 
Whom thought of freedom never more employs.” 


12? 


I blame them not, who with the foreign steel 
Tear out our vitals, pierce our inmost heart ; 
For they are foes created for our smart, 

And when they slay us, why they do it, feel. 


But, in these paths, ye seek what recompense ? 


For you what brilliant toys of fame are here, 
Ye mongrel foes, who lift the sword and spear 
Against your country, not for her defence ? 


Ye Franks, Bavarians, and ye Swabians, say, 
Ye aliens, sold to bear the slavish name, ~— 
What wages for your servitude they pay. 
Your eagle may perchance redeem your fame; 
More sure his rebber-train, ye birds of prey, 
To coming ages shall prolong your shame ! 


CHRISTKINDLEIN. 


How bird-like o’er the flakes of snow 
Its fairy footsteps flew ! 

And on its soft and childish brow 
How delicate the hue! 


And expectation wings its feet, 
And stirs its infant smile ; 

The merry bells their chime repeat; 
The child stands still the while. 


Then clasps in joy its little hand; 
Then marks the Christian dome ; 

The stranger child, in stranger land, 
Feels now as if at home. 


It runs along the sparkling ground ; 
Its face with gladness beams; 

It frolics in the blaze around, 
Which from each window gleams. 


The shadows dance upon the wall, 
Reflected from the trees ; 

And from the branches, green and tall, 
The glittering gifts it sees. 


It views within the lighted hall 
The charm of social love ; — 
O, what a joyous festival ! 
*T is sanctioned from above. 


owing. 


But now the childish heart ’s unstrung: 
“© Where is my taper’s light ? 

And why no evergreen been hung 
With toys for me to-night ? 


“In my sweet home there was a band 
Of holy love for me ; 

A mother’s kind and tender hand 
Once decked my Christmas-tree. 


‘“¢O, some one take me ’neath the blaze 
Of those light tapers, do ! 

And, children, I can feel the plays; 
O, let me play with you! 


‘“*] care not for the prettiest toy ; 
I want the love of home ; 

O, let me in your playful joy 
Forget I have to roam!” 


The little fragile hand is raised, 
It strikes at every gate ; 
n every window earnest gazec 
In every window e t gazed, 
Then ’mid the snow it sat. 


* Christinkle !! thou, the children’s friend, 
I’ve none te love me now ! 

Hast thou forgot my tree to send, 
With lights on every bough?” 


The baby’s hands are numbed with frost, 
Yet press the little cloak ; 

Then on its breast in meekness crossed, 
A sigh the silence broke. 


And closer still the cloak it drew 
Around its silken hair ; 

Its pretty eyes, so clear and blue, 
Alone defied the air. 


Then came another pilgrim child, — 
A shining light he held ; 

The accents fell so sweet and mild, 
All music they excelled. 


*¢T am thy Christmas friend, indeed, 
And once a child like thee ; 

When all forget, thou need’st not plead, — 
I will adorn 4hy tree. 


‘t My joys are felt in street or bower, 
My aid is everywhere ; 

Thy Christmas-tree, my precious flower, 
Here, in the open air, 


‘‘ Shall far outshine those other trees, 
Which caught thy infant eye.” 

The stranger child looks up, and sees, 
Far, in the deep blue sky, 


A glorious tree, and stars among 
The branches hang their light ; 
The child, with soul all music, sung, 

‘My tree indeed is bright!” 


1 A corruption of the German ChrMsthindlein. It means 
the child Christ, to whom it is thought'all these gifts are 


ZEDLITZ.—KORNER. 345 


As ’neath the power of a dream 
The infant closed its eyes, 

And troops of radiant angels seem 
Descending from the skies, 


The baby to its Christ they bear ; 
With Jesus it shall live ; 

It finds a home and treasure there 
Sweeter than earth can give. 


ae 


JOSEPH CHRISTIAN VON ZEDLITZ. 


Tut Baron von Zedlitz, one of the most 
gifted of the German poets of the present day, 
was born in 1790, at Johannisburg in Austrian 
Silesia. After having studied several years at 
Breslau, he made choice of a military career, 
and in 1806 entered the hussar regiment of the 
Archduke Ferdinand. He rose to high military 
rank by successive promotions ; was present in 
the battles of Regensburg, Aspern, and Wa- 
gram; in 1810, was appointed to an office at 
the imperial court, and, the following year, 
married the daughter of the Baron von Liptay. 
Afterwards he left the military service, and 
devoted himself to science and art. He pub- 
lished in various journals a series of short lyri- 
cal poems, which he called ‘“‘ Spring Roses.” 
These were followed by a rapid succession of 
dramatic compositions, which were brought 
upon the stage at Vienna with great applause. 
Those of his lyrical poems, which he judged 
worthy of preservation, were published at Stutt- 
gart in 1833. The best known of his pieces, 
at least to English readers, is ‘*The Midnight 
Review,’’ which was set to music by the Chev- 
alier Neukomm. He has also translated Lord 
Byron’s ‘* Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,”’ and for 
several years edited the Vienna annual, called 
the ‘ Vesta,” and contributed several critical 
papers to the Vienna ‘‘ Jahrbicher der Litera- 
tur.” 


THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 


_Ar midnight from his grave 
The drummer woke and rose, 

And, beating loud the drum, 
Forth on his errand goes. 


Stirred by his fleshless arms, 
The drumsticks rise and fall ; 

He beats the loud retreat, 
Reveillé and roll-call. 


So strangely rolls that drum, 
So deep it echoes round, 

Old soldiers in their graves 
To life start at the sound : 


Both they in farthest North, 
Stiff in the ice that lay, 
And they who warm repose 


Beneath Italian clay : 
44 


Below the mud of Nile, 
And ’neath the Arabian sand, 
Their burial-place they quit, 
And soon to arms they stand. 


And at midnight from his grave 
The trumpeter arose, 

And, mounted on his horse, 
A loud, shrill blast he blows. 


On airy coursers then 
The cavalry are seen, 

Old squadrons, erst renowned, 
Gory and gashed, I ween. 


Beneath the casque, their skulls 
Smile grim, and proud their air, 

As in their bony hands 
Their long, sharp swords they bare. 


And at midnight from his tomb 
The chief awoke and rose, 

And, followed by his staff, 
With slow steps on he goes. 


A little hat he wears, 

A coat quite plain has he, 
A little sword for arms 

At his left side hangs free. 


O’er the vast plain the moon 
A paly lustre threw : 

The man with the: little hat 
The troops goes to review. 


The ranks present their arms, 
Deep rolls the drum the while ; 

Recovering then, the troops 
Before the chief defile. 


Captains and generals round 
In circles formed appear ; 

The chief to the first a word 
' Now whispers in his ear. 


The word goes round the ranks, 
Resounds along the line ; 

That word they give is, — France ! 
The answer, — Saint Héléne ! 


"T is there, at midnight hour, 
The grand review, they say, 
Is by dead Cesar held, 
In the Champs-Elysées ! 


anaes 


KARL THEODOR KORNER. 
Tus writer, equally distinguished as a poet 
and hero, was born September 23d, 1791, at 
Dresden. He studied first at the Mining Acad- 
emy in Freiberg, and in 1810 entered the Uni- 
versity of Leipsic. Being compelled to leave 
the University on account of some imprudences 


he had committed, he went to Vienna, where 
he wrote for the theatre. In 1813, he served 
in Liitzow’s corps in the war against Napoleon, 
and in the battle of Kitzen he was severely 
wounded and narrowly escaped being made 
prisoner. Recovering from his wounds during 
the armistice, he rejoined the corps on the re- 
newal of hostilities, and fought with signal 
intrepidity in several battles against the French 
under Davoust. He fell on the field of battle, 
August 26th, 1813, a short distance from Ros- 
enberg, having only an hour before finished 
his celebrated “*Sword-Song,” and read it to 
his comrades. His poems are marked by a 
lofty lyrical genius and the greatest patriotic 
enthusiasm. His works are lyrical poems, 
entitled ‘‘Knospen,” or Buds, 1810; ‘ The 
Lyre and Sword,” 1814,— seventh edition, Ber- 
lin, 1834; and dramatic pieces, including trage- 
dies and comedies. His collected works were 
published in four volumes, Berlin, 1838; sec- 
ond edition, 1842. His life was written by 
Lehmann, Halle, 1819; also by his father. His 
works have been translated into English by 
G. F. Richardson, in two volumes, London, 
1827; and his lyrical poems, by W. B. Chor- 
ley, London, 1834. 


MY FATHERLAND. 


WHeERE is the minstrel’s fatherland ? — 
Where noble spirits beam in light; 
Where love-wreaths bloom for beauty bright ; 
Where noble minds enraptured dream 
Of every high and hallowed theme : 

This was the minstrel’s fatherland ! 


How name ye the minstrel’s fatherland ? — 
Now o’er the corses of children slain 
She weeps a foreign tyrant’s reign ; 
She once was the land of the good oak-tree, 
The German land, the land’of the free: 

So named we once my fatherland! 


Why weeps the minstrel’s fatherland ? — 
She weeps, that, for a tyrant, still, 
Her princes check their people’s will ; 
That her sacred words unheeded fly, 
And that none will list to her vengeful cry : 
Therefore weeps my fatherland ! 


Whom calls the minstrel’s fatherland ? — 
She calls upon the God of heaven, 
In a voice which Vengeance’s self hath given 3 
She calls on a free, devoted band; 
She calls for an avenging hand: 
Thus calls the minstrel’s fatherland! 


What will she do, thy fatherland ? — 
She will drive her tyrant foes away ; 
She will scare the bloodhound from his prey ; 
She will bear her son no more a slave, 
Or will yield him at least a freeman’s grave: 
This will she do, my fatherland ! 


GERMAN POETRY. 


And what are the hopes of thy fatherland? — 
She hopes, at length, for a glorious prize ; 
She hopes her people will arise ; 

She hopes in the great award-of Heaven ; 
And she sees, at length, an avenger given; 
And these are the hopes of my fatherland ! 


ee 


GOOD NIGHT. 


Goop night! 

Be thy cares forgotten quite ! 
Day approaches to its close ; 
Weary nature seeks repose. 

Till the morning dawn in light, 

Good night! 


Go to rest! 

Close thine eyes in slumbers blest ! 
Now ’t is still and tranquil all; 
Hear we but the watchman’s call, 

And the night is still and blest. 

Go to rest! 


Slumber sweet! 
Heavenly forms thy fancy greet! 
Be thy visions from above, 
Dreams of rapture, — dreams of love! 
As the fair one’s form you meet, 
Slumber sweet! 


Good night! 
Slumber till the morning light! 
Slumber till the dawn of day 
Brings its sorrows with its ray ! 
Sleep without or fear or fright! 
Our Father wakes! Good night! 


1 ! 
good night ! 


SWORD-SONG. 


«© Sworp at my left side gleaming! 
Why is thy keen glance beaming, 
So fondly bent on mine? 
I love that smile of thine! 
Hurrah!” 
“¢ Borne by a trooper daring, 
My looks his fire-glance wearing, 
I arm a freeman’s hand: 
This well delights thy brand ! 
Hurrah!” 
“© Ay, good sword! Free I wear thee; 
And, true heart’s love, I bear thee, 
Betrothed one, at my side, 
As my dear, chosen bride ! 


Hurrah!” 


“To thee till death united, 

Thy steel’s bright life is plighted ; 
Ah, were my love but tried! 
When wilt thou wed thy bride? 

Hurrah!” 


Serreerinne neti canaaennne an SnRSERIIRaeRORpRDUEiaE Enea tata ata tivated she lanalci nism liane hi baolittinclie 


KORNER.—FOLLEN. 347 || 
| 
“The trumpet’s festal warning THE OAK-TREES. | 
Shall hail our bridal morning ; : R | 
When loud the cannon chide, EVENING is near,— the sun’s last rays have || 
Then clasp I my loved bride ! darted 
Wutrah t’? O’er the red sky,——day’s busy sounds wax 
low ; 
O, joy, when thine arms hold me! Beneath your shade I seat me, anxious-hearted, 
I pine until they fold ross Full of high thoughts and manhood’s youthful 
Come to me! bridegroom, come ! glow. 
Thine is my maiden bloom. sy Ye true old witnesses of times departed, 
Hurrah ! Still are ye decked in young life’s greenest | 
“© Why, in thy sheath upspringing, show ; 
Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing? The strong old days, the past world’s forms 
Why clanging with delight, ____ of power, 
So eager for the fight? Still in your pride of strength before us tower. 
Hurrah!” ; 
Much that was noble Time_hath been defil- || 
‘© Well may thy scabbard rattle, ing; eee 
Trooper, I pant for battle ; Much that was fairan early death hath died ; 
Right eager for the fight, Still through your leaf-crown glimmers, faintly 
I clang with wild delight. craic 
{ 3 5) e ° 
Hurrah The last departing glow of eventide: 
(74 Why thus, my love, forth creeping? Careless ye view the Fates wide ruins piling, — 
Stay, in thy chamber sleeping ; In vain Time menaces your healthy pride, 
Wait, still, i th’ narrow room ; And voices whisper, through your branches 
Soon for my bride I come. sighing, 
Hurrah!” ‘«¢ All that is great must triumph over dying!” 


“ Keep me not longer pining ' Thus have ye triumphed! O’er what droops 


a aS 


O, for Love’s garden, shining decaying, 
With tores, bleeding red, Green, fresh, and strong, ye rear your lusty 
And blooming with the dead! Headeaes 
1? i p : 
Hurrah : No weary pilgrim, through the forest straying, 
“Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! But rests him in the shade your branch-work 
Thou trooper’s true eye-pleasure ! spreads ; 
Come forth, my good sword, come! E’en when your leaves are dead, each light 
Enter thy father-home ! wind playing — 
Hurrah !”’ On the glad earth their precious tribute sheds: 
; : : Thus o’er your roots your fallen children sleep- 
‘Ha! in the free air glancing, Nigek y P 


’ 
our next spring-glories in sure keep- 


ing. 


How brave this bridal dancing! Be 
How, in the sun’s glad beams, ae Mane 
Bride-like thy bright steel gleams! 

Hurrah |” Fair images of true old German feeling, 
As it showed in my country’s better days, 


Come on, ye German horsemen ! my ¢ 
When, fearlessly with life’s-blood freedom seal- 


Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 


Swells not your hearts’ warm tide? INE oa 
Clasp each in hand his bride! Her sons died, glad the holy wall to raise! 
Hurrah! Ah! what avails our common grief revealing? 
: On every heart a hand of death it lays! 
Once at your left side sleeping, My German land! thou noblest under heaven! 
Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping ; Thine Oax-TREEs stand, — Tuov down to earth 
Now, wedded with your right, art driven! 
God plights your bride 1’ th’ light. 
Hurrah ! 7 aes AL 
Then press, with warm caresses, ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN. 
Close lips, and bridal kisses, 
Your steel ; — cursed be his head, Tus poet was the oldest brother of Dr. 
Who fails the bride he wed! Charles Follen, whose name is so weil known 
: Hurrah ! in the United States. He was born January 


21st, 1794, at Darmstadt. He studied several 
years at the Gymnasium in Giessen, then gave 
two years to theology at the High School there, 
after which he passed some time as private 
tutor in a noble family. In 1814, he joined 


Now, till your swords flash, flinging 
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing ; 
Day dawns for bridal pride ; 
Hurrah, thou Iron-bride ! 
Hurrah ! 


etna Pee PUL ee ROR oe Pe UE AEA ON CLI ES I SA ESE an ee eran ere EN Sa 


the Hessian jager corps of volunteers, and shared 
with them in the campaign against France. On 
his return, he studied law two years in Heidel- 
berg; afterwards edited the Elberfeld “ Univer- 
sal Gazette.” In 1819, he was implicated in 
the  Demagogical Intrigues,” and imprisoned 
in Berlin. Being set at liberty in 1821, he 
removed to Switzerland, and received an ap- 
pointment in the Canton School of Aarau, 
which ata later period he resigned, and has 
ever since lived as a private citizen. He was 
highly distinguished among the poets of the 
excited period from 1813 to 1819. His works 
consist of songs of very great merit, and trans- 
lations from the Greek, Latin, and Italian. 
The best known of his pieces are the ‘ Free 
Voices of Fresh Youth,” Jena, 1819. After- 
wards he published the “ Gallery of German 
Poetry,” two volumes, Winterthur, 1827. 


a a 


nl SET atelier 
is — = if 


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"Saale ene hien ceeds 
nd - 
a 


aye oa 


a 


‘ BLUCHER’S BALL.* 


By the Katzbach, by the Katzbach, ha! there 
was a merry dance ; 

Wild and weird and whirling waltzes skipped 
ye through, ye knaves of France ! 

For there struck the great bass-viol an old Ger- 
man master famed, — 

Marshal Forward, Prince of Wallstadt, Geb- 
hardt Lebrecht Blicher named, 

Up! the Blacher hath the ball-room lighted 

with the cannon’s glare ! 
pread yourselves, ye gay, green carpets, that 
the dancing moistens there ! 

And his fiddle-bow at first he waxed with 
Goldberg and with Jauer ; 

Whew! he’s drawn it now full length, his play 
a stormy northern shower ! 

Ha! the dance went briskly onward, tingling 
madness seized them all; 

As when howling, mighty tempests on the arms 
of windmills fall. 

But the old man wants it cheery, wants a 
pleasant dancing chime ; 

And with gun-stocks clearly, loudly, beats the 
old Teutonic time. 

Say, who, standing by the old man, strikes so 
hard the kettle-drum, 

And, with crushing strength of arm, down lets 
the thundering hammer come? 

Gneisenau, the gallant champion: Alemannia’s 
envious foes 

Smites the mighty pair, her living double-eagle, 
shivering blows. 


> In the battle of Katzbach, which was fought on the 


26th of August, 1813, the Russians and Prussians, under 
the command of the veteran Field-marshal Bliicher, defeat- 
ed the French, who were led by Macdonald, Ney, Lauriston, 
and Sebastiani, and were driven pell-mell into the Katzbach. 
Skirmishes had previously taken place at Goldberg and 
Jauer. The day of the battle was rainy, and the soldiers 
fought with clubbed muskets. The poet represents the 
scene asa ball, under the direction of old Bliicher, who had 
received, from his vigor and promptitude, the name of 
** Marshal Forward.” 


GERMAN POETRY. 


And the old man scrapes the sweep-out : 1 hap- 
less Franks and hapless trulls ! 

Now what dancers leads the graybeard ? 
ha! ha! ’t is dead men’s skulls ! 

But, as ye too much were heated in the sultri- 
ness of hell, 

Till ye sweated blood and brains, he made the 
Katzbach cool ye well. 

From the Katzbach, while ye stiffen, hear the 
ancient proverb say, 

* Wanton varlets, venal blockheads, must with 
clubs be beat away !’’/ 


Ha! 


Sa ce 


WILHELM MULLER. 


Witnetm Motirer was born October 7th, 
1795, at Dessau. In 1812, he began his studies 
at Berlin, devoting himself chiefly to history 
and philology. The Liberation War of 1813 
interrupted his studies, and he was present, as a 
volunteer, in the battles of Liitzen, Bautzen, 
Hanau, and Culm. He resumed his studies in 
1814. In 1819, he travelled in Italy, and, on 
his return, published the results of his observa- 
tions on Rome. He then became a teacher in 
the Gymnasium at Dessdtu, Court Councillor, 
and Librarian. He died October ist, 1827. 
His works are, “Poems from the Papers of a 
Travelling Player on the Bugle-horn,” two vol- 
umes, 1824; “Songs of the Greeks,’ 1821 ; 
‘Lyrical Walks,” 1827. He also published a 
valuable collection of the poets of the seven- 
teenth century, ten volumes, Leipsic, 1822-27; 
and a translation of Fauriel’s ‘* Modern Greek 
Popular Songs.” His poems were edited by 
Schwab, Leipsic, 1837, who also wrote his life. 


THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 


‘Tn rivers rush into the sea, 
By castle and town they go; 
The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 


‘The clouds are passing far and high, 
We little birds in them play ; 

And every thing, that can sing and fly, 
Goes with us, and far away. 


“T greet thee, bonny boat! 
whence, 
With thy fluttering golden band 2?” — 
“T greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 


Whither, or 


‘Full and swollen is every sail ; 
I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 
And it will not let me stand still. 
wo Ne 
« 1 The kehraus, or sweep-out, was formerly the conclud- 
ing dance at balls and parties in Germany. All the com- 
pany, headed by the musicians, danced up and down every 
staircase, and through every room in the house. 


MULLER.—PLATEN.—HEINE. 


‘And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ? 
Thou may’st stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 
With merry companions all.” 


‘‘T need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 


‘‘ High over the sails, high over the mast, — 
Who shall gainsay these joys? 

When thy merry companions are still, at last, 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 


‘‘ Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 
God bless them every one ! 

I dart away, in the bright blue day, 
And the golden fields of the sun. 


“Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 

And this same song, my whole life long, 
Neither poet nor printer may know.” 


—= 


WHITHER ? 


I nrarp a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 


I know not what came o’er me, 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 

But I must hasten downward, 
All with my pilgrim-stave ; 


Downward, and ever farther, 
And ever the brook beside ; 

And ever fresher murmured, 
And ever clearer, the tide. 


Is this the way I was going’? 
Whither, O brooklet, say ! 

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 
Murmured my senses away. 


What do I say of a murmur ? 
That can no murmur be ; 

"T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 
Their roundelays under me. 


Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 
And wander merrily near ; 

The wheels of a mill are going 
In every brooklet clear. 


Hh 


AUGUST ‘GRAF VON PLATEN- 
HALLERMUNDE. 


Tuis accomplished and interesting person 
was born at Anspach, October 24th, 1796. He 
was educated for the military career, and served 
against France. But, unsatisfied with a military 


349 


life, he studied at Wurzburg and Erlangen, 

and by his unwearied industry made himself a 
proficient in the Latin, Greek, Persian, Arabic, 
French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, and Swedish 
languages. He travelled and resided much in 
Italy, where many of his best pieces were 
written. He died at Syracuse, in Sicily, Decem- 
ber 5th, 1835. His principal writings are dra- 
matic poems, lyrical pieces, “‘ Gazelles”” (poems 
in imitation of the Persian), and “ The Abas- 
sides,’’ in nine cantos. His collected works were 


published in 1838. 


SONNETS. 
I. 

Fair as the day that bodes as fair a morrow, 
With noble brow, with eyes in heaven’s dew, 
Of tender years, and charming as the new, 

So found I thee, —so found I, too, my sorrow. 

O, could I shelter in thy bosom borrow, 

There most collected where the most unbent ! 
O, would this coyness were already spent, 

That aye adjourns our union till to-morrow ! 

But canst thou hate me? Art thou yet unshaken ? 
Wherefore refusest thou the soft confession 

To him who loves, yet feels himself forsaken ? 
O, when thy future love doth make expression, 


An anxious rapture will the moment waken, 


As with a youthful prince at his accession ! 
| 


II. 


TO SCHELLING : 
WITH SOME POEMS IN THE ORIENTAL STYLE. 


Is he not also Beauty’s sceptre bearing, 


Who holds in Truth’s domain the kingly right? 
Thou seest in the Highest both unite, 
Like long-lost melodies together pairing. 

Thou wilt not scorn the dainty, motley band, 
With clang of foreign music hither faring, 

A little gift for thee, from Morning-land, — 
Thou wilt discern the beauty they are wearing. 
Among the flowers, forsooth, of distant valleys, 

I hover like the butterfly, that clings 
To summer-sweets and with a trifle dallies : 

But thou dost dip thy holy, honeyed wings, 
Beyond the margin of the world’s flower-chalice, 

Deep, deep into the mystery of things. 


——_@+— 


HEINRICH HEINE. 


Heinricnu Heine, well known as a political 
writer and a poet, was born in 1797, at Diissel- 
dorf, on the Rhine, and studied law at the Uni- 
versities of Bonn, Berlin, and Gottingen; at 
the last of which he took his degree. He after- 
wards resided in Hamburg, Berlin, and Munich; 
and since 1830 has lived in Paris. His princi- 
pal writings are ‘‘ Buch der Lieder,” a collec- 
tion of lyrical poems ; two tragedies, ‘¢ Alman- 
sor’? and “ Radcliff’”?; the four volumes of 
“‘ Reisebilder’’; the * Beitrage zur Geschichte 
der neuern schonen Literatur in Deutschland ” ; 
the ** Franzosische Zustinde’’; and * Der Sa- 

DD 


GERMAN POETRY. 


;— the last two being collections of his 
various contributions to the German ne wspa- 
pers. The most popular of. his writings is the 
‘‘ Reisebilder ” (Pictures of Travel). The “ Bei- 
trage’’ has been translated into English, by 
G. W. Haven, under the title of “Letters aux- 
iliary to the History of Modern Polite Litera- 
ture in Germany” (Boston, 1836); a work 
several times referred to in this volume. The 
same work, with many additions, has been pub- 
lished in Paris, under the title of “De |’Alle- 
magne,” 

The style of Heine is remarkable for vigor, 
wit, and brilliancy ; but is wanting in taste and 
refinement. To the recklessness of Byron he 
adds the sentimentality of Sterne. The “ Reise- 
bilder” is a kind of “* Don Juan” in prose, with 
passages from the “Sentimental Journey.”” He 
is always in extremes, either of praise or cen- 
sure ; setting at naught the decencies of life, 
and treating the most sacred things with frivoli- 
ty. Throughout his writings are seen traces of 
a morbid, ill-regulated mind; of deep feeling, 
disappointment, and suffering. His sympathies 
seem to have died within him, like Ugolino’s 
children in the tower of Famine. With all his 
various powers, he wants the one great power, 
—the power of truth. He wants, too, that 
ennobling principle of all human endeavours, the 
aspiration ‘after an ideal standard, that is high- 
er than himself.” 

In the highest degree reprehensible, too, is 
the fierce, implacable hatred with which Heine 
pursues his foes. No man should write of 
another as he permits himself to write at times. 
In speaking of Schlegel as he does in his 
“‘German Literature,’ he is utterly without 
apology. And yet to such remorseless invec- 
tives, to such witty sarcasms, he is indebted in 
a great degree for his popularity. It was not 
till after it had bitten the heel of Hercules, that 
the Crab was placed among the constellations, 

The minor poéms of Heine, like most of his 
prose-writings, are but a portrait of himself. 
The same melancholy tone, the same endless 
sigh, pervades them. Though they possess 
a high lyric merit, they are for the most part 
fragmentary ; — expressions of some momentary 
state of feeling, — sudden ejaculations of pain 
or pleasure, of restlessness, impatience, regret, 
longing, love. They profess to he songs, and 
as songs must they be judged. Then these im- 
perfect expressions of feeling, — these mere sug- 
gestions of thought, —this “ luminous mist,”’ 
that half reveals, half hides the sense, — this 
selection of topics from scenes of every-day life, 
— and, in fine, this prevailing tone of sadness, 
will not seem affected, misplaced, or exaggerated. 
At the same time it must be confessed, that, in 
these songs, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen 
in vain for the spirit-stirring note,— for the 
word of power, — for those ancestral melodies, 
which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe 
into our ears for evermore the voices of conso- 
lation, encouragement, and warning. 


ee ee 7. Se ( 


THE VOYAGE. 


As at times a moonbeam pierces 
Through the thickest cloudy rack, 

So to me, through days so dreary, 
One bright image struggles back. 


Seated all on deck, we floated 

Down the Rhine’s majestic stream ; 
On its borders, summer-laden, 

Slept the peaceful evening-gleam. 


Brooding, at the feet I laid me 
Of a fair and gentle one, 

On whose placid, pallid features 
Played the ruddy-golden sun. 


Lutes were ringing, youths were singing, 
Swelled my heart with feelings strange ; 
Bluer grew the heaven above us, 
Wider grew the spirit’s range. 


Fairy-like beside us flitted 

Rock and ruin, wood and plain; 
And I gazed on all reflected 

In my loved one’s eyes again. 


—— 


THE TEAR. 


Tue latest light of evening 
Upon the waters shone, 

And still we sat in the lonely hut, 
In silence and alone. 


The sea-fog grew, the screaming mew 
Rose on the water’s swell, 

And silently in her gentle eye 
Gathered the tears and fell. 


I saw them stand on the lily hand, 
Upon my knee I sank, 

And, kneeling there, from her fingers fair 
The precious dew I drank. 


And sense and power, since that sad hour, 
In longing waste away ; 

Ah me! I fear, in each witching tear 
Some subtile poison lay. 


THE EVENING GOSSIP. 


WE sat by the fisher’s cottage, 
We looked on sea and sky, 

We saw the mists of evening 
Come riding and rolling by : 


The lights in the lighthouse window 
Brighter and brighter grew, 

And on the dim horizon 
A ship still hung in view. 


We spake of storm and shipwreck, 
Of the seaman’s anxious life ; 

How he floats ’twixt sky and water, 
*T wixt joy and sorrow’s strife : 


We spoke of coasts far distant, 
We spoke of south and north, 
Strange men, and stranger customs, 


That those wild lands send forth : 


Of the giant trees of Ganges, 
Whose balm perfumes the breeze ; 

And the fair and slender creatures, 
That kneel by the lotus-trees : 


Of the flat-skulled, wide-mouthed, Lap- 


landers, 
So dirty and so small ; 
Who bake their fish on the embers, 
And cower, and shake, and squall. 


The maidens listened earnestly, 
At last the tales were ended ; 
The ship was gone, the dusky night 
Had on our talk descended. 


—— 


THE LORE-LEL* 


I gnow not whence it rises, 
This thought so full-of woe ; 

But a tale of times departed 
Haunts me, and will not go. 


The.air is cool, and it darkens, 
And calmly flows the Rhine, 
The mountain-peaks are sparkling 
In the sunny evening-shine. 


And yonder sits a maiden, 
The fairest of the fair ; 

With gold is her garment glittering, 
And she combs her golden hair: 


With a golden comb she combs it; 
And a wild song singeth she, 

That melts the heart with a wondrous 
And powerful melody. 


The boatman feels his bosom 
With a nameless longing move ; 

He sees not the gulfs before him, 
His gaze is fixed above, 


Till over boat and boatman 
The Rhine’s deep waters run: 
And this, with her magic singing, 
The Lore-lei has done ! 


THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 


YonpER, on the mountain summit, 
Lies the castle wrapped in night;, 

In the valley gleam the sparkles 
Struck from clashing swords in fight. 


HEINE. 


* A witch, who, in the form of a lovely maiden. used to 
place herself on the rernarkable rock, called the Lurleyberg, 
overlooking the Rhine, and, by her magic songs arresting 
the attention of the boatmen, lured them into the neigh- 


bouring whirlpool. 


¢ 
Brothers they who thus in fury 
Fierce encounter hand to hand ; 
Say, what cause could make a brother 
*Gainst a brother turn his brand ? 


Countess Laura’s beaming glances 
Did the fatal feud inflame, 

Kindling both with equal passion 
For the fair and noble dame. 


Which hath gained the fair one’s favor ? 
Which shall win her for his bride ?— 

Vain to scan her heart’s inclining ; 
Draw the sword, let that decide. 


Wild and desperate grows the combat, 
Clashing strokes like thunder fly ; 

Ah! beware, ye savage warriors ! 
Evil powers by night are nigh. 


Woe for you, ye bloody brothers ! 
Woe for thee, thou bloody vale! 

By each other’s swords expiring, 
Sink the brothers, stark and pale. 


Many a century has departed, 
Many a race has found a tomb, 
Yet from yonder rocky summits 
Frown those moss-grown towers of 
* gloom ; 


And within the dreary valley 
Fearful sights are seen by night ; 
There, as midnight strikes, the brothers 
Sull renew their ghastly fight. 


THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 


Tue sea it hath its:pearls, 
The heaven hath its stars, 

But my heart, my heart, 
My heart hath its love. 


Great are the sea and the heaven, 
Yet greater is my heart, 

And fairer than pearls and stars 
Flashes and beams my love. 


Thou little, youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart ; 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 
Are melting away with love. 


THE FIR-TREE AND THE PALM. 


A Lonety fir-tree standeth 
On a height where north winds blow ; 
It sleepeth, with whitened garment, 
Enshrouded by ice and snow. 


It dreameth of a palm-tree, 
That far in the Eastern land, 

Lonely and silent, mourneth 
On its burning shelf of sand. 


352 


HEINRICH AUGUST HOFFMANN VON 
FALLERSLEBEN. 


Heinricu Aucust Horrmann, called Von 
Fallersleben, to distinguish him from the numer- 
ous other writers of the same name, was born 
April 2d, 1798, at Fallersleben. In 1812, he 
entered the Gymnasium at Helmstadt, and in 
1816, began his studies at the University of 
Gottingen. He was destined for theology, but 
soon gave it up and devoted himself wholly 
to literary history and German philology, the 
study of which he prosecuted at the newly 
established University of Bonn, to which he 
resorted in 1819. In his various journeys along 
the Rhine, his attention was attracted to the 
remains of German popular poetry still pre- 
served among the people. In 1821, he visited 
Holland for the purpose of investigating the 
old Netherlandish literature. In 1823, he was 
appointed keeper of the University library at 
Breslau. In 1830, he was made Professor Ex- 
traordinary, and in 1835, Ordinary Professor of 
the German Language and Literature in the 
Berlin University. Besides numerous valuable 
works in various departments of literary history 
and criticism, particularly upon German phi- 
lology, he has also written “ Alemannic Songs,” 
Fallersleben, 1826; ‘‘Poems,’’ two volumes, 
Leipsic, 1833; ‘“* The Book of Love,” Breslau, 
1836; ‘Poems, a new Collection,” Breslau, 
1837. His poems are distinguished by an art- 
less simplicity, by harmony of language, and 
skilful versification. 

The following is part of Laube’s* sketch of 
Hoffmann von Fallersleben. 

“T can never speak of Hoffmann without 
singing some of his verses, and methinks that 
is a good sign. He is a singer, and not merely 
the idea of a singer, like many of those our 
blessed native land possesses. I never think of 
the secunda and prima, where metre was drilled 
into us, where, in a dead white, comfortless 
room, we sat on black, unyielding benches; I 
do not think of the metrical crotchets and qua- 
vers, when | see Hoffmann; no, thank God! 
one needs not to have learned, in order to enjoy 
him. The sounding beech-groves upon our 
hillocks, the hamlets with black wooden walls, 
with nut-brown maids, and uproarious young- 
sters in short leathern breeches and short jack- 
ets, —the whole, dear, rustic Germany rises 
before me in this poet. The little, peaceful 
valleys, with their green slopes, open before me ; 
I see the white cottages, I hear the clarionet, 
and under the great linden, before the inn, sits a 
long gentleman with one or two travelling com- 
panions, in the midst of boors. A great flask 
of wine stands before him, a happy friendliness 
rests upon his features, and smiling eyes upon 
that small, delicate countenance. Long, waving 
locks float over his shoulders, and a little, funny 


* Moderne Characteristiken, Vol. II., p. 121. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


OS ee nk 


black cap covers the top of his head. He shows 
in his looks that his heart is delighted with the 
clarionet, with the merry peasants, with the sun- 
beams dancing among the branches of the lin- 
den, with the whole world, and the next song, 
that is already sitting upon his lips. Is it 
an ancient wayfaring Mastersinger? There is 
something in the whole cut of his figure so like 
the later Middle Ages, something so scholarly 
and careless and German. Such a long, slen- 
der man, with his hearty affection for his coun- 
try, —it can only be a German, who loves the 
spring, the wine-cup, and a traveller’s song, to 
the melody, ' 

“Once on a time, three jolly blades, 

Three jolly blades were they,’ — 

who likes all that a great deal better than free- 
dom and fame and God knows what. 

‘“‘ Yes, it is a German, and that, too, a Ger- 
man from Fallersleben; it is the tall Hoffmann 
von Fallersleben, the tall professor ; a Ger- 
man poet through and through and over and 
over. J never thought of any thing but Ger- 
many, when I saw him near Breslau, striding 
along the Marienau.Oderdamm, with long and 
wide step, into the shade of the oaks. By day, 
he sits in the cool, lofty library on the Sand- 
gasse, where once monks or nuns have prayed. 
There he studies old German codices; hard 
by ring the bells of the Sandkirche; single la- 
borious students pass reverently, softly brushing 
by the long rows of books, and look with as- 
tonishment upon the folios. There, perhaps, a 
silent song occurs to him, of romantic longing 
for the ancient Rhine, its castles, turrets, and 
cellars. And when he goes home at evening, 


the trees are rustling, the maidens singing, the 


lads yodling, the mother lulling the baby to 
sleep, a lover standing on the bridge and wait- 
ing for his love. 

“From all this, the homely, hearty, and yet so 
bright and fresh poetry of Hoffmann is woven. 
The German song is his soul. It sounds, and 
rustles, and rings through all his little volumes 
of songs : 
again about him; reviewing sounds like a dis- 
cord. Swallows, living swallows are his poems, 
and the spring is not far off.”’ 


ON THE WALHALLA.* 


Hart to thee, thou lofty hall 

Of German greatness, German glory ! 
Hail to you, ye heroes all 

Of ancient and of modern story ! 


O, ye heroes in the hall, 
Were ye but alive, as once! 
Nay, that would not do at all, -— 
The king prefers you, stone and bronze! 


* A temple on the banks of the Danube, near Regens- 
burg, in which the king of Bavaria has assembled the busts 
and statues of the great men of Germany, heroes, patriots, 
and reformers; Luther, and such little men, however, ex- 
cepted. 


all we can do fitly is to write a song 


HOFFMANN.—GRABBE. 


LAMENTATION FOR THE GOLDEN AGE. 


Woutp our bottles but grow deeper, 
Did our wine but once get cheaper, 
Then on earth there might unfold 
The golden time, the age of gold. 


But not for us, — we are commanded 

To go with temperance even-handed ; — 
The golden age is for the dead ; 

We ’ve got the paper age instead. 


But, ah! our bottles still decline, 

And daily dearer grows our wine, 

And flat and void our pockets fall ; — 
Faith! soon there ’Il be no times at all! 


GERMAN NATIONAL WEALTH. 


Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra! 

We ’re off unto America! 

What shall we take to our new land? 
All sorts of things from every hand! 
Confederation protocols ; 

Heaps. of tax and budget-rolls ; 

A whole ship-load of skins, to fill 
With proclamations just at will. 

Or when we to the New World come, 
The German will not feel at home. 


Hurra! hurra! hurra! burra! 

We ’re off unto America! 

What shall we take to our new land? 
All sorts of things from every hand ! 
A brave supply of corporals’ canes ; 
Of livery suits a hundred wains ; 
Cockades, gay caps to fill a house, and 
Armorial buttons a hundred thousand. 
Or when we to the New World come, 
The German will not feel at home. 


Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra! 

We ’re off unto America! 

What shall we take to our new land? 
All sorts of things from every hand! 
Chamberlains’ keys ; a pile of sacks ; 
Books of full blood-descents in packs ; 
Dog-chains and sword-chains by the ton ; 
Of order-ribbons bales twenty-one. 

Or when to the New World we come, 
The German will not feel at home, 


Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra! 

We ’re off unto America! 

What shall we take to our new land? 
All sorts of things from every hand! 
Skull-caps, periwigs, old-world airs ; 
Crutches, privileges, easy-chairs ; 
Councillors’ titles, private lists, 


Nine hundred and ninety thousand chests. 


Or when to the New World we come, 
The German will not feel at home. 


Hurra! hurra! bhurra! hurra! 


We ’re off unto America! 
45 


NY 
eee 


What shall we take to our new land? 

All sorts of things from every hand! 

Receipts for tax, toll, christening, wedding, 
and funeral ; 

Passports and wander-books great and small; 

Plenty of rules for censors’ inspections, 

And just three million police-directions. 

Or when to the New World we come, 

The German will not feel at home. 


DIETRICH CHRISTIAN GRABBE. 


Tis unfortunate, but richly gifted person 
was born at Detmold, December 11th, 1801. 
His whole life was made wretched by the 
demoralizing circumstances in which his child- 
hood was passed under the domestic roof. In 
spite of such unhappy influences at home, 
Grabbe was laborious at school, and at the 
Universities of Leipsic and Berlin. He wrote 
several dramas, which indicated great, though 
irregular and disordered powers; but his per- 
sonal character prevented him from forming 
intimate relations with the distinguished men 
whom the genius displayed in his writings had 
at first attracted. He attempted, but without 
success, to figure upon the stage. After this 
he gave several years of earnest labor to his 
juridical studies, commenced the practice of 
law, received a government appointment, and 
married; but he soon fell into difficulties of 
various kinds. His dissipated habits had brok- 
en down his health, and ke quarrelled with 
his acquaintances and his wife; but his poet- 
ical abilities were not suffered to remain idle. 
He was at length dismissed from his place, 
deserted his wife, and went to Frankfort, 
whence, on the invitation of Immermann, he 
repaired to Dusseldorf. Here, after a short 
respite, he yielded himself wholly to dissipa- 
tion, abandoned himself to the lowest com- 
pany, and was utterly ruined. In May, 1836, 
he returned, with health irremediably shatter- 
ed, to his native city, was reconciled with his 
wife, and died on the 12th of September. Frei- 
ligrath has commemorated this ill-fated man in 
a poem, from which the following lines are 
taken. 

““This camp! ah, yes! methinks it images well 

What thou hast been, thou lonely tower ! 

Moonbeam and lamplight mingled; the deep choral swell 

Of Music, in her peals of proudest power, 

And then — the tavern dice-box rattle! 

The Grand and the Familiar fought 

Within thee for the mastery ; and thy depth of thought 

And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle! 


** And, O, that such a mind, so rich, so overflowing 
With ancient lore and modern phantasy, 
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree 
Of golden leaves when autumn winds are blowing,— 
That such a mind, made to illume and glad 
All minds, all hearts, should have itself become 
Affliction’s chosen sanctuary and home! 


This is, in truth, most marvellous and sad !”’ 
DD 


The works of Grabbe are chiefly dramatic ; 
the most noted of them are, “The Duke of 
Gothland,” “Dog Juan and Faust,” “ Barba- 
rossa,”’ ‘‘ Henry the Sixth,” and “The Battle 
of Arminius.” He also wrote a dramatic epic, 
entitled “ Napoleon, or the Hundred Days.” 


EXTRACT FROM CINDERELLA. 
[Scene.—A grass-plat surrounded by woods and hills, 
' The Fairies appear.] 
THE FAIRIES. 


NEsTLED in the rose we lie, 
And scatter perfume through the sky. 


FIRST FAIRY. 
The snowdrop bells are ringing. 


‘ 


SECOND FAIRY. 
Hark, how the brooks are singing! 


FAIRIES. 
They ring, they sing, 
For the coming spring ! 
From a far-off zone does the stranger seem, 
And his robe is wove of the sunny beam. 


FIRST FAIRY. 
The golden sun is the crown he wears. 


SECOND FAIRY. 
His carpet, the dew-besprinkled green. 


FIRST FAIRY. 
The flowers, the’ prints where his foot hath 
been. 
SECOND FAIRY. 
And winter flies when his voice he hears. 


FIRST FAIRY. 
The greenwood longs for his warm embrace. 


SECOND FAIRY, 
The lake looks up with a smiling face. 


FIRST FAIRY. 
And the bee and fly 
In ambush lie, 
To catch but a glance of his gentle eye. 
Hear’st thou the tale 
Of the nightingale ? 


SECOND FAIRY. 
Clear as the day sounds her silver note. 
Through the thickets dark, 
Breaks the glowing spark 
That fires my bosom and tunes my throat 
To sing love’s joys and woes. 


FIRST FAIRY. 
What means the perfume of the rose ? 


SECOND FAIRY, 
"T is the rose’s voice, 
That, with trembling noise, 
Thus to the sun-god whispers low : ; 
‘In my bed of green 
Did I sleep unseen, 
Till thou didst wake me to blush and blow!” 


GERMAN POETRY. 
ma is a es rh ok ee yh arb chsh ahh ileus ihn Mle okey phn en rrr 


A GNOME (rising out of the earth). 
So! So! 
Why here ’s a taking spectacle! 
A miracle! a miracle ! 
Not much amiss, in truth, are they ; 
And I am not quite frightful in my way. 
Here, then, I may succeed, — at least, I'll try ; 
I see no use of being over-shy. 
Ah! what a foot and ankle now was there! 
She dances on the air 
Unharmed, as I declare ! 
O, were I but as light and debonair! 


THE FAIRIES (without perceiving the Gnome). 
Greet well the gentle spring ! 
As in the swimming eye 
Of love, in ecstasy, 
Sparkles the evening star with softer light ; 
So, fierier and more bright, 
Shine out the new-born world! 
Their hair with leafy garlands curled, 
The horn of plenty heavy in their hand, 
The hours, a smiling band, — 

In flying dance shall greet the race of men 
No evil eye ; 
From subterranean deeps be there to spy ; 

But golden morns be near, 
And evenings swathed in gold, 
And noons all crystal-clear, 
To light him on his way ! 
Away! dull clouds, away ! 
Let naught but fleecy flakes, 
Like solitary sheep, 
Across the blue of heaven 
At times come driving by, 
Losing themselves in its immensity. 


GNOME. 
T must confess I like these fairies now ; 
All of them pretty fair, I must avow. 
But yet I can’t make up my mind 
To which of all the group I am inclined. 
That nearest one would never do. ... « 


THE FAIRIES (suddenly perceiving him). 
See! see! a gnome! 


GNOME. 
A gnome ?——and what of that? 


THE FAIRIES, 
How short and squat ! 
His hair how tangled! and how black, like soot ! 


GNOME, 
Upon my honor, ’t is the latest cut. 


FAIRIES. 
Has he an eye? or has he not ? 


GNOME. 


They ’re quizzing me, I see, by Jove! 
And quizzing is a step to love. 
But what is this? —-O Lord! I faint for fear 


FAIRIES. 
Our queen, our queen draws near ! 
[ The queen of the Fairies appears, 


SIMROCK.—MOSEN, a 


| 
GNOME. Enchants thee the sound, befools thee the shine, | 
O all ye lightnings, Art with rapture and fear overcome, — 
No meteor flashes brighter Thou singest for aye, “On the Rhine en che | 
Than she, from pole to pole! Thine | i 
She is, indeed, the fairest of them’ all ! And returnest no more to thy home. ) 


See, how, submissive, at her feet they fall! 
The sun himself loses his countenance 

Before her blooming cheek, her garment’s glance! 
I feel, I know not how, —I really quake. 

O, yes! this must be love, —and no mistake. 


—_—+--—— 


JULIUS MOSEN. 


FIRST FAIRY. Jutius Mosren was born at the village of 

The queen is angry, — see, she pouts her lip! | Marienei, in Saxon Voigtland, July 8th, 1803. 
GNOME. His education, until his fourteenth year, was 

Would that T were a bee, from thence to sip ! directed by his father; he was then placed at 
the Gymnasium in Plauen. He did not readily 

—$—— submit himself to the discipline of the school, 

but when, in 1822, he entered the University 

KARL SIMROCK. of Jena, he found the comparative freedom of 


the student-life very much to his taste, and 
Tuis distinguished scholar and author was | several of his poems were composed at this pe- 


| 
i 
born at Bonn, August 28th, 1802. He received | riod. In 1824, he travelled in Italy ; and after- 
{ 


his early education at the Lyceum. In 1818, wards, in 1826, accompanied by Dr. Kluge, who 
after the left bank of the Rhine had been re- | died subsequently in Egypt, he visited Florence 
stored to Germany, he commenced the study | and Venice. In 1827, he resorted to the Univer- 
of law at the newly established University of sity of Leipsic, and in the following year passed 
Bonn, and completed it in Berlin under the | his examination in law. He returned home, 


direction of Savigny. 4 In 1823, he entered | but found himself reduced to poverty, with but 
the Prussian civil service. But from his early 


youth he had shown a love of poetry and letters. | the practice of his profession. The July Rev- 
His first translation of the “ Nibelungenlied ”’ olution made a deep impression on his mind, 
appeared in 1827. In 1830, some expressions | and roused him from despair. He went to 
in a poem, which he wrote on the July Revolu- Leipsic, and published the novel, “« George Ven- 
tion in France, caused his dismissal from the’! Jot.” In 1831, he left Leipsic, and received 
service. But this did not interfere with his | an appointment in Kohren, which he held until 
literary ardor. He has since then published a | 1834, 
series of very interesting and valuable works, | and has published an epic poem, ‘ Ahasuerus,”’ 
consisting of translations from the old German, | Dresden and Leipsic, 1838; ‘+ Poems,”’ Leipsic, 
such as the poems of Walther von der Vogel- | 1836; ballads, tales, and a number of historical 
weide, editions of ‘the originals of many curi- | dramas. He also labors in his profession, as 
ous and important ancient German poems, | an advocate. 
translations from Shakspeare, &c. Since 1839, Ferdinand Stolle says, in the preface to * The 
he has been associated with Freiligrath and Book of Songs,”* “The poetry of Julius Mo- 
Matzerath, in writing the “ Rheinische Jahrbuch | sen, like a mineral spring, rushes down from a 
fir Kunst und Poesie.”’ high and forest-covered mountain, bearing gold- 
— en grains, now breaking boldly through the 
WARNING AGAINST THE RHINE, rocks, now sporting with the bluebell flowers, 
which hang down from its margin. Mosen, 
next to Heine, has the most original power, 
depth, and delicacy of all the lyrical poets of 
the present age. His songs are magnets, which 
must be borne not so much on the breast as in 
|| Seest the maidens so frank, and the men go free, | ‘He breast, in order to be convinced of their 
As a noble race they were, miraculous vigor. 
And near with thy soul all-glowing shouldst be, — TT 
Then it seems to thee good and fair. 


a slender chance of mending his condition by 


Since then he has lived at Dresden, 


To the Rhine, to the Rhine, go not to the Rhine, — 
I counsel thee well, my boy; 

Too many delights of life there combine, 
Too blooming the spirit’s joy. 


THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR, 


On the river, how greet thee the castles so bright, 
| And the great cathedral town! 
On the hills, how thou climbest the dizzy height, 
And into the stream lookest down ! 


Forms of saints and kings are standing 
The cathedral door above ; 

Yet I saw but one among them, 
Who hath soothed my soul with love. 


And the Nix from the deep emerges to light, 
And thou hast beheld her glee, 

And the Lurley hath sung with lips so white,— 
My son, ’t is all over with thee. 


* Das Buch der Lieder, oder die Lyriker der Gegenwart 
in ihren Schénsten Gesingen, herausgegeben Von FErp1- 
NAND STOLLE. Grimma, 1839. 


er ag Coe maria teers atkiied 2% 


it kes Be eres oS fic 


356 


In his mantle, — wound about him, 
As their robes the sowers wind, — - 
Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 


And so stands he calm and childlike, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 
O, were I like him exalted, 
I would be like him, a child! 


And my songs,— green leaves and blossoms, — 
Up to heaven’s door would bear, 

Calling, even in storm and tempest, 
Round me still these birds of air. 


es 


THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 


On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 


And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees he how with zealous care 
At the ruthless nail of iron 
A poor bird is striving there. 


Stained with blood and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease, 

From the cross ’t would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator’s Son release. 


And the Saviour speaks in mildness: 
** Blest be thou of ail the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy-rood!” 


And that bird is called the crossbill ; 
Covered quite with blood so clear, 

In the groves of pine it singeth 
Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 


es 


ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUER- 
SPERG, 


Tas writer, belonging.to the noble and 
princely house of Auersperg, was born April 
11, 1806. He is known under the poetical 
pseudonym of Anastasius Griin. His poem en- 
titled “« The Last Knight”’ appeared at Munich, 
in 1831; and his pieces called “ Walks of a 
Poet of Vienna” have gained him great celeb- 
rity, and placed him among the best of the liv- 
ing German poets. 


ae ee 


SALOON SCENE. 


’T 13 evening: flame the chandeliers in the or- 
namented hall ; 

From the crystal of tall mirrors thousand-fold 
their splendors fall : 


“GERMAN POETRY. 


In the sea of radiance moving, almost floating, 
round are seen 
Lovely ladies young and joyous, ancient dames 
of solemn mien, 


And amongst them staidly pacing, with their 
orders graced, elate, 

Here the rougher sons of war, there peaceful 
servants of the state ; 

But, observed by all observers, wandering ’mid 
them, one I view 

Whom none to approach dare venture, save the 
elect, illustrious few. 


It is he who holds the rudder of proud Austria’s 
ship of state, : 

Who, ’mid crowned heads in congress, acting 
for her, sits sedate. 

But now see him! O, how modest! how polite 
to one and all! 

Gracious, courtly, smiling round him, on the 
great and on the small. 


The stars upon his bosom glitter faintly in the 
circle’s blaze, 

But a smile so mild and friendly ever on his 
features plays : 

Both when from a lovely bosom now he takes 
a budding rose, 

And now realms, like flowers withered, plucks, 
and scatters as he goes. 


Equally bewitching sounds it, when fair locks 
his praise attends, 

Or when he from heads anointed kingly crowns 
so calmly rends: : 

Ay, the happy mortal seemeth in celestial joys 
to swim, 

Whom his word to Elba doometh, or to Mun- 
kat’s dungeons grim. 


O, could Europe now but see him, so obliging, 
so gallant, 

As the man in martial raiment, as the church’s 
priestly saint, 

As the state’s star-covered servant, by his smile 
to heaven advanced, 

As the ladies, old and young, are all enraptured 
and entranced ! 


Man o’ th’ empire! Man o’ th’ council! as 
thou art in kindly mood, 

Show'st thyself just now so gracious, unto all 
so wondrous good, — 

See! without, an humble client to thy princely 
gate hath pressed, 

Who with token of thy favor burns to be su- 
premely blessed. 


Nay, — thou hast no cause of terror; he is hon- 
est and discreet, 

Carries no concealed dagger ‘neath his garments 
smooth and neat : 

It is Austria’s people !— open, full of truth and 
honor, — see! 

How he prays most mildly, ‘‘ May I — take the 
freedom to be free?” 


THE CENSOR. 


Many a hero-priest is shown us in the storied 
times of yore, 

Who the word of truth, undaunted, through the 
world unceasing bore ; 

Who in halls of kings hath shouted, — “Fie ! 
I scent lost Freedom’s grave!”’ 

And to many a high dissembler bluntly cried, 
‘Thou art a knave !”’ 


Were J but such Freedom’s champion, shrouded 
in the monkish frock, 

Straight unto the Censor’s dwelling I must hie, 
and loudly, knock ; 

To the man must say, — ‘‘Arch scoundrel ! 
down at once upon thy knees ! 

For thou art a vile offender, —down! confess 
thy villanies!”’ 


And I hear the wretch already how he wipes 
his vileness clean,— 

‘“©O, your reverence is in error, I am not the 
man you mean! 

I omit no mass, no duty, fill my post with ser- 
vice true ; 

I’m no lewd one, no blasphemer, 
thief, or godless Jew !”’ 


murderer, 


But my zeal indignant flashes from my heart in 
flaming tones ; 

Like the thunder ’mid the mountains, in his ear 
my answer groans: 

Every g elance falls like an arrow, cutting through 
HE guilty heart; 

Every word is like a hammer, which makes 
bone and marrow part. 


«© Yes! thou art a stock-blind Hebrew! for thou 
hast not yet divined, 

That for us, like Christ, all-glorious rose, too, 
Freedom of the Mind! 

Yes! thou art a bloody murderer! doubly cursed 
and doubly fell ! — 

Others merely murder bodies, — thou dost mur- 
der souls as well! 


‘© Yes! thou art a thief, a base one! or, by 
Heaven! a fouler wight ! — 

Others to steal fruits do merely leap our garden- 
fence by night ; 

But thou, wretch! into the garden of the human 
mind hast broke, 

And with fruit, and leaf, and blossom, fell’st the 
tree too at a stroke ! 


‘¢ Yes! thou art a base adulterer! but in shame 
art doubly base ! — 

Others burn and strive for nate ‘that their 
neighbours’ gardens grace ; 

But a crime inspired by beauty for thy grovel- 
ling soul ’s too poor: 

Night, and fog, and vilest natures can alone 
thy heart allure ! 


AUERSPERG. 3507 


“Yes! thou art a foul blasphemer! or, by 
Heaven! a devil born !— 

Others wood and marble figures dash to pieces, 
in their scorn ; 

But thy hand, relentless villain! strikes to dust 
the living frame, 

Which man’s soul, God’s holy image, quickens 
with its thoughts of flame ! 


‘Yes! thou art an awful sinner! 
laws yet leave thee free ; 

But within thy soul, in terror, rack and gallows 
must thou see ! 

Smite thy breast, then, in contrition ; thy bowed 
head strew ashes o’er; 

Bend thy knee, make full confession ; — go thy 
way, and sin no more!” 


True, our 


THE CUSTOMS-CORDON. 


Our country is a garden, which the timid gard- 
ener’s doubt 

With an iron palisado has inclosed round 
about ; 

But without live folk whom entrance to this 
garden could make glad ; 

And a guest who loves sweet scenery cannot 
be so very bad. 


Black and yellow lists go stretching round our 
borders grim and tight ; 

Custom-house and beadle-watchers gue:d our 
frontiers day and night, — 

Sit by day before the tax-house, lurk by night 
i’ th’ long damp grass, 

Silent, crouching on their stomachs, lowering 
round on all that pass ; 


That no single foreign dealer, foreign wine, to- 
bacco bale, 

Foreign silk, or foreign linen, 
their pale ; 

That a guest, than all more hated, set not foot 
upon our earth, — 

Thought, which in a foreign soil, in foreign light, 
has had its birth! 


slyly steal within 


Finally the watch grows WRATY sn when the ghost- 
ly hour ine near ; 

For in our good land how many from all spec- 
tres eisai in fear ! 

Cold and cutting blows the north wind, on each 
limb doth faintness fall ; 

To the pot-house steal the watchers, where both 
wine and comfort call. 


See! there start forth from the bushes, from the 
night-wind’s shrouding wings, 

Men with heavy packs all laden, carts upheaped 
with richest things : 

Silent as the night-fog creeping, 
noiseless tracts they wend ; 

See! there, too, goes Thought amongst them, — 


through the 


I TS GA PE PPR LP ET LP IEE ORO III POLE LE, IONE LDN LOLOL NG ELLOS 


towards his mission’s sacred end. 


With the smugglers must he travel, — he whom 
nothing hides from sight ; 

With the murky mists go creeping, — he the 
son of Day and Light! 

O, come forth, ye thirsty drinkers! weary 
watchers-out, this way ! 

Fling yourselves in rank and file, — post your- 
selves in armed array ! 


Point your muskets! sink your colors, with the 
freeman’s solemn pride ! 

Let the drums give joyful thunder! — cast the 
jealous barriers wide! 

That with green palms all-victorious, proud and 
free in raiment bright, 

Through the hospitable country TnouguT may 
wander, scattering light! 


THE LAST POET. 


‘¢ WueEn will your bards be weary 
Of rhyming on? How long 
Kre it is sung and ended, 
The old, eternal song? 


‘Ts it not, long since, empty, 
The horn of full supply ; 

And all the posies gathered, 
And all the fountains dry?” 


As long as the sun’s chariot 
Yet keeps its azure track, 

And but one human visage 
Gives answering glances back; 


As long as skies shall nourish 
The thunderbolt and gale, 

And, frightened at their fury, 
One throbbing heart shall quail ; 


As long as after tempests 
Shall spring one showery bow, 
One breast with peaceful promise 
And reconcilement glow; 


As long as night the concave 
Sows with its starry seed, 
And but one man those letters 
Of golden writ can read; 


Long as a moonbeam glimmers, 
Or bosom sighs a vow; 

Long as the wood-leaves rustle 
To cool a weary brow; 


As long as roses blossom, 
And earth is green in May; 
As long as eyes shall sparkle 
And smile in pleasure’s ray ; 


As long as cypress shadows 
The graves more mournful make, 
Or one cheek ’s wet with weeping, 
Or one poor heart can break ; — 


GERMAN POETRY. 


So long on earth shall wander 
The goddess Poesy, 

And with her, one exulting 
Her votarist to be. 


And singing on, triumphing, 
The old earth-mansion through, 
Out marches the last minstrel ; — 
He is the last man too. 


The Lord holds the creation 
Forth in his hand meanwhile, 

Like a fresh flower just opened, 
And views it with a smile. 


When once this Flower Giant 
Begins to show decay, 

And earths and suns are flying 
Like blossom-dust away ; 


Then ask, —if of the question 
Not weary yet, — “ How long, 
Ere it is sung and ended, 
The old, eternal song? ’* 


HENRY FRAUENLOB. 


In Mentz ’t is hushed and lonely, the streets 
are waste and drear, 

And none but forms of sorrow, clad in mourn- 
ing garbs, appear ; 

And only from the steeple sounds the death- 
bell’s sullen boom ; 

One street alone is crowded, and it leads but to 
the tomb. 


And as the echo from the tower grows faint and 
dies away, 

Unto the minster comes a still and sorrowful 
array, — 

The old man and the young, the child, and 
many a maiden fair ; 

And every eye is dim with tears, in every 
heart is care. 


Six virgins in the centre bear a coffin and a bier, 

And to the rich high-altar steps with deadened 
chant draw near, 

Where all around for saintly forms are dark 
escutcheons found, 

With a cross of simple white displayed upon a 
raven ground. 


And, placed that raven pall above, a laurel-gar- 
land green, 

The minstrel’s verdant coronet, his meed of 
song, is seen ; 

His golden harp, beside it laid, a feeble murmur 
flings, 

As the evening wind sweeps sadly through its 
now forsaken strings. 


Who rests within his coffin there? For whom 
this general wail ? 
Is some beloved monarch gone, that old and 


young look pale ? 


A king, in truth, —a king of song! and Frav- 
ENLOB his name; 

And thus in death his fatherland must celebrate 
his fame. 


Unto the fairest flowers of heaven that bloom 
this earth along, 

To women’s worth, did he on earth devote his 
deathless song ; 

And though the minstrel hath grown old, and 
faded be his frame, 

They yet requite what he in life hath done for 
love and them. 


GS 


GUSTAV PFIZER. 


Gustav PrizEer, well known as a poet, 
translator, and critic, was born at Stuttgart, 
July 29, 1809. His education was commenced 
at the Gymnasium there, and he afterwards 
studied philology, philosophy, and theology at 
Tiibingen. Butfew events have happened to 
disturb the even tenor of his literary life. His 
“Poems,” published at Stuttgart, 1831, were 
received with applause. In 1834, after a tour 
in Italy, he published a new collection. He 
has written a ‘ Life of Luther’; translated 
the greater part of Byron’s poems, several of 
Bulwer’s novels, and the ‘“‘ Athens”’ of the same 
author ; he has published many poems, in vari- 
ous journals, and contributed critical articles to 
the reviews ; thus leading a life of external quiet, 
but of great literary activity. 


THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 


A youTH, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, 
And straight again is furled. 


Yet oft I dream that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 


And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 


I wake! Away, that dream, — away ! 
Too long did it remain! 

So long, that, both by night and day, 
It ever comes again. 


The end lies ever in my thought ; — 
To a grave so cold and deep 

The mother beautiful was brought ; 
Then dropped the child asleep. 


But now the dream is wholly o’er, 
I bathe mine eyes and see; 

And wander through the world once more, 
A youth so light and free. 


Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair, — 
Left me that vision mild; 

The brown is from the mother’s hair, 
The blond is from the child. 


PFIZER.—FREILIGRATH. 359 


And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 
And when the dark lock I behold, 

I wish that I were dead. 


4 


FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. 


FERDINAND FREILIGRATH was born at Det- 
mold, in Westphalia, in the year 1810, and 
there passed his childhood and early youth. 
He afterwards engaged in commercial pursuits, 
and resided for a season in Holland. Of late 
years, he bas given himself wholly to literature, 
and has chosen for his residence the beautiful 
town of St. Goar, on the Rhine, where, divid- 
ing his time between his books and his friends, 
he leads the true life of a poet, in the quiet of 
rural scenes, whose seclusion is not solitude, 
and whose transcendent beauty moves the soul 
to song. 

Among all the younger poets of Germany, 
Freiligrath possesses the highest claim to our 
admiration. He has the richest imagination 
and the greatest power of language. His writ- 
ings are filled with the most vivid pictures, 
sketched with a bold hand and a brilliant col- 
oring. He delights particularly in remote and 
desert regions, in the geysers of Iceland, the 
ocean, and the sands of Africa: 

‘Where the barren earth, and the burning sky, 

And the blank horizon, round and round, 

Spread, void of living sight or sound.”’ 
This is one of the most striking characteris- 
tics of his genius, and was nurtured from his 
childhood by his favorite books, which were 
those of wild adventure, and voyages and trav- 
els in far-off lands. He seems to say: 


‘¢ Alone in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side ; 
Away, away from the dwellings of men, 
By the wild deer’s haunt, by the buffalo’s glen, 
By valleys remote, where the oribi plays, 
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, 
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
By the skirts of gray forests o’erhung with wild vine, 
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, 
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
In the fen, where the wild ass is drinking his fill.” 


Indeed, from the vividness of his pictures, 
the reader would be led to think him a great 
traveller, and to imagine that he had seen all 
he describes. But this is not the case. He 
has beheld these scenes with the eye of the 
mind only. 

Freiligrath is also remarkable for his great 
skill as a translator. Among other beautiful 


versions, he has rendered into his native tongue 
Shakspeare’s “‘ Venus and Adonis,”’ and ‘ The 
Forest Sanctuary” of Mrs. Hemans; and is 
now occupied with a volume of selections from 
the American poets. 

The following characteristic poems, though 
not always very literally rendered, are full of 


360 


GERMAN POETRY. 


life, and of that fire, vigor, and originality, 
which place Freiligrath at the head of the 
young poets of Germany. 

“Wholly different from the other poets,” 
says Ferdinand Stolle,* ‘ Ferdinand Freiligrath 
gallops about upon his ‘steed of Alexandria’ ; 
and, from dislike of present time and _ place, 
flies, with careering strength of imagination, to 
the deserts of Arabia, where the phantom car- 
avan sweeps grimly along, or to the interior 
of Africa, where the lion bounds through the 
sandy sea upon the bleeding giraffe, or to the 
primeval forests of Canada, where the red men 
sit silently around their fires.” 


THE MOORISH PRINCE, 


PART 1. 


His lengthening host through the palm-vale 
wound ; 

The purple shawl on his Jocks he bound ; 

He hung on his shoulders the lion-skin ; 

Martially sounded the cymbal’s din. 


Like a sea of termites, that black, wild swarm 

Swept, billowing onward: he flung his dark arm, 

Encircled with gold, round his loved one’s 
neck ; — 

“For the feast of victory, maiden, deck ! 


“ Lo! glittering pearls I’ve brought thee there, 

To twine with thy dark and glossy hair ; 

And the corals, all snake-like, in Persia’s green 
sea, 

The dripping divers have fished for me. 


* See, plumes of the ostrich, thy beauty to grace ! 
Let them nod, snowy white, o’er thy dusky face ; 
Deck the tent, make ready the feast for me, 
Fill the garlanded goblet of victory!” 


And forth from his snowy and shimmering tent 

The princely Moor in his armor went: 

So looks the dark moon, when, eclipsed, through 
the gate 

Of the silver-edged clouds she rides forth in 
her state. 


A welcoming shout his proud host flings ; 

And “welcome!” the stamping steed's hoof 
rings ; 

For him rolts faithful the negro’s blood, 

And Niger’s old, mysterious flood. 


*¢ Now lead us to victory, lead us to fight !’— 
They baitled from morning far into the night ; 
The hollow tooth of the elephant blew 

A blast that pierced each foeman through. 


How scatter the lions! the serpents fly 

From the rattling tambour; the flags on high, 
All hung with skulls, proclaim the dead, 
And the yellow desert is dyed in red. 


* Das Buch der Lieder. Vorwort, p. 8. 


So rings in the palm-vale the desperate fight ; — 

But she is preparing the feast for the night ; 

She fills the goblets with rich palm-wines, 

And the shafts of the tent-poles with flowers 
she twines. 


With pearls, that Persia’s green flood bare, 
She winds her dark and curly hair ; 
Feathers are floating her brow to deck, 

And gay shells gleam on her arms and neck: 


She sits by the door of her lover’s tent, 

She lists the far war-horn till morning is spent; 
The noonday burns, the sun stings hot, 

The garlands wither, — she heeds it not. 


The sun goes down in the fading skies, 

The night-dew trickles, the glowworm flies, 
And the crocodile looks from the tepid pool, 
As if he, too, would enjoy the cool. 


The lion, he stirs him and roars for prey, 

The elephant-tusks through the jungles make 
way, 

Home to her lair the giraffe goes, 

And flower-leaves shut, and eyelids close. 


Her anxious heart beats fast and high, 

When a bleeding, fugitive Moor draws nigh: — | 

‘‘ Farewell to all hope now! The battle is lost! 

Thy lover is captured, -— he ’s borne to the 
coast, — 


“They sell him to white men, —he’s carried —”’ 
O, spare’! 

The maiden falls headlong; she clutches her 
hair ; 

All-quivering, she crushes the pearls in her 
hand ; 

She hides her hot cheek in the burning-hot 
sand. 


PART II. 


"T is fair-day ; how sweeps the tempestuous 
throng 

To circus and tilt-ground, with shout and with 
song ! 

There ’s a blast of trumpets, the cymbal rings, 

The deep drum rumbles, Bajazzo springs. 


Come on! come on !——how swells the roar ! 
They fly, as on wings, o’er the hard, flat floor ; 
) b] y] P 
The British sorrel, the Turk’s black steed 
’ b] 
From plumed beauty seek honor’s meed. 


And there, by the tilting-ground’s curtained door, 

Stands, silent and thoughtful, a curly-haired 
Moor : ° 

The Turkish drum he beats full loud ; 

On the drum is hanging a lion-skin proud. 


He sees not the knights and their graceful swing, 
He sees not the steeds and their daring spring ; 
The Moor’s dry eye, with its stiff, wild stare, 
Sees naught but the shaggy lion-skin there. 


He thinks of the far, far distant Niger, 

And how he once chased there the lion and 
tiger ; 

And how he once brandished his sword in the 
fight, 

And came not back to his couch at night. 


And he thinks of her, who, in other hours, 

Decked her hair with his pearls and plucked 
him her flowers ; — 

His eye grew moist, — with a scornful stroke 

He smote the drum-head, — it rattled and broke. 


THE EMIGRANTS. 


I cannoT take my eyes away 

From you, ye busy, bustling band! 
Your little all to see you lay, 

Each, in the waiting seaman’s hand ! 


Ye men, who from your necks set down 
The heavy basket, on the earth, 

Of bread from German corn, baked brown 
By German wives, on German hearth ! 


And you, with braided queues so neat, 
Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown, 

How careful on the sloop’s green seat 
You set your pails and pitchers down ! 


Ah! .oft have home’s cool, shady tanks 
These pails and pitchers filled for you: 
On far Missouri’s silent banks, 
Shall these the scenes of home renew : — 


The stone-rimmed fount in village street, 
That, as ye stooped, betrayed your smiles; 
The hearth and its familiar seat ; 
The mantle and the pictured tiles. 


Soon, in the far and wooded West, 

Shall log-house walls therewith be graced ; 
Soon, many a tired, tawny guest 

Shall sweet refreshment from them taste. 


From them shall drink the Cherokee, 
Faint with the hot and dusty chase ; 
No more from German vintage ye 
Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace. 


O, say, why seek ye other lands? 
The Neckar’s vale hath wine and corn; 
Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands; 
In Spessart rings the Alp-herd’s horn. 


Ah! in strange forests how ye ’Il yearn 
For the green mountains of your home, 
To Deutschland’s yellow wheat-fields turn, 

In spirit o’er her vine-hills roam ! 


How will the form of days grown pale 
In golden dreams float softly by! 
Like some unearthly, mystic tale, 


’T will stand before fond memory’s eye. 
46 


FREILIGRATH. 


The boatman calls! go hence in peace ! 
God bless ye, man and wife and sire ! 

Bless all your fields with rich increase, 
And crown each true heart’s pure desire ! 


THE LION’S RIDE. 


Wuat!—wilt thou bind him fast with a 
chain ? 
Wilt bind the king of the cloudy sands? 
Idiot fool !— he has burst from thy hands 
and bands, 
And speeds like Storm through his far do- 
main ! 
See! he crouches down in the sedge, 
By the water’s edge, 
Making the startled sycamore-boughs to quiver ! 
Gazelle and giraffe, I think, will shun that 
river. 


Not so!— The curtain of evening falls, 
And the Caffre, mooring his light canoe 
To the shore, glides down through the 
hushed karroo, 
And the watchfires burn in the Hottentot 
kraals, 
And the antelope seeks a bed in the bush 
Till the dawn shall blush, 
And the zebra stretches his limbs by the tink- 
ling fountain, 
And the changeful signals fade from the Table 
Mountain. 
Now look through the dusk! What seest 
thou now ? 
Seest such a tall giraffe! She stalks, 
All majesty, through the desert walks, — 
In search of water to cool her tongue and 
brow. 
From tract to tract of the limitless waste 
Behold her haste ! 
Till, bowing her long neck down, she buries 
her face in 
The reeds, and, kneeling, drinks from the river’s 
basin. 


But look again !— look !—see once more 
Those globe eyes glare! The gigantic reeds 
Lie cloven and trampled like puniest 
weeds, — 
The lion leaps on the drinker’s neck with a 
roar ! 
O, what a racer! Can any behold, 
"Mid the housings of gold 
In the stables of kings, dyes half so splendid 
As those on the brindled hide of yon wild an- 
imal blended ? 


Greedily fleshes the lion his teeth 
In the breast of his writhing prey : — 
around 
Her neck his loose brown mane is wound. — 


beneath, 


Hark, that hollow cry! She springs up ee 


| 
| 
| | 
t 
t 
| 
' 


a 


i rides the lion in Afric’s deserts nightly. 


And in agony flies over plains and heights. 
See, how she unites, 
Evén under such monstrous and torturing tram- 
mel, 
With the grace of the leopard, the speed of the 
camel ! 


She reaches the central moon-lighted plain, 
That spreadeth around all bare and wide ; 
Meanwhile, adown her spotted side 

The dusky blood-gouts rush like rain, — 

. And her woful eyeballs, how they stare 
On the void of air! 
Yet on she flies, — on, — on ; —for her there is 
no retreating ; — 
And the desert can hear the heart of the doomed 
one beating! 


And; lo! a stupendous column of sand, 
A sand-spout out of that sandy ocean, up- 
curls 
Behind the pair in eddies and whirls ; 
Most like some flaming colossal brand, 
Or wandering spirit of wrath 
On his blasted path, 
Or the dreadful pillar that lighted the warriors 
and women 
Of Israel’s land through the wilderness of Ye- 
men. 


And the vulture, scenting a coming carouse, 
Sails, hoarsely screaming, down the sky ; 
The bloody hyena, be sure, is nigh, — 

Fierce pillager he-of the charnel-house ! 

The panther, too, who strangles the Cape- 
Town sheep 
As they lie asleep, 
Athirst for his share in the slaughter, follows ; 
While the gore of their victim spreads like a 
pool in the sandy hollows:! 


She reels, —but the king of the brutes be- 
strides 
His tottering throne to the last :— with 
might 
He plunges his terrible claws in the bright 
And delicate cushions of her sides. 
Yet hold! — fair play !—she rallies again ! 
In vain, —in vain! 
Her struggles but help to drain her life-blood 
faster ; — 
She staggers, — gasps, —and sinks at the feet 
of her slayer and master ! 


She staggers, — she falls ; — she shall struggle 
no more ! 
The death-rattle slightly convulses her 
throat + — 
Mayest look thy last on that mangled coat, 
Besprent with sand, and foam, and gore ! 
Adieu! The orient glimmers afar, 
‘And the morning-star 
Anon will rise over Madagascar brightly. — 


GERMAN POETRY. 


ICELAND-MOSS TEA. 


Op even in boyhood, faint and ill, 
And sleepless on my couch of woe, 
I sip this beverage, which I owe 


To geysers’ depths and Hecla’s hill. 


In fields where ice lies layer on layer, 
And lava hardens o’er the whole, 
And the circle of the Arctic Pole © 

Looks forth on snow-crags ever bare ; 


Where fierce volcanic fires burn blue, 
Through many a meteor-lighted night, 
’Mid springs that foam in boiling might, 

These blandly-bitter lichens grew. 


Where from the mountain’s furnace-lair, 
From thousand smoke-enveloped cones, 
Colossal blocks of red-hot stones 

Are, night by night, uphurled in air — 


(Like blood-red saga-birds of yore), 
While o’er the immeasurable snows 
A sea of burning resin flows, 

Bubbling like molten metal ore ; 


Where, from the jokuls to the strand, 
The dimmed eye turns from smoke and 
steam, 
Only to track some sulphur-stream, 
That seethes along the blasted land ; 


. 


Where clouds lie black on cinder-piles, 
And all night Jong the lone seal moans, 
As, one by one, the mighty stones 

Fall echoing down on far-off isles ; 


Where, in a word, hills vomit flame, 
And storms for ever lash the sea, — 
There sprang this bitter moss for me, 

Thence this astringent potion came. 


Yes! and my heart beats lightlier now, 

My blood begins to dance along: 

I now feel strong, — O, more than strong! 
I feel transformed, I know not how. 


The meteor-lights. are in my brain, — 
I see through smoke the desolate shore, — 
The raging torrent sweeps once more: 
From Hecla’s crater o’er the plain. 


Deep in my breast the boiling springs 
Beneath apparent ice are stirred, — 
My thoughts are each a saga-bird, 

With tongues of living flame for wings! 


Ha! if this green beverage be 
The chalice of my future life, — 
If now, as in yon isle, the strife 
Of snow and fire be born in me, — 


O, be it thus! O, let me feel 


The lava-flood in every vein ! 
Be mine the will that conquers pain, 
The heart of rock, the nerves of steel ! 


FREILIGRATH. 363 


O, let the flames that burn unfed 
Within me wax until they glow, 
Voleano-like, through even the snow 

That in few years shall strew my head! 


And, as the stones that Hecla sees 
Flung up to heaven through fiery rain 
Descend like thunderbolts again 

Upon the distant Faroese, — 


So let the rude but burning rhymes 
Cast from the caldron of my breast 
Again fall flashing down, and rest 

On human hearts in farthest climes! 


THE SHEIK OF MOUNT SINAI. 


A NARRATIVE OF OCTOBER, 1830. 


“How sayest thou? Came to-day the caravan 
From Africa? And isit here? ’T is well; 
Bear me beyond the tent, me and mine ottoman ; 
I would myself behold it. I feel eager 
To learn the youngest news. As the gazelle 
Rushes to drink, will I to hear, and gather 
thence fresh vigor.” 


So spake the sheik. They bore him forth; and 
thus began the Moor : — 
“Old man! upon Algeria’s towers the tricolor 
is flying! 
Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony and 
door ; 
In the streets the loud réveil resounds at 
break of day ; 
Steeds prance to the Marseillaise o’er heaps of 
dead and dying: 
The Franks came from Toulon, men say. 


“Southward their legions marched through 
burning lands; 
The Barbary sun flashed on their arms; about 
Their chargers’ manes were blown clouds of 
Tunisian sands. 
Knowest where the giant Atlas rises dim in 
The hot sky? Thither, in disastrous rout, 
The wild Kabyles fled with their herds and 
women. 


«¢ The Franks pursued. Hu! Allah !—Each defile 
Grew a very hell-gulf then, with smoke, and 
fire, and bomb! 
The lion left the deer’s half-cranched remains 
the while ; 
He snuffed upon the winds a daintier prey ! 
Hark ! the shout, ‘En Avant!’ To the topmost 
peak upclomb 
The conquerors in that bloody fray ! 


“Circles of glittering bayonets crowned the 
mountain’s height. 

The hundred cities of the plain, from Atlas to 
the sea afar, 

From Tunis forth to Fez, shone in the noonday 

light. 


The spearmen rested by their steeds, or slaked 
their thirst at rivulets ; 
And round them through dark myrtles burned, 
each like a star, 
The slender, golden minarets. 


“But in the valley blooms the odorous almond- 
tree, 
And the aloe blossoms on the rock, defying 
storms and suns. 
Here was their conquest sealed. Look !—yon- 
der heaves the sea, 
And far to the left lies Franquistin. 
banners flouted the blue skies, 
The artillery-men came up. Mashallah! how 
the guns 
Did roar, to sanctify their prize!” 


The 


“’T is they !”’ the sheik exclaimed; “I fought 
among them, I, 
At the battle of the Pyramids! Red, all the long 
day, ran, 
Red as thy turban-folds, the Nile’s high billows 
by ! 
But, their sultan ? — Speak !— He was once 
my guest. 
His lineaments, — gait, — garb? 
The Man?” 
The Moor’s hand slowly felt its way into his 
breast. 


Sawest thou 


‘*¢ No,” he replied ; “* he bode in his warm pal- 
ace-halls. 
A pacha led his warriors through the fire of 
hostile ranks ; 
An aga thundered for him before Atlas’ iron 
walls. 
His lineaments, thou sayest? 
least, they lack 
The kingly stamp. See here! A spahi! of the 
Franks 
Gave me this coin, in chaffering, some days 
back.” 


On gold, at 


The kashef? took the gold; he gazed upon the 
head and face. 
Was this the great sultan he had known long 
years ago? 
It seemed not; for he sighed, as all in vain to 
trace 
The still remembered features. “ Ah, no! — 
this,’’ he said, “is 
Not his broad brow and piercing eye: who this 
man is I do not know. 
How very like a pear his head is!” 


—__— 


TO A SKATING NEGRO. “ 


Man of giant height and form, 
Who beside the Gambia river, 
Oft, amid the lightning storm, 
Sawest the glittering fetish quiver! 


1 Horse-soldier. 2 Governor. 


: w= 
7 = 
el eee Tae 
es mene ee 
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= Le ee 
[ae ae pO en 
. <3 ZVa oe oe == 


Who hast poured the panther’s hot 
Life-blood out beneath the equator, 

And with poisoned arrow shot 
Through red reeds the alligator ! 


Wherefore art thou here? Why flies 
Thy fleet foot o’er frozen places, — 

Thou, the child of tropic skies, 
Cradled in the sun’s embraces ? 


Thou that, reeking from the wave, 

On thy war-horse often sprungest, 
And around the Foulah slave 

Guinea’s badge of bondage flungest ! 


O, at home, amid thy mates, 

There, where skulls tattooed and gory 
Whiten high o’er palace-gates, 

Let me see thee in thy glory! 


Where gold gum from bursten trees 
Oozes like the slime of Lethe, 

As in dreams my spirit sees, 
Let mine eyes in daylight see thee.! 


See thee, far from our chill North, 
Which thou in thy soul abhorrest, 
Chase the koomozeeno! forth 
Through the boundless bannian-forest ! 


See thee, in thine own rich land, 

Decked with gems of barbarous beauty, 
Keeping watch, with spear in hand, 

O’er thy manza’s® piles of booty ! 


Whirling, gliding here along, 
Ever shifting thy position, 

Thou resemblest, in this throng, 
Some strange African magician, 


Who, within the enchanted ring, 
All the host of hell defieth, 

Or, upborne on griffin-wing, 
Through Zahara’s desert flieth ! 


O, when sunny spring once more 
Melts the ice of western oceans, 

Hie thee back to that loved shore 
Where were born thy first emotions ! 


There, around thy jet-black head 

Bright gold-dust in garlands flashes, — 
Here, hoar-frest and snows instead 

Strew it but with silver ashes ! 


THE ALEXANDRINE METRE. 


Bounp! bound! my desert-barb from Alexan- 
dria! 

My wild one! Such a courser no emir or shah 

Bestrides, — whoever else may, in those East- 
ern’ lands, 


1 Rhinoceros, 2 Sovereign’s. 


GERMAN POETRY. 
a 


Rock in magnificent’ saddles upon field or 
plain ! 
Where thundereth such a hoof as thine along 
the sands? 
Where streameth such a tail ? 
a meteor mane? 


Where such 


As it stands written, thus thou neighest loud, 


‘Had het 
Spurning both bit and reins! The winds of 
Africa 


Blow the loose hair about thy chaffron to and fro! 
Lightning is in thy glance, thy flanks are 
white with foam ! 
Thou art not, sure, the animal snaffled by Boi- 
leau, 
And whom Gottschedian turnpike-law for- 
bade to roam! 


He, bitted, bridled, reined, steps delicately along, 
Ambling for ever to the air of one small song, 
Till he reaches the cesura. That’s a highway- 
ditch 
For him to cross!' He stops, —he stares, — 
he snorts, —at last, 
Sheer terror screwing up his pluck to a desper- 
ate pitch, 
He — jumps one little jump, and the ugly 
gulf is passed. 


Thou, meanwhile, speedest far o’er deserts and 
by streams, 


Like rushing flame! To thee the same vesura 


seems 

A chasm in Mount Sinai. The rock is riven in 
two! 

* Still on! Thy fetlocks bleed. Now for an 


earthquake shock ! 
Hurrah ! thou boundest over, and thine iron shoe 
Charms rattling thunder and red lightning 
from the rock ! 


Now hither! Here we are! Knowest thou this 
yellow sand ? 
So !— there, — that’s well! 


Reel under my 
controlling hand ! 


Tush! never heed the 8weat :— Honor is born 


of Toil. 
I'll see thee again at sunset, when the south- 
ern breeze 


Blows cool. . Then I will lead thee o’er a soft 
green soil, 
And water thee till nightfall in the Middle 
Seas. 


—_—— 


THE KING OF CONGO AND HIS HUNDRED WIVES. 


Fitt up with bright palm-wine, unto the rim 
fill up 
The cloven ostrich-eggshell cup, 
And don your shells and cowries, ye oul- 
tanas ! ; 
O, choose your gayest, gorgeousest array, 
As on the brilliant Buram holiday 
That opes the doors of your zenanas! 


FREILIGRATH. 


Come! never sit a-trembling on your silk de- 
wauns ! 


What fear ye? To your feet, ye timid fawns ! 


See here your zones embossed with gems and 


amber ! 

See here the fire-bright beads of coral for your 
necks ! 

In such a festal time, each young sultana 
decks 


Herself as for the nuptial chamber. 


Rejoice !— your lord, your king, comes home 


again ! ! 
His enemies lie slaughtered on the desert plain. 
Rejoice ! — it cost you tears of blood to sever 


From one you loved so well, —but now your 
griefs are o’er: 
Sing! dance!——he leaves his land, his house, 
no more; 
Henceforward he is yours for ever ! 


Triumphant he returns; naught seeks he now; 
his hand 
No more need hur] the javelin} sea and sand 
and land 
Are his, far as the Zaire’s blue billows wan- 
der; 
Henceforth he bids farewell to spear and battle- 
horse, 
And calls you to his couch, —a cold one, for — 
his corse 
Lies on the copper buckler yonder ! 


Nay, fill not thus.the harem with your shrieks! 
"T is he ;— behold his cloak, striped uae 
with bloody streaks ! 
’'T is he, albeit his eyes lie glazed for ever 
under 
Their lids,—-albeit his blood no more shall 
dance along 
In rapture to the music of the tomtom gong, 
Or headlong war-steed’s hoof of thunder! 


Yes! the Great Buffalo sleeps! 
victory was his last. 
His warriors how! in vain, — his necromancers 
gaze aghast ; 
Fetish, nor magic wand, nor amulet of darnel, 
Can charm back life to the clay-cold heart and 
limb. 
He sleeps, —and you, his women, sleep with 
him ! 
You share the dark pomps of his charnel ! 


His mightiest 


Even now the headsman whets his axe to slay 
you at the funeral feast ! 
Courage ! a glorious fate is yours! 
Afric and the East 
Your fame shall be immortal ! 
Yemen 
With stories of your lord’s exploits and your 
devotedness shall ring, 
And future ages rear skull-obelisks to the king 
Of Congo and his hundred women ! 


Through 


Kordofan and 


SAND-SONGS. 
I. 


Sine of Sand !— not such as gloweth 
Hot upon the path of the tiger and snake ; — 
Rather such sand as, when the loud winds wake, 
Each ocean-wave knoweth. 


Like a Wrath with pinions burning 
Travels the red sand of the desert abroad; 
While the soft sea-sand glisteneth smooth and 

untrod, 

As eve is returning. 


Here no caravan or camel ; 
Here the weary mariner alone finds a grave, 
Nightly mourned by the moon, that now on yon 
wave 
Sheds a silver enamel. 


Il. 


WEAPON-LIKE, this ever-wounding wind 
Striketh sharp upon the sandful shore ; 
So fierce Thought assaults a troubled mind, 

Ever, ever, ever more! 


Darkly unto past and coming years 

Man’s deep heart is linked by mystic bands; 
Marvel not, then, if ‘his dreams and fears 

Be a myriad, like the sands! 


iIl. 


"T’ were worth much lore to understand 
Thy nature well, thou ghastly sand, 
Who wreckest all that seek the sea, 
Yet savest them that cling to thee! 


The wild-gull banquets on thy charms, 
The fish dies in thy barren arms ; 
Bare, yellow, flowerless, there thou art, 
With vaults of treasure in thy heart! 


I met a wanderer, too, this morn, 
Who eyed thee with such lofty scorn! 
Yet I, when with thee, feel my soul 
Flow over like a too-full bowl. 


Iv. 


Wouvtp.I were the stream whose fountain 
Gushes 
From the heart of some green mountain, 
And then rushes 
On through many a land with a melodious mo- 
tion, 
Till it finds a bourne in the globe-girdling ocean ! 


That, in sooth, were truest glory! 
Vernal 
Youth, and eld serene and hoary, 
Coéternal ! 
All the high-souled stripling feels of great and 
glowing, 
Tempered by the wisdom of the world’s be- 
stowing ! 


EE2 


Vv. 


Gutts are flying, one, two, three, 

Silently and heavily, 

Heavily as winged lead, 

Through the sultry air over my languid head. 


Whence they come, or whither flee, 

They, not I, can tell; I see, 

On the bright, brown sand I tread, 

Only the black shadows of their wings outspread. 


Ha! a feather flutteringly 

Falls down at my feet for me ! 

It shall serve my turn instead 

Of an eagle’s quill, till all my songs be read. 


VI. 


Mist robes the moss-grown castle-walls ; 
And as the veil of evening falls 

In deep and ever deeper shades, 

The autumn-landscape slowly fades, 


And all is dusk. One after one 

The red lamps on the heights are gone, 
And crag and castle, hill and wood, 
Evanish in the engulfing flood. 


Farewell, green valleys! Did I not 
Once wind my way through hill and grot, 
And muse beside some wine-dark stream? 
Or was it all an Eastern dream ? 


The moonless heaven is dim once more, 
The waves break on the shingly shore ; — 
I listen to their mournful tone, 

And pace the silent sands alone. 


MY THEMES. 


‘Most weary man! — why wreathest thou 
Again and yet again,” methinks I hear you ask 
“The turban on thy sunburnt brow ? 
Wilt never vary 
Thy tristful task ; 
But sing, still sing, of sands and seas, as now, 
Housed in thy willow zumbul on the dromedary ? 


? 


“ Thy tent has now o’er many times 
Been pitched in treeless places on old Ammon’s 
plains ; 
We long to greet in blander climes 
The love and laughter 
Thy soul disdains. 
Why wanderest ever thus, in prolix rhymes, 
Through snows and stony wastes, while we 
come toiling after? 


“ Awake! Thou art as one who dreanis ! 
Thy quiver overflows with melancholy sand ! 

Thou faintest in the noontide beams! 

Thy crystal beaker 
Of song is banned ! 
Filled with the juice of poppies from dull 
streams 

In sleepy Indian dells, it can but make thee 
weaker ! 


GERMAN POETRY. 


““O, cast away the deadly draught, 
And glance around thee, then, with an awak- 
ened eye! 
The waters healthier bards have quaffed 
At Europe’s fountains 
Still bubble by, 
Bright now as when the Grecian summer 
laughed, 
And poesy’s first flowers bloomed on Apollo’s 
mountains ! 


‘*¢ So many a voice thine era hath, 
And thou art deaf to all! O, study mankind ! 
Probe 
The heart! Lay bare its love and wrath, 
Its joy and sorrow! 
Not round the globe, 
O’er flood and field and dreary desert-path, 
But into thine own bosom look, and thence thy 
marvels borrow ! 


“Weep! Let us hear thy tears resound 
From the dark iron concave of life’s cup of woe ! 
Weep for the souls of mankind bound 
In chains of error! 
Our tears will flow 
In sympathy with thine, when thou hast 
wound 
Our feelings up to the proper pitch of grief or 
terror. 


“Unlock the life-gates of the flood 
That rushes through thy veins! Like vultures, 
we delight 
To glut our appetites with blood ! 
Remorse, Fear, Torment, 
The blackening blight 
Love smites young hearts withal, — these be 
the food 
For us! without such stimulants our dull souls 
lie dormant ! 


“‘ But no long voyagings, — O, no more 
Of the weary East or South, —no more of the 
simoom, — 
No apples from the Dead Sea shore, — 
No fierce volcanoes, 
All fire and gloom! 
Or else, at most, sing basso, we implore, 
Of Orient sands, while Europe's flowers ino- 
nopolize thy sopranos !”’ 


' Thanks, friends, for this your kind advice ! 
Would I could follow it, — could bide in balm- 
ier land ! 
But those far Arctic tracts of ice, 
Those wildernesses 
Of wavy sand, 
Are the only home J have. They must suffice 
For one whose lonely hearth no smiling Peri 
blesses. 


Yet count me not the more forlorn 
For my barbarian tastes. Pity me not. O, no! 
The heart laid waste by grief or scorn, 


| 


FREILIGRATH. 


Which only knoweth 
Its own deep woe, 
Is the only desert. There no spring is born 
Amid the sands,—in that no shady palm-tree 
groweth. 


— 


GRABBE’S DEATH. 


TueEre stood [inthe camp. ’T was when the 
setting sun 
Was crimsoning the tents of the hussars. 
The booming of the evening-gun 
Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars 
Shone out, like silver-blank medallions 
Paving a sapphire floor. There flowed in 
unison the tones 
Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trombones, 
And fifes from twenty-two battalions. 


They played, ‘Give glory unto God our Lord!” 
A solemn strain of music and sublime, 
That bade imagination hail a coming time, 
When universal mind shall break the slaying 
sword, 
And sin and wrong and suffering shall depart 
An earth which Christian love shall turn to 
heaven. 
A dream ! — yet still I listened, and my heart 
Grew tranquil as that summer even. 


But soon uprose pale Hecate, — she who trances 
The skies with deathly light. Her beams 
fell wan, but mild, 
On the long line of tents, on swords and lances, 
And on the pyramids of muskets piled 
Around. Then sped from rank to rank 
The signal order, “ Tzako ab!” The music 
ceased to play. 
The stillness of the grave ensued. 
away. 
Again my memory’s tablets showed a sadden- 
ing blank! 


I turned 


Meanwhile, another sort of scene 
Was acting at the outposts. 

strolled, 

In quest of certain faces, into the canteen. 
Here wine and brandy, hot or cold, 

Passed round. At one long table fredericksd’or 
Glittered, a qui mieux mieux, with epaulettes ; 
And, heedless of the constant call, ‘* Who 

sets?” 

Harp-women played and sang old ballads by 


the score. 


Carelessly I 


I sought an inner chamber. Here sat some 
Dragoons and yagers, who conversed, or gam- 
bled, 
Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum. 
I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled. 
Scarce even a pensive listener or beholder, 
I mused: ‘ Give glory —” ‘Qui en veut ?”?— 
The ‘sound 
Came from the drum-head. I had half turned 
round, 
When some one touched me on the shoulder. 


367 


‘“¢ Ha !—is it you ?’’—“ None other.’’— ‘+ Well, 
— what news? 
How goes it in Mihlhausen?”’ Queries with- 
out end 
Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I choose. 
An hour flies by. 
friend !”? — 
“Stay !— tell me—” “Quick! I am off to 
Rouge-et-Noir.”’ — 
“ Well,—one short word, and then good 


night ! — 
Grabbe ?”’—‘' Grabbe? Heis dead. Wait: 
let me see. Ay, right! 


We buried him on Friday last. Bon soir!” 


An icy thrill ran through my veins. 
Dead ? — buried ? — Friday last ?—and here? 
His grave 
Profaned by vulgar feet s—O nonle, gifted, 
brave! 
Bard of The Hundred Days !— was this to be 
thy fate indeed ? 
I wept. Yet not because life’s galling chains 
No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth ; 
I wept to think of thy transcendent worth 
And genius, —and of what had been their meed! 


I wandered forth into the spacious night, 
Till the first feelings of my heart had spent 
Their bitterness. Hours passed. There was 
an Uhlan tent 
At hand. I entered. By the moon’s blue light 
I saw some arms and baggage, and a heap 
Of straw. Upon this last I threw 
My weary limbs. In vain! The moanful 
night-winds blew 
About my head and face, and memory banish- 
ed sleep. 


All night he stood, as I had seen him last, 
Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken 
The tomb? Or did I dream, and should I 

waken ? 

My thoughts flowed like a river, dark and fast. 

Again I gazed on that columnar brow: 
‘Deserted house! of late so bright with viv- 

idest flashes 

Of intellect and passion, can it be that thou 
Art now a mass of sparkless ashes ? 


‘¢ Those ashes once were watch-fires, by whose 
gleams 
The glories of the Hohenstaufen race, 
And Italy’s shrines, and Greece’s hallowed 
streams 
Stood variously revealed, —now, softly, as 
the face 
Of night illumined by her silver lamp, — 
Now, burning with a deep and living lustre, 
Like the high beacon-lights that stud this camp, 
Here, far apart, — there, in a circular cluster. 


“This camp! ah, yes! methinks it images well 
What thou hast been, thou lonely tower ! 
Moonbeam and lamplight mingled; the deep 

choral swell 
Of Music, in her peals of proudest power, 


‘“‘ Now then, adieu, my 


SS a A aE 


And then the tavern dice-box rattle ! 
The Grand and the Familiar fought 
Within thee for the mastery ; and thy depth 
of thought 
And play of wit made every conflict a drawn 
battle ! 


« And, O, that such a mind, so rich, so overs 
flowing 
With ancient lore and modern phantasy, 
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree 

Of golden leaves when autumn winds are blow- 

' ing, — 

That such a mind, made to illume and glad 
All minds, all hearts, should have itself become 
Affliction’s chosen sanctuary and home! 

This is, in truth, most marvellous and sad! 


“ Alone the poet lives, — alone he dies. 
Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand 
Upon his brow of sorrow. ‘True, his hand 
Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes 
His is a darker crime than that of Cain, — 
Rebellion against social wrong and law !”’ — 
Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams 
I saw 
The ruins of a temple on a desolate plain. 


<+_@—_ 


FRANZ DINGELSTEDT. 


Franz Dineetstepr was born in 1814, at 
Halsdorf, in Upper Hessia. Though a very 
young man, he -has gained a high reputation 
among the living political poets of Germany 
by his ‘Songs of a Cosmopolitan Watchman,”’ 
from which the following extracts have been 
made. Several of his pieces are contained in 
Stolle’s “Buch der Lieder.”” Dingelstedt has 
recently been appointed Aulic Councillor at 
Vienna. It is to be hoped that the poet will 
not be lost in the politician. 


THE WATCHMAN. 


Tue last faint twinkle now goes out 
Up in the poet’s attic ; 

And the roisterers, in merry rout, 
Speed home with steps erratic. 


Soft from the house-roofs showers the snow, 
The vane creaks on the steeple, 

The lanterns wag and glimmer low 
In the storm by the hurrying people. 


The houses all stand black and still, 
The churches and taverns deserted, 
And a body may now wend at his will, 

With his own fancies diverted. 


Not a squinting eye now looks this way, 
Not a slanderous mouth is dissembling, 
And a heart that has slept the livelong day 

May now love and hope with trembling. 


GERMAN POETRY. 


Dear Night! thou foe to each base end, 
While the good still a blessing prove thee, 

They say that thou art no man’s friend, — 
Sweet Night! how I therefore love thee! 


-—— 


THE GERMAN PRINCE. 


In the royal playhouse lately 
Sat our honored prince sedately, 
When this amusing thing befell, 
As the paper states it well. 


Taking, from his usual station, 
Through his lorgnette observation, 
Straight his eagle eye did hit 

On a stranger in the pit. 


Such stranger ne’er was seen before ; — 
A blue-striped shirt the fellow wore ; 
His neckerchief tri-colored stuff ; — 
Ground for suspicion quite enough ! 


His face was red as sun at rising, 

And bore a scar of breadth surprising ; 
His beard was bushy, round, and short, 
Just of the forbidden Hambach sort. 


Quick to the prince’s brow there mounted 
Frowns, though he did not want them counted, 
But asked the chamberlain quite low, 
“Who is that fellow? do you know?” 


The chamberlain, though most observant, 
Knew not, so asked the prince’s servant ; 
The valet, to supply the want, 
Asked councillor and adjutant. 


No soul could give the slightest notion ; — 
The nobles all were in commotion ; 
Strange whispers through the boxes ran, 
And all about the stranger man. 


“His Highness talks of Propagand ; — 
Forth with the villain from the land ! 
Woe to him, if he make delay 


12) 


I’ th’ city but another day ! 


Thus the police began exclaiming, 
With sacred zeal all over flaming. 
But soon his Highness gave the hint, 
None but himself should meddle in ’t. 


One of his servants he despatches 
Down to the fellow, while he watches, 
And bids him ask him, blunt and free, 
Who, and what, and whence he be. 


After some minutes’ anxious waiting, 
Staring below, and calculating, 

With knowing, but demurest face, 
Comes back the lacquey to his Grace. 


‘Your Highness! ”’ says he, in a whisper, 
“He calls himself John Jacob Risper ; 
Travels in mustard for his house!”’ 


“ Hush! not a word! to man or mouse!”’ 


HERWEGH. - 369 


GEORG HERWEGH. 


THis young poet, a native of Wirtemberg, 
received his early education in Stuttgart, and 
afterwards studied at Tibingen. He has re- 
cently become one of the celebrities of Ger- 
many. He is known particularly by his ‘ Po- 
ems of a Living Man, with a Dedication to the 
Dead.” Fora full account of his writings, see 
“Foreign Quarterly Review,” No. LXI., for 
April, 1843. 


a 


THE FATHERLAND. 


ComRaADE, why the song so joyous, — why the 
goblet in your hand, — 

While, in sackcloth and in ashes, yonder weeps 
our Fatherland? 


Still the bells, and bid the roses wither, girls, 
on German strand ; 

For, deserted by her bridegroom, yonder sits our 
Fatherland ! 


Wherefore strive for crowns, ye princes? — 
quit your state, your jewels grand ; 

See, where, at your palace-portal, shivering sits 
our Fatherland ! 


Idle priestlings,avhat avail us prayer and pulpit, 
cowl and band? 

Trodden in the dust and groaning, yonder lies 
our Fatherland ! 


Counting out his red round rubles, yon sits 
Dives smiling bland, — 

Reckoning his poor wounds and sores, Lazarus, 
our Fatherland! 


Woe, ye poor! for priceless jewels lie before 
ye in the sand, — 

Even my tears, my best and brightest, lie there, 
wept for Fatherland ! 


But, O poet, cease thy descant, —’t is not thine 
as judge to stand ; 

Silence now, —the swan hath sung his death- 
song for our Fatherland! 


THE SONG OF HATRED. 


Brave soldier, kiss the trusty wife, 
And draw the trusty blade! 

Then turn ye to the reddening east, 
In freedom’s cause arrayed. 

Till death shall part the blade and hand, 
They may not separate : 

We ’ve practised loving long enough, 
And come at length to hate ! 


To right us and to rescue us 
Hath Love essayed in vain ; 
O Hate! proclaim thy judgment-day, 
And break our bonds in twain. 
47 


As long as ever tyrants last, 
Our task shall not abate : 

We ’ve practised loving long enough, 
And come at length to hate ! 


Henceforth let every heart that beats 
With hate alone be beating ; — 
Look round! what piles of rotten sticks 
Will keep the flame a-heating ! — 

As many as are free and dare, 
From street to street go say ’t: 

We ’ve practised loving long enough, 
And come at length to hate! 


Fight tyranny, while tyranny 
The trampled earth above is; 

And holier will our hatred be, 
Far holier than our love is. 

Till death shall part the blade and hand, 
They may not separate : 

We ’ve practised loving long enough, 
Let ’s come at last to hate ! 


THE PROTEST. 


As long as I’m a Protestant, 
I’m bounden to protest ; 
Come, every German musicant, 
And fiddle me his best! 
You ’re singing of “the Free old Rhine”’; 
But I say, No, good comrades mine, — 
The Rhine could be 
Greatly more free, 
And that I do protest. 


f 
I scarce had got my christening o’er, 
Or was in breeches dressed, 
But I began to shout and roar 
And mightily protest. 
And since that time I ’ve never stopped, 
My protestations never dropped ; 
And blessed be they 


Who every way 
And everywhere protest. 


There’s one thing certain in my creed, 
And schism is all the rest, — 
That who’s a Protestant indeed 
For ever must protest. 
What is the river Rhine to me ? 
For, from its source unto the sea, 
Men are not free, 
Whate’er they be, 
And that I do protest. 


And every man in reason grants, 
What always was confessed, 
As long as we are Protestants, 
We sternly must protest. 
And when they sing ‘ the Free old Rhine,” 
Answer them, “No,” good comrades 
mine, — 
The Rhine could be 
Greatly more free, 
And that you shall protest. 


SS 


370 GERMAN POETRY. 


TO A POETESS. 


On humble knees, of silent nights, 
No more my lady prays; 

But now in glory she delights, 
And pines to wear the bays. 

The gentle secrets of her heart 
She ’d tell to idle ears, 

And fain would carry to the mart 
The treasure of her tears ! 


When there are roses freshly blown 
That forehead to adorn, 

Why ask the poet’s martyr-crown, — 
The bitter wreath of thorn ? 

That lip which all so ruddy is, 
With freshest roses vying, 

Believe me, sweet, was made to kiss, — 


Not formed for prophesying. 


Remain, my nightingale, remain, 
And warble in your shade! 
The heights of glory were in vain 
By wings like yours essayed. 
And while at Glory’s shrine the priest 
A hecatomb must proffer, 
There ’s Love, —O, Love! will take the least 
- Small mite the heart can offer. 


> 


BENEDIKT DALEI. 


“ Wuo Benedikt Dalei is we know not,” 
says a writer in the London “ Atheneum,” 
from whose pages the following pieces are 
taken; ‘* but his songs have all the feeling and 
effect of the genuine effusions of a Catholic 
priest who has passed through the dispensa- 
tions which he describes. He traces, or rather 
retraces, every painful position and stage in the 
life of the solitary priest who possesses a feeling 
heart ;— the trials, the temptations, the pangs, 
which his unnatural vow and isolated existence 
heap upon him, amid the social relationships 
and enjoyments of his fellow-men. ‘The do- 
mestic circle, the happy group of father, moth- 
er, and merry children; the electric touch of 
youthful love which unites two hearts for ever; 
the wedding, the christening, the funeral; all 
have for him their inexpressible bitterness. 
The perplexities, the cares, the remorse, the 
madness, which, spite of the power of the 
church, of religion, and of the most ardent faith 
and devotion, have, through the singular and 
unparalleled position of the Catholic priest, 
made him often a walking death, are all sketch- 
ed with a master’s hand, or, more properly, 
perhaps, a sufferer’s heart.” 


ENVIABLE POVERTY. 


I Giance into the harvest field, 

Where, ’neath the shade of richest trees, 
The reaper and the reaper’s wife 

Enjoy their noon-day ease. 


And in the shadow of the hedge 
I hear full many a merry sound, 
Where the stout, brimming water-jug 
From mouth to mouth goes round. 


About the parents, in the grass, 
Sit boys and girls of various size, 
And, like the buds about the rose, 
Make glad my gazing eyes. 


See! God himself from heaven spreads 
Their table with the freshest green, 

And lovely maids, bis angel band, 
Bear heaped dishes in. 


A laughing infant’s sugar lip, 

Waked by the mother’s kiss, doth deal 
To the poor parents a dessert 

Still sweeter than their meal. 


From breast to breast, from arm to arm, 
Goes wandering round the rosy boy, 
A little circling flame of love, 
A living, general joy. 


And strengthened thus for farther toil, 
Their toil is but joy fresh begun ; 

That wife, —O, what a happy wife ! 
And, O, how rich is that poor man ! 


THE WALK. 


I went a walk on Sunday, 
But so lonely everywhere ! — 
O’er every path and upland 
Went loving pair and pair. 


I strolled through greenest corn-fields, 
All dashed with gold so deep ; — 
How often did I feel as though 
My very heart would weep ! 


The heaven so softly azure, 
The sun:so full of life! 

And everywhere was youth and maiden, 
Was happy man and wife. 


They watched the yellowing harvest, 
Stood where cool water starts ; 

They plucked flowers for each other, 
And with them gave their hearts. 


The larks, how they singing hovered 
And streamed gladness from above ! 

How high in the listening bosoms 
Rose the flame of youthful love ! 


In the locks of the blithe youngsters 
The west wind loved to play, — 
And lifted, with colder finger, 
My hair, already gray. 


Ah! I heard song and laughter, 

And it went to my heart’s core ; — 
O, were I again in boyhood ! 

Were I free and young once more! 


=—— 


DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Tur Dutch is that form of the Gothic now 
spoken between the shores of the Zuider-Zee 
and the mouths of the Rhine, or, in other 
words, the kingdom of Holland. To the north 
and east it passes into the Frisic, or language 
of Friesland,* which connects it with the Platt 
Deutsch, or Low German; and to the south, in 
Brabant and Flanders, changes into the Flem- 
ish, which differs from the Dutch in having 
more French idioms and fewer guttural sounds. 

The Frisic, Dutch, and Flemish were origi- 
nally the same language, and were known by 
the name of Belgian or Netherlandic; but, in 
the lapse of time, the Dutch has gained the 
ascendency as the language of literature, and 
the Frisic and Flemish remain as less cultivat- 
ed dialects, whose literature is confined mostly 
to popular songs, tales, and farces.t In parts 
of Belgium, the Walloon, a dialect of the 
French, descended from the old Roman Wallon, 
is still spoken. ‘In all Flanders,” says a writ- 
er in the ‘* Conversations-Lexicon,”’ } ‘¢ Northern 
Brabant, and a part of Southern Brabant, the 
Flemish is the common language. The line of 
division is in Brussels, where the people of the 
lower city speak Flemish, in the upper city, 
Wallon. To the south of Brussels, in the (so 
called) Walloon Brabant, in Hainault, Namur, 
Liege, and part of Limbourg, the Walloon con- 
tinues to be the popular language. It is worthy 
of remark, that, even in that part of Flanders 
which has been under the French sceptre for a 
long series of years, the Flemish, nevertheless, 
is the popular language as far as Dunkirk, while, 
to this moment, Walloon is spoken in Hainault, 
Brabant, and particularly in Liege, though so 
long united to Germany. The dialects of the 
Low German, spoken in the Netherlands, may 
be divided into five: 1. The Dutch proper, 
which, as early as towards the end of the fif- 
teenth century, was elevated to a literary lan- 
guage in the northern provinces; 2. the (so 


* For a sketch of the Frisic language and literature, see 
Wrarpa, Geschichte der alten ausgestorbenen Friesischen 
oder Sachsischen Sprache: Aurich: 1784;— Foreign Quar- 
terly Review, Vol. III. ; —Boswortu, Preface to the Anglo- 
Saxon Dictionary, p. xxxv.;—and Mong, Ubersicht der 
Niederlandischen Volks-Literatur, the Appendix of which 
contains a list of works published in the Frisic language. 

+ As, for example, in Frisic, Gyspert Japicx’s Friesche 
Rijmlerye, and the plays and songs of J. P. Hausen ; — and 
in Flemish, De Dulle Griete, Viaemsche Liedekens op den 
Tyd; Jacosus pp RuyTer’s Nieuw Lied-Boek ; the Tales 
of Thyl Uylenspiegel, and Reynaert den Vos; and Brogcx- 
AERT’S Jelle en Mietje. 

t Vol. IX., p. 223. 


called) Peasant-Frisian (once the literary lan- 
guage of Gysbert Japicx), an idiom which is 
gradually disappearing; 3. the Gelders dialect, 
or the (so called) Lower Rhenish; 4. the Gro- 
ningen dialect, to which also belongs the Upper 
Yssel dialect; and, 5. the Flemish, which has 
remained the literary language in the southern 
provinces, though much poorer than the Dutch, 
and overloaded with all the mongrel words, of 
which Coornhert, Spiegel, and Hoost have pu- 
rified the Dutch.” 

In single words and phrases, the Dutch lan- 
guage strikingly resembles the English; as in 
the proverbs : 

* Wanneer de wijn is in den man, 
Dan is de wijsheid in de kan” ; 
which hardly needs a translation into 
Whene’er the wine is in the man, 
Then is the wisdom in the can. 
And again, 
* Als April blaast op zijn hoorn, 
Is ’t goed voor hooi en koorn ”’; 
in English, 
When April blows on his horn, 
It is good for hay and corn. * 

The Dutch is said also to preserve a more 
striking resemblance to the original Gothic 
tongue than any of the cognate dialects. For 
a more detailed account of the language and 
its history, the reader is referred to Bosworth, 
Meidinger, Bowring, and Mone.t 


* If proverbs may be relied on, the resemblance between 
Frisic and English is still greater; for 


‘‘Bread, butter, and green cheese, 
Is good English and good Friese.”? 


But let not the reader be deluded. by this into the belief that 
he can read Frisic as easily as English. 

+ Boswortu. Dictionary of the Anglo-Saxon Language. 
Preface, p. xci.— Merpincer. Dictionnaire Comparatif. 
Introduction, p. xxxi.—Bowrine. Sketch of the Lan- 
guage and Literature of Holland. Amsterdam : 1829, 12mo.; 
first published in the Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. IV.— 
Mone. Ubersicht der Niederlandischen Volks-Literatur 
Alterer Zeit. Tiibingen: 1838. 8vo.—See also Gemeen- 
schap tussen de Gottische Spraeke en de Nederduytsche. 
t?Amsterdam: 1710. 4to. 

The historian Niebuhr, in one of his letters, gives the 
following account of the dialects of the Netherlands. 
‘1. In old times, as in the seventh century, the Yssel 
formed the boundary between the Frisians and Saxons, so 
that all the country west of this river, excepting a portion 
of Veluve, belonged to Friesland, which was bounded on the 
south by the Maas. The Zuyder-Zee, or, as it was then 
called, the Vlie, was still only an inland lake, and Friesland 
extended along the coast to the north as far as Schleswig. 
Inland, it reached, at most points, as far as the great mo- 
rasses, which extend from Overyssel and Drenthe, through 


Sa 6 PULA tna Oi na mICNRA ry ten tins ee Tht Tate 


ae | 


DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. | 


ri 
4 
ae 


~ 


The history of Dutch poetry may be divided 
into five periods. I. From the earliest times 
to 1600, including the old Flemish writers. 
If. From 1600 to 1700. III. From 1700 to 
1775. IV. From 1775 to the revolution of 
1795. V. From 1795 to the present time. 

I. From the earliest times to 1600. The his- 
tory of the poetry of the Netherlands begins 
as far back as the twelfth century, with the 
rhymed romance of ‘The Siege of Troy” (De 
Trojaensche Oorlog), a poem of between three 
and four thousand lines, by Seger Dieregodgaf 
(Deodatus). It commences with a royal feast 
in the court of Priam, and ends with Hector’s 
death. To the same century belongs the won- 
derful “Journey of St. Brandaen” (Reis van 
Sinte Brandaen),* containing an account of his 
remarkable adventures by sea and land; how 
he put to sea with his chaplain and monks, 
and provisions for nine years; how, after sail- 
ing about for a whole year without sight of 
shore, they landed on what, like Sinbad the 
Sailor, they supposed to be an island, but found 
to be a great fish; how they all took to their 
heels, and were no sooner on board than the 
fish sank and came near swamping their ship; 
how they were followed by a sea-monster, half 
woman, half fish (half wijf, half visch), which 
the Saint sank with a prayer; how they came 
to a country of scoriz and cinders (drossaerden 
en schinkers), where they suffered from the ex- 
tremes of heat and cold; how they were driven 


Westphalia, into the county of Hoya. These were the 
northern limits of the Westphalian Saxons; and I find that 
the word which J heard in Suhlingen, and supposed to be 
Frisian, really belongs to this language. Overyssel is 
therefore purely Saxon. 2. The ancient inhabitants of Bra- 
bant, Flanders, and the country between the Maas and the 
Rhine, before and under the Romans, seem to have been of 
the same race as the Frisians. But in the last mentioned 
country, and in the Betuve, the Franks settled in the fourth 
century, and altered the dialect still more than in the coun- 
tries west of the Maas, where they never were so numerous. 
However, here as well as there, it was their supremacy 
which affected the language most. 3. Low Dutch is not an 
original language, but Frisian, modified hy the influence of 
Frankish and Saxon. The most distinctive words are orig- 
inally Frisian, and indigenous in no other German dialect. 
This appears especially in the particles, which in all lan- 
guages are least borrowed, and therefore the most chdarac- 
teristic parts of it. All words in Hollandish, which resem- 
ble Danish or English, and vary from German, are Frisian. 
4, The mixture of Frankish arose through the conquest and 
settlement of the Franks; that of Saxon, through the cir- 
cumstance that Low Saxon was from early times the writ- 
ten language of these regions. Thence comes the Low 
Dutch mode of spelling, which deceives the Low Saxon; 
for many words are spelt as they formerly were with us, 
but pronounced quite differently. Hence it is that the 
sound w is designated by oe. They pronounce mid, blid, 
hid, mider ; and write, as they formerly did with us, moed, 
bloed, hoed, moeder. 5. In the thirteenth century the 
present language of Holland already existed, and was near- 
er to German than now.’’— Foreign Quarterly Review, 
Vol. XXXI., pp. 389, 390. 

* This old romance is probably of French origin. There 
is a poem on the same subject by an Anglo-Norman Trou- 
vere, of which an analysis, with extracts, may be found in 
Blackwood’s Magazine, Vol. XXXIX., p. 807. 


by a storm into the Leverzee (the old German 
Lebermeer), where they saw a mast rise from 
the. water, and heard a mysterious voice, bid- 
ding them sail eastward, to avoid the Magnetic 
Rocks, that drew to them all that passed too 
near; how they steered eastward, and saw a 
beautiful church on a rock, wherein were sev- 
en monks, fed with food from Paradise by a 
dove anda raven; how they were driven by 
a southwest wind into the Wild Sea, in the 
midst of which they found a man perched on 
a solitary rock, who informed them he was the 
king of Pamphylia in Cappadocia, and, having 
been shipwrecked there ninety-nine years pre- 
vious, had ever since been sitting alone on that 
solitary rock ; how they came to a fearful whirl- 
pool called Helleput, or Pit of Hell, where 
they heard the lamentations of damned souls; 
how they arrived in Donkerland, a land cover- 
ed with gold and jewels instead of grass, and 
watered by a fountain of oil and honey; how 
one of the monks stole there a costly bridle, 
by which afterwards a devil dragged him down 
to hell; how they came to a goodly castle, 
at the gate of which sat an old man witha 
gray beard, and beside him an angel with a 
flaming sword; how the monks loaded their 
ship with gold, and a great storm rose, and St. 
Brandaen: prayed, and a demon came with the 
lost monk on his shoulders, and threw him into 
the rigging of the ship; how they sailed near 
the Burning Castle (Brandenden Burcht) and 
heard the dialogues of devils; how they came 
to the Mount of Syoen, and found there a eastle 
whose walls were of crystal, inset with bronze 
lions and leopards, the dwelling of the Walschr- 
ander, or rebel angels; how they journeyed 
farther and found a little man no bigger than 
one’s thumb, trying to bail out the sea; how a 
mighty serpent wound himself round the ship, 
and, taking his tail in his mouth, held them 
prisoners for fourteen days: and finally, how 
they came to anchor, and St. Brandaen asked 
his chaplain Noe if he had recorded all these 
wonders, and the chaplain Noe answered, 
“'Thank God, the book is written”’ (God danc, 
dit boec es volscreven). And so ends this ancient 
“ Divina Commedia ”’ of the Flemish School ; 
not unlike, in its general tone and coloring, 
“The Vision of Frate Alberico,” or “The Le- 
gend of Barkaam and Josaphat,’’ and the rest 
of the ghostly legends of the Middle Ages, 
which mingled together monkbood and knight- 
errantry.” 

To the close of this century is referred, also, 
the famous poem of “Renard the Fox” (Rei- 
naert de Vos), in its antique Flemish form. ‘In 
all probability,” says Willems, in the Introduc- 
tion to his beautiful edition of this work, * the 
fable of the Fox and the Wolf was known 
among us as early as the ninth century; but 


* Oudvlaemsche Gedichten der XII®, XIII®, en XIV® 
Eeuwen, nitgegeven door Jonkur. Pu. BLomMarRrtT. Gent: 
1838-41. 8vo. 


DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


the poem of which we here speak seems to 
have been composed in the second half of the 
twelfth century, probably about the year 1170. 
All circumstances. conspire to fix this date; so 
that the ‘Reinaert’ may be regarded as the 
oldest known poem in our mother tongue, of 
which the Netherlanders can boast.’’ * 

In the thirteenth century flourished Jacob 
yan Maerlant, the father of Dutch poetry. He 
was born at Damme, in Flanders, and apologizes 
for his use of Flemish words in his poems: 


‘‘For Iam Flemysh, I yow beseche, 
Of youre curtesye, al and eche, 
That shal thys Boche chaunce peruse, 
Unto me nat youre grace refuse : 
And yf ye fynden any worde 
In youre countrey that ys unherde, 
Thynketh that clerkys for her ryme 
Taken a faultie worde somtyme.”’ T 


His principal works are his ‘ Poetic Para- 
phrase of the Scriptures” (Riymbijbel) ; and the 
‘‘ Mirror of History’ (Spzegel Historiel), a free 
translation of the “Speculum Historiale”’ of 
Vincent de Beauvais. To the same century 
belong Melis Stoke, author of a ‘“ Rhyme- 
Chronicle” of Holland (Raymkroniyk) ; — Jan 
van Heelu, who, celebrated in song the victory 
of Duke John of Brabant in Gelderland ; — 
Heijnric van Holland, author of “The Power 
of the Moon,” (De Kragt der Maane) ; — Friar 
Thomas, author of a poem on ‘“ Natural Phi- 
losophy ” (Natuurkunde) ; — Claes van Brecht- 
en, translator of some of the romances of the 
Round Table ;— Willem Utenhoven ; — Calf- 
staf and Noijdekijn, of which last two Maerlant 
makes honorable mention, as translators of 
‘ Esop’s Fables”’ : 
‘These have Calfstaf and Noijdekijn 
Put into rhyme so fair and fine.”’ 

The chief poetic names that have survived 
the civil wars of the fourteenth century are 
Lodewijk van Velthem, author of a ‘“ Rijm- 
kronijk’’; and Jan de Clerk, author of “ Bra- 
bantsche Jeesten ”’ (Gesta), the “« Dietschen Doc- 
trinael,”’ and the didactic poem of “ Lékenspie- 
gel,” or Mirror for Laymen. Niclaes de Clerk 
and Jan Dekens are also mentioned; but the 
personal identity of the last seems to be con- 
founded with that of Jan de Clerk.t To these 
may be added Jan de Weert, and Claes Willems, 
and the list is nearly, if not quite, complete. 
The bloody feuds of the Hoekschen and the 
Kabbeljauwschen were not favorable to poetry. 
To this period, however, are to be referred a 
great number of old chivalrous romances, of 
French, German, and Scandinavian origin ; as, 
“© Roland,’ ‘Olger the Dane,’ ‘ Lancelot,” 
“© Parcival,’ “*The Holy Grail,’ and many 
more. At the close of the century, also, the 
Kamern der Rederijkern, or Chambers of 


* Reinaert de Vos, episch fabeldicht van de Twaelfde en 
Dertiende Eeuw, met aenmerkingen en ophelderingen van 
J. F. Wintems. Gent: 1836. Svo. 

+ Bowrine. Batavian Anthology, p. 25. 

1 See Mong, p. 118. 


373 


Rhetoricians, had their origin; but as they 
flourished more extensively during the follow- 
ing century, the notice of them properly belongs 
to that period. 

The literary names of the fifteenth century 
are hardly more numerous than those of the 
fourteenth. The only ones of any note are 
Jan Van den+Dale, Anton de Rovere, Dirk van 
Munster, and Lambertus Goetman, who seem 
to have been honest burghers, and some of them 
respectable’ members of the Chambers of Rhet- 
oric. These Chambers were to Holland, in the 
fifteenth century, what the Guilds of the Meis- 
tersingers were to Germany, and were numer- 
ous throughout the Netherlands. Brussels could 
boast of five; Antwerp of four; Louvain of 
three; and Ghent, Bruges, Malines, Middel- 
burg, Gouda, Haarlem, and Amsterdam of at 
least one. Each chamber had its coat of arms 
and its standard, and the directors bore the title 
of Princes and Deans. At times they gave 
public representations of poetic dialogues and 
stage-plays, called Spelen van Sinne, or Morali- 
ties. Like the Meistersingers, they gave singular 
titles to their songs and metres. A verse was 
called a Regel ; a strophe, a Clause ; and a burden 
or refrain, a Stockregel. If a half-verse closed 
a strophe, it was called a Steert, or tail. Tufel- 
spelen, and Spelen van Sinne, were the titles of 
the dramatic exhibitions; and the rhymed in- 
vitation to these was called a Charte, or Uit- 
roep (outcry). Ketendichten (chain-poems) are 
short poems in which the last word of each 
line rhymes with the first of the line following ; 
Scaekberd (checker-board), a poem of sixty-four 
lines, so rhymed, that in every direction it 
forms a strophe of eight lines; and Dobbel- 
steert (double-tail), a poem in which a double 
rhyme closes each line.* 

Upon this subject Dr. Bowring says: “ The 
degeneracy of the language may mainly be at- 
tributed to the wandering orators (sprekers), 
who, being called to the courts of princes, or 
admitted though uninvited, rehearsed, for mon- 
ey, the miserable doggerel produced by them- 
selves or others. These people afterwards 
formed themselves, in Flanders and Brabant, 
into literary societies, which were known by 
the name of Chambers of Rhetoricians (Kamern 
der Rhetorijkern or Rederijkern), and which 
offered prizes to the most meritorious poets. 
The first Chambers appear to have been found- 
ed at Dixmuiden and Antwerp: at the former 
place in 1394, and at the latter in 1400. These 
societies were formed in imitation of the French, 
who began to institute them about the middle 


* With the Rederijkern, Hood’s amusing ‘‘ Nocturnal 
Sketch’? would have been a Driedobbelsteert, or a poem 
with three tails: 

‘Even is come; and from the dark park, hark, 
The signal of the setting sun, one gun! 
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time 
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain. 
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things 


Such as with his poetic tongue Young sung.” 
FF 


374 


of the fourteenth century, under the name of 
Colléges de Rhétorique. The example of Flan- 
ders was speedily followed by Zeeland and 
Holland. In 1430, there was a Chamber at 
Middelburg ; in 1433, at Vlaardingen ; in 1434, 
at Nieuwkerk ; and in 1437, at Gouda. Even 
insignificant Dutch villages had their Chambers. 
Among others, one was founded in the Lier, in 
the year 1480. In the remaining provinces 
they met with less encouragement. They ex- 
isted, however, at Utrecht, Amersfoort, Leeuw- 
aarden, and Hasselt. The purity of the lan- 
guage was completely undermined by the rhym- 
ing self-called Rhetoricians, and their aban- 
doned courses brought poetry itself into dis- 
repute. All distinction of genders was nearly 
abandoned ; the original abundance of words 
ran waste; and that which was left became 
completely overwhelmed by a torrent of bar- 
barous terms.’’ * 

To the fifteenth century belongs the earliest 
specimen of the Dutch drama. It is one of the 
Spelen van Sinne, or Moralities of the Rederij- 
kern, entitled “The First Joy of Maria” (De 
eerste bliscap van Maria), and was performed in 
the public square of Brussels during the reign 
of Philip the Good, in 1444, by the Kersauwe 
Chamber of Rhetoric. It seems to have been 
rather a splendid spectacle ; for the characters 
introduced are Envy, Lucifer, Serpent, Eve, 
Adam, God, Angel, two children, Seth, David, 
Job, Esaias, Misery, Prayer, Charity, Right- 
eousness, Truth, the Holy Ghost, God’s Son, 
Peace, Joachim, Bishop, Priest, Anna, two 
peasants, Maria, two young men, Joseph, and 
Gabriel. Six other spiritual plays, on the six 
other joys of the Virgin Mary, were composed 
by them ; one of which was annually performed 
by command of the city of Brussels. Wage- 
naer, in his ** Description of Amsterdam,’’t gives 
a copy of a painter’s bill for work done at the 
play-house in the town of Alkmaar, of which 
the following is a translation : 

“Imprimis, made for the Clerks a Hell; 

Item, the Pavilion of Satan ; 

Item, two pairs of Devil’s-breeches ; 

Item, a Shield for the Christian Knight ; 

Item, have painted the Devils whenever they played; 
Item, some Arrows and other small matters. 

Sum total; worth in all xii. guilders. 


é ‘‘Jaaues Mot. 
** Paid, October viii., 95 [1495].”? 


It was customary for the various Chambers 
of Rhetoric to meet together, and perform plays 
in rivalship of each other. These meetings 
were held in all the principal cities of Flan- 
ders. Thirteen are on record between the 
years 1441 and 1599. They were of three 


* Batavian Anthology, pp. 27,28. — For further and more 
minute information on the subject of the Rederijkern the 
reader is referred to Monsg’s Niederlindische Volks-Litera- 
tur ;— Kop, Schets eener geschiedenis der Rederijkeren, in 
the Second Part of the Transactions of the Leyden Society 
of Belles-Lettres ; and CastELEYN, De Const van Rethori- 
ken: Gent: 1550, 12mo. 

t Beschryvning van Amsterdam, Vol. IL., p. 392. 


DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


different kinds, according to the number of 
Chambers assembled. The simplest form was 
when one or two Chambers united to represent 
a single play. When several joined in the fes- 
tival, it was called a Haegspel ; and when all, 
or nearly all, came together, a Landt-Juweel. 

The palmiest days of the Rederijkern were 
in the sixteenth century. In the year 1539, 
nineteen Chambers met at Ghent, and the play- 
ing lasted from the 12th to the 23d of June. 
The Antwerp Chamber bore away the highest 
prize, consisting of four silver tankards of nine 
marks’ weight; and Sinte Wynocx-berge the 
second, three silver beakers of seven marks’ 
weight. The plays performed on this occasion 
were published at Antwerp during the same 
year. A second edition appeared there in 1562, 
and a third at Wesel in 1564.* 

On the 3d of August, 1561, fourteen Cham- 
bers of Rhetoric, from various Belgian towns, 
held a Landt-Juweel in the city of Antwerp. 
They entered the city in procession, on horse- 
back, arrayed in gorgeous dresses of scarlet, 
violet, and green, with plumes, and banners, 
and devices. KEach\Chamber was followed by 
its Spelwaghenen, or carts, upon which were 
performed, as on a stage, the Spelen van Sinne. 
The fourteen Chambers were: 1. The Golden 
Flower of Antwerp; 2. The Olive-branch of 
Antwerp; 3. The Passion-flower of Bergen 
op Zoom; 4. The Piony of Mechlin; 5. The 
Evergreen of Lier; 6. The Fleur de Lis of 
Mechlin ; 7. The Pumpkin of Herenthals ; 
8. The Golden Flower of Vilvoorden; 9. The 
Lily of Diest; 10. The Lily of the Valley of 
Leeuwen; 11. The Oculus Christi of Diest ; 
12. The Rose of Loven; 13. The Holy Thorn 
of Schertoghenbosch ; 14. The Garland of Ma- 
ria of Brussels. 

The Chambers were received with great 
pomp by the Gillyflower of Antwerp, the 
founders of the festival (Opsetters des Landt- 
Juweels), and conducted to the market-place, 
where the plays were performed. In the fol- 
lowing year, these plays were printed by Wil- 
lem Silvius in a handsome volume, with the 
escutcheons of the several Chambers, and a 
description of the triumphal entry. The title 
of the work is, ‘¢ Spelen van Sinne: full of beau- 
tiful Moral Expositions and Representations 
of all the Fine Arts, wherein clearly, as in a 
Mirror, figuratively, poetically, and rhetorically, 
may be seen how necessary and serviceable 
these same Arts are to all Mankind.” Most of 
these pieces are allegorical, with such charac- 
ters as Common Report, Carnal Delight, Small 
Profit, Greedy Heart, Subtle Conceit, and Stout- 
in-Adventure. Some aspire to a classic tone, 
and represent the gods of Greece; and one is 
a conversation between Bacchus, who is called 
the Wijnen Patroon, and his retainers, Malmsey, 
Romané, Ay, Rhine-Wine, and Leus-Beer. 


* Spelen van Sinne by den XIV. gheconfirmeerden ca- 
maren van rhethorijkern, &c. Thantwerpen: 1539. 8vo. 


DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


The poetic names of the sixteenth century 
are few in number, and not of great renown. 
The chief of them are Hendrik Spieghel, au- 
thor of a didactic. poem, called “The Mirror 
of the Heart” (Hertspiegel) ; — Dirk Volkert 
Coornherts, translator of Homer, Cicero, and 
Boéthius ; — Petrus Dathenus, translator of the 
Psalms ; — Roemer Visscher, called the Dutch 
Martial ;— and Anna Byns, the Dutch Sappho. 

Due mention should here be made of the 
old ballads and popular songs of Holland, 
which extend back as far as the fourteenth 
century. Among them is a vast number of 
Christmas carols, Easter hymns, Pater-Nosters, 
Ave-Marias, Salve-Reginas, songs on the cross 
and the name of Jesus, the ballads of Sister 
Bertha, and the love-songs of a nun, who calls 
herself a wretched woman (ellendech wif), and 
laments that she has never known what love 
is, and shall go to her grave without knowing 
it. Speaking of these old spiritual songs, Hoff- 
mann says, in his Preface : “‘ The older spiritual 
poetry of Holland, at least that part of it which 
is extant in the form of songs, existed for a 
very limited period. _The greater portion of 
the songs of this class appeared in the middle of 
the fifteenth century, and disappeared again 
before the close of the following one. Many 
had found favor with the people, and might 
therefore justly lay claim to the title of popular 
songs. These, like all the religious ones, were 
for the most part either adapted to the airs of 
profane ones, or imitated from them ; the great- 
er number were, however, not so widely spread, 
but confined rather to the circle of private de- 
votion. Moreover, from the nature of their 
contents, they were of necessity kept within a 
very limited circle; for the greatest number of 
them consisted of songs which treated of the 
nature and circumstances of the loving soul, 
and of the means whereby it sought to gain the 
affections of its Bridegroom, — Jesus Christ. 
The other divisions of the sacred songs were 
severally devoted to the celebration of the birth 
and resurrection of Christ, and to the praises 
of the Blessed Virgin. Thus, then, the earlier 
sacred poetry of Holland consisted only of four 
descriptions of songs, namely, the Christmas 
Carols, the Easter Hymns, the Songs of the 
Virgin, and the Songs of Christian Doctrine.” * 

Among these popular songs will be found also 
some romantic ballads, and others of a historic 
character. Two collections have recently been 
published by Le Jeune and Hoffmann.t 

II. From 1600 to 1700. The seventeenth 
century was the Augustan age of Holland. 
Then lived and labored her greatest men in the 
arts of peace and war; — her admirals, Heems- 
kerk, Ruyter, and Tromp ; — her statesmen, 


* Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XIV., p. 164. 

+ Letterkundig overzigt en proeven van de Nederland- 
sche volkszangen sedert de XVde eeuw, door Mr. J.C. W. 
Le Jeune. Te ’S Gravenhage: 1828. 8vo. — Hollandische 
Volkslieder, gesammelt und erldutert von Dr. HEINRICH 
Horrmann. Breslau: 1833, 8vo. 


Barneveld, Grotius, and De Witt ; — her schol- 
ars, Scaliger, Salmasius, and Gronovius ; — her 
men of science, Leoninus, Aldegonde, and Dou- 
sa;—her painters, Rubens, Rembrandt, and 
Vandyk ; — her poets, Hooft, Vondel, and Cats; 
and many more, almost as illustrious in their va- 
rious spheres of thought and action. Piet Hein’s 
celebrated victory over the Silver Fleet of Spain 
is but a type of the victories and treasures won 
by others in the domain of intellect. The names 
of more than sixty poets adorn the annals of that 
age. Of the best of these biographical sketches 
will be given in connection with the extracts 
from their writings. To these the reader is re- 
ferred for the history of Dutch poetry during 
the seventeenth century. 

Ill. From 1700 to 1775. This is a darker 
period in the history of Dutch poetry, and by 
its darkness increases the brilliancy of that 
which preceded it: 

‘©O thou vain glory of the human powers, 
How little green upon thy summit lingers, 
If ’t be not followed by a grosser age! ”’ 

An English writer pronounces the following 
summary and severe judgment upon this period : 
“There is little but weariness now and for 
some time forward. Rotgans is hardly entitled 
to be mentioned; nor Langendyk, who seems 
to have been a joyous creature, but not a very 
wise one. There is an absolute deluge of 
rhymesters. Some few eminent men appeared 
in the field of philology, particularly Ten Kate, 
whose knowledge of the principal sources of 
the Dutch tongue enabled him to treat the 
subject with originality and with success. 

‘“¢ Perhaps the only poetical name that ought 
to be rescued from amidst these obscurities is 
Poots, the poet of the plough, whom we men- 
tion more because he was a ploughman, than 
because we deem hima poet. Of himself he 
says: 

“¢J am a peasant’s son, no wealth have I, 

For wanton Fortune turns her back on me; 
Even to this hour my hands my food supply. 


Though young. I hailed the light of poetry, 

With Hooft and Vondel ever in mine eye, 

Lost in her wastes, and sought, at distance long, 

To follow her proud swans, and imitate their song.’ 
His best pieces are his ‘De Maan by Endy- 
mion’ (The Moon by Endymion), ‘ Wachten’ 
(Watching), and ‘Het Landleven’ (Country 
Life). De Clereq has fancied a resemblance 
between him and Burns: it goes no further 
than that they both followed the wain, and 
both made verses, — Burns, full of nature, 
beauty, truth, and power, — Poots, usually bom- 
bastic, mythological, false, and feeble. 


“Holland was next deluged with a flood of 
translations, imitations, and adaptations of the 
masterpieces of the French drama; the effect 
was to introduce a false and foreign taste, and 
a determination to sacrifice all nationality on 


the altar of the unities. A handful of pedants 
took possession of the whole field of literature, 


376 


with their oversettings (overzettingen), mis- 
speechifyings (vertaalingen), and dislocations 
(verplaatsingen), of the dramatists of France. 
Individually weak, they tried to become strong 
by association, and they banded together to bring 
the histrionic genius of the Seine to preside over 
the Gragts of the Amstel. ..... The next step 
in Holland was to make French prose the text of 
Dutch poetry ; the versified translation of Fene- 
lon’s admirable romance occupied no Jess than 
twenty years of the life of a man who was the 
great authority of his day and generation, but 
who is now forgotten, —Feitama. His transla- 
tion was ushered into the world with a ¢ flourish 
of trumpets’ sufficient to shake the walls of Jeri- 
cho. The art of puffing was then but imperfectly 
understood ; yet year after year the progress of 
the mountain’s Jabor was announced, a thousand 
minute-guns told mankind the hour of parturi- 
tion was come, et nascitur— amidst the roar 
of the artillery —a trumpery brat, that died in 
childhood, whose story is already in oblivion, 
and whose name was ‘ Feitama’s Telemachus.’ 
Feitama was a pernicious literary fop, who set- 
tled all matters of taste in his day, and got 
round him a circle of worshippers. The delu- 
sion was soon dissipated, and we need not lin- 
ger about it. Schim is tasteless, De Marre 
diffuse, Zweerts altogether worthless; and Di- 
dier Smits, whose ‘brilliant qualities’ the too 
laudatory professor too precipitately praises, 
was a very virtuous citizen, but nothing more. 
Steenwyk, who was Feitama’s favorite follower, 
published two bombastic epics, in which divers 
grand allegorical personages tread on the heels 
of one another in fine confusion.”’ * 

In addition to the names so lightly spoken 
of here, may be mentioned, as belonging to the 
same epoch, Lucas Schermer, a poet of great 
promise, who died at the early age of twenty- 
one ; — Arnold Hoogyliet, author of “The Pa- 
triarch Abraham,” a poem in twelve cantos ; — 
Willem Swanenburg, author of “The Muses 
of a Painter’”’ ; —Jaen de Marre, author of the 
tragedies of “‘ Jaqueline de Baviére ”’ and ‘+ Mar- 
cus Curtius’’;— Philip Sweers, Frans van 
Steenwijk, Lucas Pater, Balthazar Huydecoper, 
and Onno van Haren, all of them dramatic 
writers. Willem van Haren, brother of the 
last mentioned, also distinguished himself as a 
poet, and it was to him that Voltaire addressed 
the ode, beginning, “* Demosthenes in the Coun- 
cil and Pindar on Parnassus” (Démosthéne au 
conseil et Pindare au Parnasse). 'To these may 
be added the names of Lucas Trip, burgomaster 
of Groningen, and author of “ Time-saving of 
Leisure Hours,” which has been designated by 
the critics, as “‘one of those gloomy works, 
which, like Young’s ‘Night Thoughts,’ seem 
made rather to destroy, than to excite, enjoy- 
ment’’;—Johannes Eusebius Voet, translator of 
the Psalms;—and Dirk Smits, a custom-house 
officer at Rotterdam, whose fame not inappro- 


* Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. IV., pp. 57-59, 


DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


priately floats on a poem entitled “The River 
Rotte ” (Rottestroom), the river whose waters 
wash the quays of Rotterdam. 

IV. From 1775 to 1795.. The most distin- 
guished poets of this period are Nicolas Simon 
van Winter, author of “The River Amstel,” 
“The Seasons,” a descriptive poem in four 
cantos, and the tragedies of ‘‘ Menzikoff”’ and 
‘‘ Monzongo”’ ;—-his wife, Lucretia Wilhelmi- 
na van Merken, authoress of several tragedies, 
“* David,” an heroic poem in twelve cantos, 
and ‘‘ Germanicus,”’ an epic in twenty-four ; — 
her rival, the Baroness Juliana Cornelia de Lan- 
roy, authoress of the tragedies of ‘Leo the 
Great,” “ The Siege of Haarlem,” and “ Cle- 
opatra’’?;—-and Jan Nomsz, Willem Haver- 
korn, Pieter Uylenbroek, and Jan Gérard 
Doovnik, all of them writers for the stage. 
More distinguished than these, and the harbin- 
gers of a better epoch, are Hieronimus van 
Alphen, author of many popular and patriotic 
songs, poetic meditations, and poems for chil- 
dren, which are familiar as household words in 
every family in Holland ; — Jacobus Bellamy, 
a lyric poet of great tenderness and beauty, 
who died young ;— and Peter Nieuwland, son 
of a village carpenter, and a lyric poet of great 
distinction. Many of the poets, who, properly 
speaking, belong to the next period, and will 
there be introduced, began their career in this. 

V. From 1795 to the present time. A list of 
some thirty names constitutes the poetic cata- 
logue of this period, and.completes the sketch 
of Dutch poetry. The most distinguished among 
them are Feith, Helmers, Bilderdijk, Tollens, 
Borger, Da Costa, Klijn, Loots, Van Lennep, 
Nierstrasz, Kinker, Staring van der Wilden- 
bosch, Spandaw, Withuis, Loosjes, Van Winter, 
Simonsz, and Westerman. Several of these will 
be more particularly noticed hereafter; and the 
remainder must be passed over in silence. 


For more extended notices of the literature 
of Holland the reader is referred to the ** Mé- 
moires pour servir 4 |’Histoire Littéraire des 
Dix-sept Provinces des Pays Bas,’’ par M. Pa- 
quot, 3 vols., folio, and 18 vols., 8vo., Léven, 
1765 — 70 ; — ** Essai sur l’Histoire de la Litté- 
rature Néerlandaise,”’ par J. de ’S Gravenweert, 
Amsterdam, 1830, 8vo. ;— “ Précis de 1’ Histoire 
Littéraire des Pays Bas,’’ traduit du Hollandais 
de M. Siegenbeek, par H.S. Lebrocquy, Ghent, 
1827, 18mo. ; — the sketch by Van Kampen in 
Kichhorn’s “Geschichte der Litteratur,’’ Vol. 
IIl., Gottingen, 1812; —* Verhandling van 
den Heer Willem de Clercq ter beantwoording 
der vraage, welken invloed heaft vreemde Let- 
terkunde, &c., gehad op de Nederlandsche Taal 
en Letterkunde,’ Amsterdam, 1825, 8vo.;— 
and the *“* Biographisch, Anthologisch en Crit- 
isch Woordenboek der Nederduitsche Dichters,”’ 
door P. G. Witsen Geysbeek, 6 vols., Amster- 
dam, 1821 — 27, 8vo. To these may be added 
the works of Hoffmann, Mone, Le Jeune, and 
Bowring, cited in the course of this Introduction. 


THE HUNTER FROM GREECE. 


A HUNTER went a-hunting into the forest wide, 

And naught he found to hunt but a man whose 

arms were tied. 

« Hunter,” quoth he, “a woman is roaming in 

the grove, 

And to your joyous youth-tide a deadly bane 

shall prove.” 

“© What! should I fear a woman, who never 

feared a man?” 

Then to him, while yet speaking, the cruel 

woman ran. 

She seized his arms, and grasped his horse’s 

reins, and hied 

Full seventy miles, ascending with him the 

mountain’s side : 

The mountains they were lofty, the valleys 

deep and low. 

Two sucklings dead, one turning upon a spit, 

he saw: 

«¢ And am I doomed to perish, as I these perish 

see? 

Then may I curse my fortune that I a Greek 
should be.” 

“© What! are you, then, from Greece ? — for my 
husband is a Greek ;— 

And tell me of your parents, — perchance I 
know them, — speak!”’ 

«But should I name them, they may to you be 
all unknown : — 

My father is the monarch of Greece, and I his 

son ; 

And Margaret his consort, — my mother, too, 

is she; 

You well may know their titles, and they my 

parents be.”’ 

“©The monarch of the Grecians, — a comely 

man and gay ;— 

But should you ne’er grow taller, what boots 

your life, I pray?” 

“© Why should I not grow taller? 

years have seen ; 

I hope I shall grow taller than trees in the for- 

est green.” 

‘¢ How hope you to grow taller than trees in the 

forest green? — 

I have a maiden daughter, a young and graceful 

queen, 

And on her head she weareth a crown of pearls 

so fine; 

But not e’en wooing monarchs should have that 

daughter mine. 

Upon her breast she beareth a lily and a sword, 

And even hell’s black tenants all tremble at 

her word.” 


I but eleven 


shah ennai oes 
: pares ~s 


BACT GEA DiS. 


“You boast so of your daughter, I wish she ’d 
cross my way, — 

Id steal her kisses slyly, and bid her a good day.”’ 

“[ have a little courser that’s swifter than the 
wind ; 

I ‘ll lend it to you slyly; — go, seek, —— the 
maiden find,” 

Then bravely on the courser galloped the hunt- 
er lad: 

“© Farewell! black hag, farewell! for your 
daughter is teo bad.”’ 

“© O, had I, as this morning, you in my clutches 
back, 

You dared not then have called me — you 
dared not call me ‘ black.’”’ 

She struck the tree in fury with a club-stick 
which she took, 

Till the trees in the greenwood trembled, and 
all the green leaves shook. 


—_@—— 


THE FETTERED NIGHTINGALE. 


‘¢Now I will speed to the Eastern land, for 
there my sweet love dwells, — 

Over hill and over valley, far over the heather, 
for there my sweet love dwells. 

And two fair trees are standing at the gates of | 
my sweet love : 

One bears the fragrant nutmeg, and one the 
fragrant clove.” 

“©The nutmegs were so round, and the cloves 
they smelt so sweet, 

I thought a knight would court me, and but a 
mean man meet.”’ 

The maiden by the hand, by her snow-white 
hand he led, 

And they travelled far away to where a couch 
was spread ; 

And there they lay concealed through the lov- 
ing livelong night, 

From evening to the morning, till broke the gay 
daylight. 

«¢ And the sun is gone to rest, and the stars are 
shining clear ; 

I fain would hide me now in an orchard with 
my dear, 

And none should enter then my orchard’s deep 
alcove, 

But the proud nightingale that carols high 
above.” 

“ Well chain the nightingale, — his head unto 
his feet, — 

And he no more shall chatter of lovers when 


they meet.” 
FF2 


“Tm not less faithful now, altheugh in fetters 


bound, 


And still will chatter on of two sweet lovers’ 


wound.”’ 


—_@——— 


THE KNIGHT AND HIS SQUIRE. 


A xyicut and his esquire did stray 
Santio ! 

In the narrow path and the gloomy way. 
Non weder 

So quoth the knight, —* Yon tree do thou 
Santio : 

Climb, — bring the turtle from the bough.” 
Non weder 

‘Sir Knight, I dare not; for the tree 
Santio 

Is far too light to carry me.” 
Non weder 

The knight grew grave and stern; and he 
Santio 

Mounted, himself, the waving tree. 
Non weder 

“My master is fallen dead below! 
Santio 

Where are my well earned wages now?” 
Non weder 

“Your well earned wages? get you all: 
Santio 

Chariots and steeds are in the stall.”’ 
Non weder 

‘“‘ Chariots and steeds I seek not after, 
Santio 

But I will have the youngest daughter.” 
Non weder 

The squire is now a knight; and still 
Santio 

Drives steeds and chariots at his will. 
Non weder 


—_¢——. 


THE THREE MAIDENS. 


THERE were three maidens wandered forth 
In the spring-time of the year ; 

The hail and the snow fell thick and fast, 
And all three barefooted were. 


The first of the three was weeping sore ; 
With joy skipped the second there ‘ 


The third of those maidens the first did ask, 


“QO, how does thy true love fare?” 


“O, why, and O, wherefore askest thou, 
How does my true love fare ? 

Three men-at-arms did fall upon him, — 
His life they would not spare.’’ 


SS 


1 The chorus of this romance is, — ; 
— Santio 
Non weder de kneder de koorde sante jante 
Iko, kantiko di kandelaar sti. 


a 
; : _ = : al 


DUTCH POETRY. 


“Did three men-at-arms fall upon him? 
His life would they not spare ? 
Another lover must kiss you, then; 
To be merry and glad prepare.” 


“If another lover should kiss me, then, 
O, how sad would my poor heart be ! 
Adieu, my father and mother ! 
Ye never more shall see me. 


‘Adieu, my father and mother, 
And my youngest sister dear ! 

And I will to the green linden go, — 
My true love lieth there.”’ 


——_o—_- 


DAY IN THE EAST IS DAWNING. 


‘Day in the east is dawning, 
Light shineth over all ; 

How little knows my dearest 
What fate shall me befall ! 


‘‘ Were every one a friend to me 
Whom now I count my foe, 

I ’d bear thee far from this countree, 
My trust, my own true joe!” 


‘Then whither wouldst thou bear me, 
Thou knight so stout and gay?” 
*¢ All under the green linden, 
Darling, we ’d take our way.” 
‘“‘In my love’s arms I ’m lying 
With great honor per fay ; 
In my love’s arms I ’m lying, 
Thou knight so stout and gay.” 


‘In thy love’s arms thou ’rt lying? 
Woe ’s me, that is not truth! 

Seek under the green linden, — 
There lies he slain forsooth.”’ 


The maiden took her mantle, 
And hastened on her way, 
Where under the green linden 
Her murdered lover lay. 


“©, liest thou here murdered, 
And bathed in thy blood! 

’T is all because of thy high fame, 
Thy noble mind and good. 


‘© O, liest thou here murdered, 
Who wast my comfort all! 
Alas! how many bitter days 

Must I now weep thy fall!” 
The maiden turned her homewards, 
With grief and dolor sore, 
And when she reached her father’s, 
Yclosed was every door. 


POR a Tne WOT re Cet on oe rer rs aa aa ne ieaeindnebinbsideaiee ipinamamnanaticenheatniion 


Av hse ONE Ae EES eA, camel aint 


ss What ! is there no one here within, 
No lord, no man of birth, 

Who will assist me bury 
This corse in the cold earth?” 


The lords within stood mute and still, 
No help to her they lent ; 

The maiden turned her back again, 
Loud weeping as she went. 


Then with her hair so yellow 

She cleansed him from his gore, 
And with her hands so snowy 

His wounds she covered o’er. 


CATS.—HOOFT. 379 


i i tt 


And with his own white sword 
A grave for him she made, 
And with her own white arms 

His corse within it laid. 


And with her hands so snowy 
Her lover’s knell she rang, 
And with her voice so gentle 
Her lover’s dirge she sang. 


ss Now to some lonely cloister 
Straight Ill myself betake, 

And wear for aye a sable veil, 
For my own true love’s sake,”’ 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


JACOB CATS. 


Jacop Cats was born in 1577, at Brouwers- 
haven, in Zeeland. He studied at Leyden, and 
afterwards held several of the most important 
offices in the state. He was Ambassador to 
England, and afterwards, during five years, 
Grand Pensionary of Holland. He died at his 
estate in Zargvliet, in 1660. His poems con- 
sist of fables, songs, allegories, &c. They are 
distinguished for purity and simplicity of style, 
a rich fancy, and delicate morality. His works, 
after having been long neglected and almost 
forgotten, were republished by Bilderdijk and 
Feith, in nineteen volumes, at Amsterdam, in 
1790—1800. A large part of his poems ap- 
peared in German at Hamburg, in eight vol- 
umes, 1710-17. 


ee’ 


THE IVY. 


WHEN ivy twines around a tree, 

And o’er the boughs hangs verdantly, 

Or on the bark, however rough, 

It seems, indeed, polite enough ; 

And, judging from external things, 

We deem it there in friendship clings ; 
But where our weak and mortal eyes 
Attain not, hidden treachery lies : 

’T is there it brings decay unseen, 

While all without seems bright and green; 
So that the tree, which flourished fair, 
Before its time grows old and bare ; 

Then, like a barren log of wood, 

It stands in lifeless solitude : 

For treachery drags it to its doom, 

Which gives but blight, —yet promised bloom. 


Thou, whom the powerful Fates have hurled 
’Midst this huge forest called the world, 
Know, that not all are friends whose faces 
Are habited in courteous graces ; 


But think that ’neath the sweetest smile 
Oft lurk self-interest, hate, and guile ; 

Or that some gay and playful joke 

Is spite’s dark sheath, or envy’s cloak. 
Then love not each who offers thee, 

In seeming truth, his amity ; 

But first take heed, and weigh with care, 
Ere he thy love and favor share : 

For those, who friends too lightly choose, 
Soon friends and all besides may lose. 


THE STATUE OF MEMNON. 


We read in books of ancient lore, 

An image stood in days of yore, 

Which, when the sun with splendor dight 
Cast on its lips his golden light, 

Those lips gave back a silver sound, 
Which filled for hours the waste around : 
But when again the living blaze 
Withdrew its music-waking rays, 

Or passing clouds its splendor veiled, 

Or evening shades its face concealed, 
This image stood all silent there, 

Nor lent one whisper to the air. 

This was of old.—- And even now, 

The man who lives in fortune’s glow 
Bears off the palm of sense and knowledge, 
In town and country, court and college ; 
And all assert, nem. con., whatever 
Comes from his mouth is vastly clever : 
But when the glowing sun retires, 

His reign is o’er, and dimmed his fires, 
And all his praise like vapor flies, — 
For who e’er calls a poor man wise ? 


—=4—_— 


PIETER CORNELIS HOOFT. 


Turis writer, one of the fathers of the lit- 


erature of Holland, was born at Amsterdam, 


=) s! 


SaaS 


DUTCH POETRY. 


March 16th, 1581. His taste was formed by 
the study of the ancient classics, and by his 
travels in Italy. As a literary man, he dis- 
tinguished himself both in historical compo- 
sition and in poetry. In the former, Tacitus 
was his model, and the translation which he 
published of this great historian holds the rank 
of a classic. He wrote the “ Life of Henry the 
Fourth,” the * History of the House of Medi- 
ci,’ and the “History of the Netherlands.” 
The last is considered his most important work. 
As a poet, he is regarded as the creator of trage- 
dy and of erotic poetry in Holland. He died 
at the Hague, May 21, 1647. 


—— 


ANACREONTIC. 


Turere long years have o’erwhelmed me in 

gadness, 

Since the sun veiled his vision of gladness : 
Sorrow be banished, — for sorrow is dreary ; 
Sorrow and gloom but outweary the weary. 

In my heart I perceive the day breaking ; 

I cannot resist its awaking. 


On my brow a new sun is arisen, 

And bright is its glance o’er my prison ; 
Gayly and grandly it sparkles about me, 
Flowingly shines it within and without me: 

Why, why should dejection disarm me, — 

My fears or my fancies alarm me? 


Laughing light, lovely life, in the heaven 
Of thy forehead is virtue engraven ; 
Thy red coral lips, when they breathe an as- 
senting, 
To me are a dawn which Apollo is painting 
Thy eyes drive the gloom, with their ae 
ling, 
Where sadness and folly sit darkling. 


Lovely eyes, —then the beauties have bound 
them, 
And scattered their shadows around them; 
Stars, in whose twinklings the virtues and 
graces, 
Sweetness and meekness, all hold their high- 
places: 
But the brightest of stars is but twilight, 
Compared with that beautiful eye- -light. 


Fragrant mouth,—all the flowers spring is 
wreathing 
Are dull to the sweets thou art breathing; 
The charms of thy song might summon the 
spirit 
To sit on the ears all-enchanted to hear it: 
What marvel, then, if, in its kisses, 
My soul is o’erwhelmed with sweet blisses ? 


O, how blest, how divine the employment! 
How heavenly, how high the enjoyment! 
Delicate lips, and soft, amorous glances, — 
Kindling, and quenching, and fanning sweet 
fancies, — 


Now, now to my heart’s centre rushing, 
And now through my veins they are gushing. 


Dazzling eyes, that but laugh at our ruin, 
Nor think of the wrongs ye are doing, — 
Fountains of gladness and beacons of glory, 
How do ye scatter the dark mists before ye! 
Can my weakness your tyranny bridle? 
O, no! all resistance is idle. 


Ah! my soul —ah! my soul is submitted ; 

Thy lips, — thy sweet lips, — they are fitted 
With a kiss to dissolve into joy and affection 
The dreamings of hope and of gay recollection: 

And, sure, never triumph was purer; 

And, sure, never triumph was surer. 


I am bound to your beauty completely, 
I am fettered and fastened so sweetly ; 
And blessed are the tones, and the looks, and 
the mind, too, 
Which my senses control, and my heart is in- 
clined to: 
While virtue, the holiest and brightest, 
Has fastened love’s fetters the tightest. 


-— 


MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER. 


Or the Visscher family, who were contempo- | 
raries of Hooft, a writer in the “Foreign Quar- || 
terly Review” (Vol. IV., p. 46) remarks as fol- 
lows : — 

‘“¢ Visscher was one of the principal lumina- 
ries of the most renowned of the Chambers of 
Rhetoric—In Liefde bloeijnde (Blooming in 
Love) — of Amsterdam. He published a series 
of allegories, entitled ‘Zinne Peppen’; but he 
did better than this by cultivating the taste of 
his two daughters, whose names are sung in 
every variety of flattering homage by almost 
every Dutch poet of their day and generation. 
They were highly accomplished; they render- 
ed popular the study of other languages; and, 
though their literary works are not numerous, 
they exercised an important and a purifying in- 
fluence on the compositions of their country- 
men.”’ 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 


Prize thou the Nightingale, 
Who soothes thee with his tale, 
And wakes the woods around ; 
A singing feather he, — a winged and wander- 
ing sound : 


Whose tender carolling 
Sets all ears listening 
Unto that living lyre 
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire : 


Whose shrill, capricious song 
Breathes like a flute along, 
With many a careless tone, — 
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one 
tongue alone. 


O charming creature rare, 
Can aught with thee compare ? 
Thou art all song; thy breast 
Thrills for one month o’ th’ year, — is tranquil 
_all the rest. 


Thee wondrous we may call, — 
Most wondrous this of all, 
That such a tiny throat 
Should wake so wide a sound, and pour so loud 
a note. 


—— 


HUIG DE GROOT. 


Tus great man, known to the world under 
the name of Hugo Grotius, was born at Delft, 
April 10th, 1583. After completing his studies, 
in which he gained great distinction at an early 
age, he accompanied Barneveldt, the Dutch 
ambassador, to France. Returning thence, he 
commenced the practice of the law, and con- 
ducted his first cause at the age of seventeen. 
In his twenty-fourth year, he was appointed 
Advocate-General. In 1619, he was condemn- 
ed to perpetual imprisonment in the fortress of 
Louvesteijn, for the part he took in the contro- 
versy between the Remonstrants and their op- 
ponents, the former of whom, together with 
Barneveldt, he supported. By the assistance 
of his wife he made his escape, and took refuge 
in France, where he received for some time a 
pension of three thousand livres from Louis 
the Thirteenth. Through the influence of his 
enemies, the pension was withdrawn in 1631, 
and Grotius returned to his native country, re- 
lying on the friendship of the prince of Orange ; 
but his enemies proving too powerful for him, 
he was condemned to perpetual banishment. 
Soon after this, he accepted the liberal offers of 
Christina, queen of Sweden, and her celebrat- 
ed chancellor, Oxenstiern, and, in 1634, re- 
paired to Stockholm, where he was appointed 
Councillor of State, and Ambassador to France. 
He appeared in Paris, in 1635, and discharged 
the duties of ambassador for ten years with dis- 
tinguished ability. On his return to Sweden 
by way of Holland, he met with the most hon- 
orable reception from his countrymen, who now 
looked upon him as the glory of his native 
land. He was received with equal favor and 
distinction by the queen of Sweden. Wishing 
to return to his native country, he requested a 
dismission from the Swedish service. On his 
way to Holland, he fell sick at Rostock, where 
he died, August 28th, 1645. 

Grotius was an able statesman and lawyer, a 
profound theologian, and a most accomplished 
scholar. His metrical translations from the 
Greek are executed with admirable skill and 
fidelity. .He is renowned as one of the best of 
the modern Latin poets. He also wrote Dutch 
verses, but with less success. 


nk A cl eR AS. 


VISSCHER.—GROOT.—BRUNE. 


SONNET. 
ReEcEIvE not with disdain this product from 
my hand, 
O mart of all the world! Y flower of Nether- 
land ! 


Fair Holland! Jet this live, though I may not, 
with thee ; 

My bosom’s queen! I show e’en now how fer- 
vently 

I ’ve loved thee through all change, —thy good 
and evil days, — 

And love, and still will love, till life itself de- 
cays. 

If here be aught on which thou may’st a 
thought bestow, 

Thank Him without whose aid no good from 
man can flow. 

If errors meet thy view, remember kindly then 

What gathering clouds obscure the feeble eyes 
of men ; 

And rather spare than blame this humble work 
of mine, 

And think, “ Alas! ’t was made —’t was made 
at Louvesteijn.”’ 


——_o@-— 


JAN DE BRUNE. 


Turs writer, known under the Latinized name 
of Johannes Bruneus, was born in 1585. He 
was not only a poet, but a statesman, and filled 
many important offices. He died in 1658. 


SONG. 


I Lay in gasping agonies, 
And my eyes 

Were covered by a cloud of death ; 
It seemed as if my spirit hung 
On my tongue, 

About to vanish with my breath ; 


When Laura, smiling fondness, came, 
And, with shame, 

Offered her delightful lip, 
Her sweet lip, to which the bee 
Well might flee, 

Fragrant honey there to sip. 


Enraptured with the sudden bliss 
Which her kiss 

Gave my heart, when bowed by pain, 
Instantly I felt a light, 
Pure and bright, 

Kindle new existence then. 


.O, may Heaven grant once more that I 
Thus may lie! 
The pangs of death I ’d undergo, 
If lips as blooming and as dear 
Were but near, 
To cure me with their honey so. 


381 


SEDGE IE PT SLT 


GERBRAND BREDERODE. 


Grrepranpd BrepERODE was born at Amster- 
dam, March 16th, 1585, and died August 23d, 
1618. “He was principally celebrated,” says 
Bowring, * “for his comedies, into which he 
introduced the language of the lower classes of 
Amsterdam with great effect. It is said that 
he often attended the fish-market and similar 
places, to colleet materials for bis various pie- 
ces. ‘This is apparent in his ‘Moortje’ and his 
‘Spaanschen Brabander.’ His poems were 
published at Amsterdam, in 1622, by Cornelis 
van der Plasse, under the titles of « Het Boer- 
igh Liedt-Boeck’ (Facetious Song-Book), ‘ De 
Groote Bron der Minnen’ (The Great Foun- 
tain of Love), and ¢‘ Aendachtigh Liedt-Boeck’ 
(Meditative Song-Book).”’ 


SONG. 


FROM THE GREAT FOUNTAIN OF LOVE. 


Cansr thou so soon unkindly sever 

My long, long suit from memory, — 
The precious time now lost for ever, 

The vanished moments passed with thee, 

In friendliness, in love’s caress, 
In happiness, and converse free from guile, 
From night till merning, and ’neath twilight’s 
smile ? 


A father’s rage and friends’, derision 

For thee I’ve borne, when thou wert kind; 
But they fled by me as a vision 

That fades and leaves no trace behind. 

O, thus I deemed, when fondly beamed, 
And purely gleamed, those brilliant eyes, whose 
ray 

Hath made me linger near thee through the day ! 


How oft those tender hands I ’ve taken, 
And drawn them to my breast, whose flame 
Seemed, at their gentle touch, to waken 
To feelings I dared scarcely name ! 
I wished to wear a lattice there, 
Of crystal clear or purest glass, that well 
Thou might’st behold what tongue could never 
tell. 


Q, could the heart within me glowing 

E’er from its cell have been removed, 
I had not shrunk, —that heart bestowing 

On thee, whom I so warmly loved, 

So longed to wed, so cherished ! 
Ah! who could dread that thou wouldst wan- 
ton be, 

And so inconstant in thy love to me? 


Another youth has stolen my treasure, 
And placed himself upon the throne 

Where late I reigned, supreme in pleasure, 
And weakly thought it all my own. 


* Batavian Anthology, p. 88. 


DUTCH POETRY. 
clot eect anime boa ah Adil Nea say RIESE MALATE AI VIR UE a 


What causes now that chilling brow ? 
Or where didst thou such evil counsel gain, 
As thus to pride and glory in my pain? 


What thoughts, too painful to be spoken, 
Hath falsehood for thy soul prepared, 
When thou survey’st each true-love token, 
And think’st of joys together shared, — 
Of vows we made beneath the shade, 
And kisses paid by my fond lips to thine, 
And given back with murmured sigh to mine! 


Bethink thee of those hours of wooing, — 
Of words that seemed the breath of truth, — 
The Eden thou hast made a ruin, — 
My withered hopes and blighted youth! 
It wonders me that thou shouldst be 
So calm and free, nor dread the rage that burns 
Within the heart where love to malice turns. 


Away, — away, — accursed deceiver ! 
With tears delude the eyes and brain 
Of him, the fond, the weak believer, 
Who follows now thy fickle train. 
That senseless hind (to whom thou ’rt kind, 
Not for his mind, but for his treasured ore) 
Disturbs me not. Farewell! we meet no more! 


9 —__— 


DIRK RAFAEL KAMPHUYZEN. 


Kampuuyzen was born at Gorkum, in 1586, 
and died July 9th, 1626. He wrote “ Edifying 
Poems,” and a ‘+ Paraphrase of the Psalms.” 
‘“‘ Kamphuyzen’s religious poetry,” says Bow- 
ring,* ‘¢is superior to any which preceded it. 
There is a pure and earnest feeling throughout, 
an intense conviction of truth, and an ele- 
vated devotion. His ‘May Morning’ is one 
of the most popular productions of the Dutch 
poets; its harmonious versification and its sim- 
plicity have made it the common source of con- 
solation in distress.” 


PSALM CXXXIII. 


Ir there be one whose thoughts delight to wan- 
der 
In pleasure’s fields, where love’s bright streams 
meander ; 
If there be one who longs to find 
Where all the purer blisses are enshrined, — 
A happy resting-place of virtuous worth, — 
A blessed paradise on earth: 


Let him survey the joy-conferring union 

Of brothers who are bound in fond communion, 
And not by force of blood alone, 
But by their mutual sympathies are known, 
And every heart and every mind relies 
Upon fraternal, kindred ties. 

we ee ee 

* Batavian Anthology, p. 115. 


imma ammmmammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmecem= eee | 


fans Ania 


(Oct Le 


nea nea tba Nah Alte MFA SEA nr tri heAiientannena tin ™ Sty | 


KAMPHUYZEN.—VONDEL. 


O, blest abode, where love is ever vernal, 
Where tranquil peace and concord are eternal, 
Where none usurp the highest claim, 
But each with pride asserts the other’s fame ! 
O, what are all earth’s joys, compared to thee, 
Fraternal unanimity ? 


F’en as the ointment, whose sweet odors blended, 
From Aaron’s head upon his beard descended ; 
Which hung awhile in fragrance there, 
Bedewing every individual hair, 
. 4 . . 
And, falling thence, with rich perfume ran o’er 
The holy garb the prophet wore : 


So doth the unity that lives with brothers 
Share its best blessings and its joys with others, 
And makes them seem as if one frame 
Contained their minds, and they were formed 
the same, 
And spreads its sweetest breath o’er every 
part, 
Until it penetrates the heart. 


E’en as the dew, that, at the break of morning, 
All nature with its beauty is adorning, 
And flows from Hermon calm and still, 
And bathes the tender grass on Zion’s hill, 
And to the young and withering herb resigns 
The drops for which it pines: 


So are fraternal peace and concord ever 

The cherishers, without whose guidance never 
Would sainted quiet seek the breast, — 
The life, the soul of unmolested rest, — 
The antidote to sorrow and distress, 
And prop of human happiness. 


Ah! happy they whom genial concord blesses ! 
Pleasure for them reserves her fond caresses, 
And joys to mark the fabric rare, 
On virtue founded, stand unshaken there ; 
Whence vanish all the passions that destroy 
Tranquillity and inward joy. 


Who practise good are in themselves rewarded, 
_ For their own deeds lie in their hearts record- 
ed ; 
And thus fraternal love, when bound 
By virtue, is with its own blisses crowned, 
And tastes, in sweetness that itself bestows, 
What use, what power, from concord flows. 


God in his boundless mercy joys to meet it; 
His promises of future blessings greet it, 
And fixed prosperity, which brings 
Long life and ease beneath its shadowing 
wings, 
And joy and fortune, that remain sublime 
Beyond all distance, change, and time. 


+_@——- 


JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL. 


Tus poet, one of the most distinguished in 
| Dutch literature, was born at Cologne in 1587. 


| 


3383: | 


In his childhood, his parents removed to Am- 
sterdam. He was richly endowed by nature, 
but his education was defective. When about 
thirty years old, he learned the Latin and French 
languages, and then read the works of the an- |, 
cients and of the French. He devoted himself 
wholly to poetry; his writings include occa- 
sional poems, satires, tragedies, and translations 
from the Psalms of David, from Virgil, and from || 
Ovid. His death took place in 1659. 

“ He had,” says Gravenweert,* ‘all the in- 
dependence of the poet in bis character, which 
was often harsh. His epigrams, and an exces- || 
sive freedom of opinion, which caused him to 
change his religion and to sacrifice his interests 
to his ideas, involved him in quarrels with 
Hooft, Cats, Huijgens, and others. He never 
begged the favor of the powerful. He died at 
the age of ninety-one years, overwhelmed with 
infirmities and domestic misfortunes, but cov- 
ered with imperishable laurels. Vondel was a 
man of letters, and found this title preferable 
to all the toys of ambition and of vanity. He 
lived for immortality, and knew well that a 
grateful nation would not judge him by the 
places he had occupied, but by the excellence 
of his productions. This admirable genius eXx- 
celled in every department; in fugitive poetry 
as well as in satire, in the ode and the epic, 
but above all in tragedy. 


‘‘ Vondel was buried with pomp; a medal 
was struck in honor of him; and a hundred 
years afterwards, a simple monument was erect- 
ed to his memory, in one of the churches of 
Amsterdam, bearing no eulogium but his name. 
Vondel has had many panegyrists, and some de- 
tractors, who, either in good faith, or because 
they wished to create a sensation, have depre- 
ciated his name and fame, and endeavoured to 
destroy this idol of Dutch literature. In spite 
of the defects which criticism has pointed out 
in his numerous works, the name of Vondel is 
still honored in Holland, as that of Shakspeare 
is in England, and all the efforts of envy and of 
too severe criticism have served only to aug- 
ment the brightness of a reputation which 
counts more than two centuries of glory.”’ 


TO GEERAERT VOSSIUS, 


ON THE LOSS OF HIS SON. 


Wary mourn’st thou, Vossius? why has pain 
Its furrows to thy pale brow given? 
Seek not to hold thy son from heaven! 

’'T is heaven that draws, — resign him, then. 


Yes, — banish every futile tear, 
And offer to its Source above, 
In gratitude and humble love, 

The choicest of thy treasures here. 


SS 


* Essai sur l’Histoire de la Littérature Néerlandaise, 
pp. 78-87. 


i 


———— re 


<< 


We murmur, if the bark should strand: 
But not, when, richly laden, she 
Comes from the wild and raging sea, 

Within a haven safe to land. 


We murmur, if the balm be shed; 
Yes, — murmur for the odor’s sake: 
But not, whene’er the glass may break, 
If that which filled it be not fled. 


He strives in vain who seeks to stay 
The bounding waters in their course, 
When hurled from rocks with giant force, 
Towards some calm and spacious bay. 


Thus turns the earthly globe ; — though o’er 
His infant’s corse a father mourn, 
Or child bedew its parents’ urn, — 
Death passes neither house nor door. 


Death, nor for gay and blooming youth 
Nor peevish age, his stroke defers ; 
He chains the lips of orators, 

Nor cares for wisdom, worth, or truth. 


Blest is the mind, that, fixed and free, 
To wanton pleasures scorns to yield, 
And wards, as with a pliant shield, 

The arrows of adversity. 


. 
eee 


CHORUS, 


FROM GYSBRECHT VAN AEMSTEL, 


O Nicur! far lovelier than the day! 
How can Herodes bear the ray, 

Whose consecrated, hallowed glows 
Rich splendor o’er this darkness spread ? 
To reason’s call his pride is dead ; 

Her voice his heart no longer knows. 


By slaughter of the guiltless, he 
Would raise up guilt and tyranny. 
He bids a loud lament awake 
In Bethlehem and o’er the plain, 
And Rachel’s spirit rise again 
To haunt the desolate field and brake. 


Now wandering east, now wandering west 
For her, lone mother, where is rest, 

Now that her children ‘are no more, — 
Now that she sees them blood-stained lie, 
Even at their births condemned to die, 

And swords unnumbered red with gore ? 


? 


She sees the milk, no nurture bringing, 
Unto their lifeless, pale lips clinging 
may E = aaa of 
Torn from their mother’s breast but late ; 
She marks the stagnant tears reclining, 
Like dew, upon their cold cheeks shining. — 
’ 5) 


Poor victims of a ruthless fate ! 


The brows, now pallid, dimmed, and fading, 
Those closed and joyless eyes are shading, 
Whose rays pure lustre once had given, 


DUTCH POETRY. 
lh en ep 


Like stars ; and with their playful light, 
Ere covered with death’s cloud of night, 
Transformed the visage to a heaven. 


Vain are description’s feeble powers 
To number all the infant flowers 
Which faded, died, when scarcely born, — 
Before their opening leaves could greet 
The wooing air with fragrance sweet, 
Or drink the earliest dew of morn! 


So falls the corn beneath the sickle ; 

So shake the leaves, when tempests fickle 
Awake the mountain’s voice from thrall. 

What can result from blind ambition, 

When raging with some dark suspicion ? — 
What bard so vile to mourn its fall ? 


Then, Rachel, haunt not spots once cherished ; 

Thy children even as martyrs perished : 
Those first-loved fruits that sprang from thee 

From which thy heart was doomed to sever, 

In praise of God, shall bloom for ever, 
Unhurt, untouched, by tyranny. 


? 


CHORUS. 


FROM PALAMEDES, 


Tue thinly sprinkled stars surrender 

To early dawn their dying splendor; 

The shades of night are dim and far, 

And now before the morning-star 

The heavenly legions disappear : 

The constellation’s! charioteer 

No longer in the darkness burns, 

But backward his bright courser turns. 

Now golden Titan, from the sea, 

With azure steeds comes gloriously, 

And shines o’er woods and dells and downs, 

And soaring Ida’s leafy crowns. 

O sweetly welcome break of morn ! 

Thou dost with happiness adorn 

The heart of him who cheerily, 

Contentedly, unwearily, 

Surveys whatever Nature gives, 

What beauty in her presence lives, 

And wanders oft the banks along 

Of some sweet stream with murmuring song, 
O, more than regal is his lot, 

Who, in some blest, secluded spot, 

Remote from crowded cares and fears, 

His loved, his cherished dwelling rears! 

For empty praises never pining, 

His wishes to his cot confining, 

And listening to each cheerful bird 

Whose animating song is heard: 

When morning dews, which Zephyr’s sigh 

Has wafted, on the roses lie, 

Whose leaves beneath the pearl-drops bend ; 

When thousand rich perfumes ascend, 

And thousand hues adorn the bowers, 

And form a rainbow of sweet flowers, 


1 Ursa Major. 


VONDEL. 


Or bridal robe for Iris made 

From every bud in sun or shade. 
Contented there to plant or set, 

Or snare the birds with crafty net; 

To grasp his bending rod, and wander 
Beside the banks where waves meander, 
And thence their fluttering tenants take ; 
Or, rising ere the sun ’s awake, 

Prepare his steed, and scour the grounds, 


And chase the hare with swift-paced hounds ; 


Or ride, beneath the noontide rays, 
Through peaceful glens and silent ways, 
Which wind like Cretan labyrinth ; 

Or where the purple hyacinth 

Is glowing on its bed ; or where 

The meads red-speckled daisies bear : 
Whilst maidens milk the grazing cow, 
And peasants toil behind the plough, 
Or reap the crops beneath their feet, 

Or sow luxuriant flax or wheat. 

Here flourishes the waving corn, 
Encircled by the wounding thorn ; 
There glides a bark by meadows green ; 
And there the village smoke is seen ; 
And there a castle meets the view, 
Half-fading in the distance blue. 

How hard, how wretched is his doom 
Whom sorrows follow to the tomb, 
And whom, from morn till quiet eve, 
Distresses pain, and troubles grieve, 
And cares oppress ! —for these await 
The slave, who, in a restless state, 
Would bid the form of concord flee, 
And call his object — liberty : 

He finds his actions all pursued 

By envy or ingratitude. 

The robe is honoring, I confess ; 
The cushion has its stateliness ; — 
But, O, they are a burden too! 

And pains spring up, for ever new, 
Beneath the roof which errors stain, 


But he who lives in rural ease 

Avoids the cares that torture these : 
| No golden chalices invite 

To quaff the deadly aconite ; 
Nor dreads he secret foes, who lurk 
Behind the throne with coward dirk, — 
Assassin-friends, — whose murderous blow 
Lays all the pride of greatness low. 
No fears his even life annoy, 
Nor feels he pride, nor finds he joy 
In popularity, — that brings 
A fickle pleasure, and then — stings. 
He is not roused at night from bed, 
With weary eyes and giddy head ; 
| At morn, no long petitions vex him, 
Nor scrutinizing looks perplex him : 
He has no joy in others’ cares ; 
He bears, —and, while he bears, forbears ; 
And from the world he oft retreats 
Where learning’s gentle smiles he meets. 
He heeds not priestcraft’s ban or praise, 
But scorns the deep anathemas 


a _* 


And where the strife is, — who shall reign. 


Which he, who in his blindness errs, 
Receives from these, — God’s messengers! 


Near rocks where danger ever lies, 
Through storms of evil auguries 
Proceeding from calumnious throats, 
The exhausted Palamedes floats: 

And shipwrecked he must be at last, 
If Neptune do not kindly cast 
Protection round him, and appease 
With trident-sway these foaming seas. 


CHORUS OF BATAVIAN WOMEN. 
FROM THE BATAVIAN BROTHERS. 


STROPHE. 
Ours was a happy lot, 
Ere foreign tyrants brought 
The servile iron yoke, which bound 
Our necks with humbling slavery to the 
ground. 
Once all was confidence and peace ; — the 
just 
Might to his neighbour trust. 
The common plough turned up the common 
land, 
And Nature scattered joy with, liberal hand. 
The humble cot of clay — 
Kept the thick shower, the wind, and hail 
away. 
Upon the frugal board 
No luxuries were stored ; 
But ’neath a forest-tree the table stood, — 
A simple plank, — unpolished and rude : 
Our feasts, the wild game of the wood ; 
And curds and cheese our daily food. 
Man, in his early virtues blest, 
Slept satisfied on woman's breast, 
Who, modest and confiding, saw 
In him her lord, and love, and law. 
Then was the stranger and the neighbour, each, 
Welcomed with cordial thoughts and honest 


speech ; 
And days flowed cheerful on, as days should 
flow, — 


Unmoved by distant or domestic woe. 


ANTISTROPHE. 


Then was no value set on silver things, 
Nor golden stores, nor coin, nor dazzling rings ; 
They bartered what they had for what they 
wanted ; — 
And sought no foreign shores, — but planted 
Their own low dwellings in their mother- 
land ; 
Raised all by their own hand, 
And furnished with whatever man requires 
For his moderate desires. 
They had no proud adornings, — were not gilt 
Nor sculptured, — nor in crowded cities built; 
But in wide-scattered villages they spread, 
Where stand no friendly lamps above the 
head : 


GG 


te 


ae 


. D 


Rough and undecked the simple cot, 
With the rich show of pomp encumbered 
not. 
As when in decorated piles are seen 
The bright fruits peeping through the foliage 
green ; 

Bark of the trees and hides of cattle cover 
The lowly hut, when storms rage fiercely over: 
Man had not learned the use of stone ; 
Tiles and cement were all unknown; 
Some place of shelter dug,—dark, dreary, far, — 

For the dread hour of danger or of war, 
When the stray pirate broke on the serene 
And cheerful quiet of that early scene. 


STROPHE. 
No usurer, then, with avarice’s burning 
thirst, 
His fellow-men had cursed. 
The coarse-wove flax, the unwrought fleece, 
alone, 
On the half-naked, sturdy limbs were thrown. 
The daughters married late 
To a laborious fate ; 
And to their husbands bore a_ healthy 
race, 
To take their fathers’ place. 
If e’er dispute or discord dared intrude, 
"T was soon, by wisdom’s voice, subdued ; 
| The wisest then was called to reign, 
The bravest did the victory gain : 
The proud were made to feel 
They must submit them to the general 
weal ; 
For to the proud and high a given way 
Was marked, that thence they might not 
stray : — 
And thus was freedom kept alive. 
Rulers were taught @o strive 
For subjects’ happiness, — and subjects brought 
The cheerful tribute of obedient thought ; 
And ’t was indeed a glorious sight, 
To see them wave their weapons bright : 
No venal bands, the murderous hordes of fame ; 
But freedom’s sons,—all armed in freedom’s 
name, 


ANTISTROPHE, 


No judge outdealing justice in his hate, 
Nor in his favor. Wisdom’s train sedate 
Of books, and proud philosophy, 
And stately speech, could never needed be, 
While they for virtue’s counsellings might 
look 
On Nature’s open book, 
Where bright and free the Godhead’s glory 
falls 5—— 
Not on the imprisoning walls 
Of temples, — for their temple was the wood, — 
The heavens its arch,—its aisles were soli- 
tude. 
And then they sang the praise 
Of heroes, and the seers of older days. 
They never dared to pry 
Into the mysteries of the Deity ; 


UTCH POETRY. 


They never weighed his schemes, nor judged 
his will, — 
But saw his works, and loved and praised him 


still ; 

Obeyed in awe, —kept pure their hearts with- 
in; 

For this they knew, — God hates and scourges 
sin. 


Some dreams of future bliss were theirs, 
To gild their joys and chase their cares. 
And thus they dwelt, and thus they died, 
With guardian-freedom at their side, 

The happy tenants of a happy soil, — 

Till came the cruel stranger to despoil. 


EPODE, 
But, O, that blessed time is past ! 
The strangers now possess our land ; 
Batavia is subdued, at last, — 
Batavia fettered, ruined, banned ! 
Yes, — honor, truth have taken flight 
To seats sublimer, thrones more pure. 
Look, Julius, from thy throne of light, — 
See what thy Holland’s sons endure ! 
Thy children still are proud to claim 
Their Roman blood, their source, from thee ; 
Friends, brothers, comrades bear the name ; — 
Desert them not in misery ! 
Terror and power and cruel wrong 
Have a free people’s bliss undone ; 
Too harsh their sway, —their rule too long! 
Arouse thee from thy cloudy throne ; 
And if thou hate disgrace and crime, 
Recall, recall departed time ! 


e 


—__-_>—— 


CONSTANTIJN HUIJGENS. 


ConsTantTiJn Huv1sGens was born at the 
Hague, in 1596. He was secretary to the 
princes of Nassau, and became famous for the 
universality of his literary acquirements. He 
had a familiar knowledge of many languages, 
both ancient and modern. His death took 
place in 1687. 


Of Huijgens, a writer in the “ Foreign Quar- 


terly Review” (Vol. IV., p. 48) says: — “ His 
versification is sometimes harsh and hard. The 
perplexities of rhyme he could not always 
unravel, and his Alexandrines are not unfre- 
quently eked out with expletives, — the curse, 
be it permitted us to say, of the poetry of Hol- 
land. The Alexandrines offer a fatal attrac- 
tion to the indifferent poet. One rhyme in 
four-and-twenty or six-and-twenty syllables is 
no great discovery, in a language possessing an 
immense number of rhyming sounds. Huij- 
gens wrote in several tongues with facility, and 
his ‘Ledige Uren’ (Leisure Hours) have spe- 
cimens in Latin, French, and Italian. Not- 
withstanding some very obvious affectations, he 
is a writer whose vigor of expression is remark- 
able. His ‘Batava Tempe,’ especially, has 
many very striking passages, — some in very 


a 


POF EL SANE AD a Ee ——_—_——_— 


bad taste, — but very ingenious and emphatic. 
In De Clercq’s estimate of Huijgens we cor- 
dially agree. He has more originality than 
most of the Dutch poets, and more variety, al- 
though he is one of those who are least read. 
He is frequently obscure from overstrained 
effort, — infelicitous in his selection of words 
and images, —and scarcely less so in the choice 
of the foreign sources from whom he has large- 
ly borrowed. Huijgens was not merely a lit- 
erary benefactor to his country. The beautiful 
road from the Hague to Scheveling, on the 
left side of which resided old Father Cats, owes 
its existence to him.” 


A KING. 


Hex ’s a crowned multitude ; — his doom is hard ; 

Servant to each, a slave without reward : 

The state’s tall roof on which the tempests fall : 

The reckoning-book that bears the debts of all: 

He borrows little, yet is forced to pay 

The most usurious interest day by day: 

A fettered freeman, — an imploring lord, — 

A ruling suppliant, —a rhyming word : 

A lightning-flash, that breaks all bonds asunder, 

And spares what yields, —a cloud that speaks 
in thunder: 

A sun, in darkness and in day that smites, — 

A plague, that on the whirlwind’s storm alights : 

A lesser god: a rudder to impel: 

Targe for ingratitude, and flattery’s bell: 

In fortune praised, — in sorrow shunned ; his lot 

Too be adored, — deserted, — and forgot. 

His wish a thousand hurry to fulfil ; 

His will is law, — his law is all men’s will: 

His breath is choked by sweetly sounding lies, 

And seeming mirth, and cheating flatteries, 

Which ever waft truth’s accents from his ear ; 

And if, perchance, its music he should hear, 

They break its force, and through the crooked 
way ° 

Of their delusions flatter and betray. 

He knows no love,—its smiles are all forbid- 
den; 

He has no friend, —thus virtue’s charms are 
hidden ; 

All round is self, —the proud no friends possess ; 

Life is with them but scorn and heartlessness. 

He is a suitor forced by fear to wed, 

And wooes the daughter, though the sire he 
dread, — 

In this far less than even the lowest slave 

That fells the tree or cleaves the rising wave. 

His friends are foes, when tried. Corruption flies 

O’er his disordered country, when he dies. 

If long success from virtue’s path entice, 

They will not blend their honor with his vice, 

But rather shed their tears in that swift stream 

Against whose might their might is as a dream. 

His days are not his own, for smiles and sorrow 

Visit him each: the eventide, the morrow, 

Deny him rest, —sleep’s influence steals not 
o’er him: 

Wearied he lives, and joy retreats before him. 


HUIJGENS.—WESTERBAEN. 


nn nnn ne att tttttdtIIEIEIEISSSSSSSSSSSSESSSSSS nn 


Beneath care’s sickle all his flowers decay ; 

His sparkling cup in dulness sinks away. 

His son on tiptoe stands to seize the crown, 

Which a few. years of woes shall tumble down. 

O gilded thistle! why should mortals crave 
thee, 

Who art but bitter medicine when they have 
thee? 

Or why aspire to state ne’er long possessed, — 

By dangers ever circled, and no rest ? 


——4 


JACOB WESTERBAEN. 


Jacop WesTERBAEN was born in 1599, and 
died in 1670. Of an illustrious family, a knight, 
and Lord of Brantwijck, he preferred the ele- 
gant leisure of the country to the honors and 
intrigues of the court. The greater part of his 
life was passed in retirement at his chateau of 
Ockenburg, which he made the subject of a de- 
scriptive and didactic poem, after the manner of 
Thomson’s ‘Seasons ’’ and Delille’s “« Homme 
des Champs.’”’ He published, also, some love 
songs, and other fugitive poems, and made trans- 
lations from Virgil, Terence, and Ovid. 


SONG. 


Tuinx not that the dear perfume 
And the bloom 
Of those cheeks, divinely glowing, 
Ever shall remain to thee, 
While there be 
None for whom those flowers are blowing. 


By the eglantine be taught 
How ’t is sought 
For its bloom and fragrance only : 
Is not all its beauty past, 
When, at last, 
On the stem ‘t is hanging lonely ? 


Maidens are like garden bowers 
Filled with flowers, 
Which are spring-time’s choicest treasure : 
While the budding leaves they bear 
Flourish there, 
They will be a source of pleasure. 


But whene’er the lovely spring 
Spreads her wing, 
And the rose’s charms have fleeted ; 
Nor those lately valued flowers, 
Nor the bowers, 
Shall with former praise be greeted. 


While Love’s beam in woman’s eyes 
Fondly lies, 
All the heart’s best feelings telling, 
Love will come, —a welcome guest, — 
And her breast 
Be his own ecstatic dwelling. 


DUT ORIPUn 1 iY. 


But when envious Time takes arms 
’Gainst her charms, 
All her youthful graces spurning ; 
Love, who courted beauty’s ray, 
Steals away, 
Never thinking of returning. 


Maidens! who man’s suit deride, 
And whose pride 
Scorns the hearts that bow before ye, 
From my song this lesson learn : 
! “ Be not stern 
To the lovers who adore ye.” 


SONG. 


E’rn as a tender rose, 
To which the spring gives birth, 
Falls when the north wind blows, 
And withers on the earth : 
So, when her*eye-light throws its glances 
brightly through me, 
I sink o’erwhelmed and gloomy. 


E’en as the herb by day 
Its green leaf downwards turns, 
What time the sun’s fierce ray 
Upon it fiercely burns: 
So, ‘neath the quenchless fire, that from her 
eyes is shining, 
I feel myself declining. 


My courage is subdued 
By sorrow’s mighty thrill, 
And so in solitude 
I linger sadly still ; 
While her sweet witcheries cast their magic 
influence round me, 
And in their chains have bound me. 


——o——— 


JEREMIAS DE DECKER. 


Tus poet was born at Dordrecht in 1610. 
His education was carefully superintended by 
his father, and his poetical talents were early 
unfolded. His first poetical work was a trans- 
lation of the Lamentations of Jeremiah; this 
was followed by imitations of Horace, Juvenal, 
Persius, and other Latin classics. He wrote 
also many original poems. He died at Amster- 
dam, in 1666. 


TO A BROTHER WHO DIED AT BATAVIA. 


BiEssED, though misery-causing, thou ! 
Who seest not our domestic woe, 
And hear’st not our funereal plaint ; 
But slumberest on thy bed of rest, 
Stretched in the furthest Orient, 
With Java’s sands upon thy breast ! 


Did I not tell thee, broken-hearted, 
Thy doom,—sad doom ! — when last we parted? 


Did I not paint the dangers near ? 
Tell thee what misery would be mine, 
To leave a father’s solemn bier, 
With tottering steps, — to weep o’er thine? 


Long absence brought thee to my sight, 

In fiery flashes, — lightning bright ; — 

But, that the thunder might not shock thee, 
Death to his bosom gathered thee ; 

And now no more the wild winds rock thee, 
And rages now no more the sea. 


When Fortune smiled, he neither bowed 
To luxury, nor waxed vain and proud ; 
He was too wise on childish toys 

To fix a heart unstained by guile, 
Or give to earthly griefs or joys 

The useless tear, the idle smile. 


Upright in all, — of lips sincere ; 
Of open hand, — disposed to cheer 
The suppliant, and assist the poor ; 
Willing to lend, — and pleased to pay; 
And still subduing, more and more, 
The natural frailties of our way. 


A father, tutored to submit 
To all that Heaven deemed right and fit, 
And with a tranquil spirit say, 
While far above earth’s changes raised, — 
“The Lord has given, — he takes away, — 
And be his name for ever praised!” 


His country’s government he ever 
Cheerfully served, but flattered never : 
So fully bent in every thought 
Upon his nation’s interest, he 
From every side instruction brought, 
And knowledge, like the Athenian bee. 


A father such as this, —a friend 
And brother, — have I seen descend 
Smitten by death; beneath him years 
Hollowed the tomb’s descent ; and slow 
And silent down the vale of tears 
He sank to where he sleeps below. 


The mouth which words of mirth supplied, 
At morning’s dawn and eventide, 
Truth gathered from the immortal book, 
Is still for ever: it shall slake 
Its thirst no more in Eden’s brook, 
Nor Zion’s sweet refreshment take. 


But, ah! we are driven by distress ‘ 
From bitterness to bitterness ; 
For scarce had sorrow o’er thee strewed 
The dews of sympathy, ere pain 
Brought all its busy multitude 
Of griefs and woes to wound again: 


And of our house — O, fatal day ! — 

Bore chief and honor both away : 

The wheel was stopped on which it turned, 
And we, a desolate race, were left 

Alone, —and hopeless there we mourned 
Him, whom remorseless death had reft. 


DECKER. 


A father, who in wisdom guided f 


The love that in hfs love confided : 
A father, who, upon our heart, 

And in our blood, Heaven’s laws did write ; 
And taught us never to depart 

From virtue’s way, —befall what might. 


A father, temperate, wise, and brave, — 
Who, when the whirlwind and the wave 
Beat on his bark, could seize the helm, 
And, spite of storm and stream, convey - 
To port, — while billows overwhelm 
A thousand ships that round him lay. 


Those lips, alas! we loved so well, 
Whence no ungentle accents fell, — 

No thoughts but virtue, — have I seen 
Parched with a black, pestiferous hue, 
And marked the dry and up-scorched skin 

Just spotted with a feverish dew. 


That tongue which oft with us hath poured 
The song of joy, —and oft adored, — 
That voice which taught us wisdom’s word, 
And Heaven’s admonitory will, — 
In gently breathing tones I heard, — 
And gentler yet, — and then ’t was still. 


That bright and noble countenance, 
Which gleamed with truth in every glance, 
And made us love it, —’t was so fair 
And so attractive, — soon was wan, 
And gloom and darkness nestled there : 
"T was pale and sunk and wobegone. 


I saw him sink, —and day by day 
I marked the progress of decay : 
His old and venerable head 
Dropped, —and his smiles were dimmed ; 
—at last 
The death-mist on his crown was spread, 
And our sun’s glory veiled and past. 


I saw his hands grow stiff and cold, 
Long used our honor to uphold ; 
His limbs, that long had borne the weight 
Of many a care, then tottering shook, 
As on he moved with trembling gait, 
And towards the tomb his pathway’ took. 


And then I saw his corpse conveyed 
Down to death’s lonely paths of shade, 
Where gloom and dull oblivion reign : 
Even now, even now, that scene I view ; — 
How could I seek the light again ? — 
How?— mourn I not my sorrows too? 


How valueless is life to me! 

It seems impossible to be. 

To talk of life, when those are gone 
Who gave us life, is false and vain: 

O, yes! I have a heart of stone, — 
For he is gone, and I remain. 


O noble branch of Montpensier ! 
His name shall be to Memory dear, 


Without the sun, the pallid moon 
Would lose her gayest lustre soon : 
Then who, when wife and husband sever, 


Since he is her bright sun for ever, 


The sun that cheered thy life has faded ; 
Thy light and splendor now are shaded, 


And, ah! thy house, that flourished fair, 
Seems visited by thy despair, 
GG 


alana tenis seca ch 7 MN na RCs Sees | 


389 | 
And in Fame’s brightest archives stored ; 
For not alone his tears he gave, 
But with his tears his being poured, 
An offering on his father’s grave. 


Alas! alas! sad heart of mine, 
Were such a glorious privilege thine, 
It were indeed a blissful doom ! — 
No! not a father’s cheek to see 
Damp with the cold dews of the tomb, 
And mingling with mortality. 


But fain with him, in silence deep, 
Sheltered from all my woes, I ’d sleep, 
Where, from life’s sad and darksome cares, 
Beneath the damp and gloomy ground, 
My soul his bed of silence shares, 
With peace and solitude around. 


So, freed and far from misery’s power, 
And fears and hopes, the hastening hour 
Glides now no more away in pain, 
Nor weary nights in sleepless thought ; 
But, ah! the lovely dream is vain, — 
My shaken heart deserves it not. 


See, brother! thou didst leave thy home, | 
And woes like these, far off to roam: 
Yet other woes pursued thee there ; 
And even across the Indian seas, 
Sorrow and darkness and despair 
Told their sad tales and miseries. 


But thou hast ’scaped the worst, — thy bed 
From woe’s loud storm hath screened thy head: 
Thou shouldst have borne thy share, but now 
Thou art above the reach of woe ; 
And I —a wretched being ! — bow, 
And cry:as I was wont to do :— 


‘‘ Blessed, though misery-causing, thou ! 
Who seest not all our sorrows now, 
And hear’st not our funereal plaint ; 
But slumberest on thy bed of rest, 
Stretched in the furthest Orient, 
With Java’s sands upon thy breast!” 


ODE TO MY MOTHER. 


O, none will deem it a disgrace, 


Or ever with reproaches sting thee, 


That thy fair brow should bear the trace 


Of all the inward griefs that wring thee ! 


Would marvel that her eyes are dim, 


And she a gentle moon to him? 


’T is time for thee to mourn and sigh ; 


In dust thy crown and honor lie: 


aa: 
ne 
fe 
hae 
8 1a 


And mourns like some abode deserted, 
Or headless trunk in mute decay, 

A land whose ruler has departed, 
A world whose sun has passed away. 


"T is meet that for a season thou 

Shouldst pour the tribute of thy sorrow ; 
But endless tears, a cheerless brow, 

And woes that hope no joyous morrow, 


And sinful to thy God above: 

And if my father’s spirit, reigning 
Beyond the earth, can see our grief, 

Thy never-ceasing, lone complaining 
Will bring him misery, — not relief. 


Too deep for tears, the pangs we feel, — 
For he is gone beyond recalling : 

But, hark! what murmured accents steal ? 
What voice upon my ear is falling, 

And through my mournful spirit flies, 

As if it came from yonder skies ? 

O, can it be my father speaking, 
In pity to thy widowed lot, 

To soothe the heart that now is breaking? 
It is! —it is !—dost hear it not? 


I feel his accents from above, 


“My wife!”’ he cries, “ my sorrowing love! 
O, why give way to endless weeping, 
And to despair in weakness bow ? 
O, blam’st thou Heaven, because it now 
Has opened Eden’s glorious portal ? 
Think’st thou that death could pardon me? 
Ah, no! all, all on earth is mortal, 
And fades into eternity. 


. e . . e 


“TI lie in safety and at rest, 
And naught that I behold displeases ; 
I hear no accents that molest, 
B’en when the North with tempest-breezes 
Sweeps in its fury o’er the deep, 
And wakes the ocean from its sleep ; 
Or when the thunder-cloud is scowling, 
Or lightning rages from the west, 
I fear not for the tempest’s howling, 
But lie in safety and at rest. 


‘The journey of my life is o’er, 
From earthly chains has heaven unbound me, 
And punishment and shame no more 
Can cast their torturing influence round me. 
And dost thou, dearest, weep for me? 
And dost thou mourn that I should be 
No more on earth? And art thou sighing 
That I in peace have left a life 
Which is but one long scene of dying, 
Anxiety, and worrying strife? + 


“Whilst here that brightened visage glows, 
From which, whene’er my eyes retrace it, 

A stream of joy and luxury flows, 
Too vast for language to embrace it. 


DUTCH POETRY. 


Are trifling, vain, — though sprung from love, — 


Through heart and soul and senses creeping : 


Here I approach, with forehead bright, 

The majesty of endless light ; 

Light, — whose eternal beam is dwelling 
Where mortal eye can see no way ; 

Light, — the gay sun as much excelling, 
As he excels morn’s faintest ray. 


“Ye men, who wear delusion’s chain, 

What madness hath your judgments riven? 
Could you a transient glance obtain 

Of all we see and feel in heaven, 


»All earth’s delights would seem but care, — 


Its glory, mist, — its bliss, despair, — 
Its splendors, slavish melancholy, — 

Its princely mansions, loathsome sties, — 
Its greatest wisdom, merest folly, — 

And all its riches, vanities ! 


“Then, dearest, be the pomp and state 
Of earth’s vain world for ever slighted, 
And ask of God that still our fate 
May be above again united. 
We ’ll join the bridal scene once more, — 
A bridal, not, like ours of yore, 
Earthly and weak, nor long remaining ; 
But heavenly, firm, and without end. — 
Be comforted, and cease complaining, 
And deem all good that God may send.” 


pee Fe 


REINIER ANSLO. 


Reinier Ansto was born of wealthy parents, . 


at Amsterdam, in 1622. The greater part of 
his life was passed in travelling, particularly in 
Italy, where he became a Catholic, and where 
most of his poems were written. He died at 
Perugia, in 1669. His principal works are 
“The Plague of Naples’ and “The Eve of St. 
Bartholomew ’”’; both of an epic character, and 
written with great vigor and beauty. 


FROM THE PLAGUE OF NAPLES. 


Wuere shall we hide us, — he pursuing? 
What darksome cave, what gloomy ruin ? 
It matters not, — distress and fear 

Are everywhere. 


Who now can shield us from the fury 
That seems upon our steps to hurry ? 
Our brow exudes a frozen sweat, 

On hearing it. 


List to that scream ! that broken crying! 
Could not the death-gasp hush that sighing? 
Are these the fruits of promised peace ? 

O, wretchedness ! 


ly’en as a careless shepherd sleeping, 
Forgetful of the flocks he ’s keeping, 
Is smitten by the lightning’s breath, — 
The bolt of death : 


SED EEE LO pt tl LIN SR UIE IE ti i a 


ANTONIDES VAN DER GOES. 391 || 


his ‘River Y.’ Hoogstraten wrote the life of 


E’en as the growing mountain-current 
Pours down the vales its giant torrent, 
And sweeps the thoughtless flocks away 


Antonides, 
works.”’ 


which is placed at the head of his 


That slumbering lay : 


So were we roused, ——so woe descended 

Before the bridal feast was ended, 

And sleep hung heavy, — followed there 
By blank despair. 


——_— 


JOANNES ANTONIDES VAN DER GOES. 


Tuis famous writer was born at Der Goes, 
in 1647. He had the good fortune early to gain 
the esteem of Vondel, who used to call him his 
son. He took the degree of Doctor in Medicine 
at the University of Utrecht, and became a suc- 
cessful practitioner. He died in 1684, at the 
early age of thirty-seven years. 

The character of Van der Goes is thus sketched 
in the “ Foreign Quarterly Review” (Vol. IV., 
pp. 56, 57):-—‘Antonides van der Goes had 
the enthusiasm, but not the high talents, neces- 
sary to redeem his country’s literature from the 
affectation and servility into which it was rapidly 
falling. He expresses his indignation at the 
corrupting influence of the French in the fol- 
lowing words, in a fetter to his friend Oudaan :— 

‘¢¢ What turbulent spirit rules the land, and stains 

With its pollution Holland’s patriot plains, 
Poisons our pens, infects the very air, 

Long ere we know the hideous monster ’s there ? 
For unperceived it rears a monarch’s head, 
Insults our language, and confers, instead, 

The bastard speech, the wantonness, of Gaul.’ 


*¢ Antonides followed Vondel, as far as he 
was able. His principal work is his poem on 
the River Y. There is an episode, — where the 
spirit of the Peruvians, Ataliba, appeals to the 
Hollanders 1 in the waters of the tropics, implor- 
ing them to avenge the tyranny of the Span- 
iards, —which has been much praised. The idea 
is obviously borrowed from Camoens’s ¢ Ada- 
mastor’; but Antonides’s creation is at an infinite 
distance from that huge and sublime creation, 
that mass of intellectual granite rolling about 
amidst the storms of the Cape, tormented by 
mortal passions, and shipwrecked in more than 
mortal disappointment. Antonides’s ‘ Bellona’ 
was received with great enthusiasm ; it sang the 
triumphs of Holland over England. Sad sub- 
jects these for song; the triumphs pass away, 
but not the hatred ; and the malignant passions, 
awakened for the purposes of an hour, remain 
behind to torment many generations. A very 
acute author (Witsen Geysbeek), who has late- 
ly published an edition of the ‘ Ystroom,’ places 
Antonides at the head of all the poets of the 
seventeenth century. He was the favorite child 
of Vondel’s affection. The effect of his works 
is much diminished by his mythological machin- 
ery, but there are very few compositions which 
can be read with such a sustained pleasure as 


ed 


OVERTHROW OF THE TURKS BY VICE-ADMIRAL 


WILLEM JOSEPH. 


Axaierrs, that on the midland sea 

Rules o’er her bloody pirate-horde, 
Sees now her crown in jeopardy, 

And drops her cruel robber-sword. 
The coast of Barbary, terrified, 

Trembles beneath the conquerors’ sway ; 
Our heroes on her waters ride, 

While the fierce bandits, in dismay, 
And mad with plunder and with ire, 
Are smothered in a sea of fire. 


Thrice had the sun from the orient verge 
Into his golden chariot sprung ; 
From the rain-clouds his rays emerge, 
With brightest glory round him flung: 
The northern winds are roused, —the Turk 
Is borne along ; —in vain he tries, 
While terrors in if bosom lurk, 
To ’scape our glance: —in vain he flies. 
He may not fly,——for he is bound 
In his pursuers’ toils around. 


Ye rapine vultures of the sea, 

Haste, haste before the storm and stream ; 
Stretch out your pinions now, and be 

The fearful, flying flock ye seem ! 
No! ye shall not escape, — for we 

Have hemmed you in on every side ; 
Your crescent now looks mournfully, 

And fain her paling horns would hide. 
But no! but no! ye shall be driven 
From earth and ocean, as from heaven. 


No! terror shakes the Afric strand, 
The Moor perceives his glory wane ; 
The madman glares with fiery brand, 
As glares the heaven above the main. 
The cannons rattle to the wind ; 

Black, noisome vapors from the waves 
The bright-eyed sun with darkness blind ; 
And Echo shouts from Nereus’ caves, 
As if, with rage and strength immortal, 
Salmoneus shook hell’s brazen portal. 


How should they stand against the free, — 
The free,—the brave,—whom Ocean’s pride 
Hath loved to crown with victory, 
Yet victory never satisfied ? 
The Amstel’s thunders roar around, 
While the barbarians clamor Yond: 
And, scattered on their native ground, 
The base retire before the proud ; 
While their sea-standards, riven and torn, 
Are but the noisy tempest’s scorn. 


There twice three ships submit them, — led 
By their commander. — Ocean 's freed 
From its old tyrants, — and in dread, 
On the wide waters when they bleed, 


re 


FO SN a I PE 


SI DR PETIT Ea SE TA I I ETE TT OL OLE IERIE ac ET NET oa ta 


From that inhospitable shore 
Upon the mingled flame and smoke 
Looks the heart-agitated Moor, 
Whose power is lost, and riven his yoke: 
He stamps and curses, as he sees 
How his fearstricken brother flees. 
O, ye have earned a noble meed, 
Brave Christian heroes ! — the reward 
Of virtue. Gratitude shall speed 
Your future course; ye have unbarred 
The prison-doors of many a slave, 
Whom heathen power had bound, and 
these 
In memory’s shrines your names shall have ; 
And this shall be your stainless praise, — 
Leaving sweet thoughts, —as seamen ride 
From land to land o’er favoring tide. 


——o-——- 


JAN VAN BROEKHUIZEN. 


Jan van Brorxnuizen, better known among 
scholars by the Latinized name of Janus Brouk- 
husius, was born at Amsterdam, in 1649. When 
young, he lost his father; and, much against his 
own inclination, was placed by his guardian 
with an apothecary, “his genius cramped over 
a pestle and mortar.” At this time he wrote 
verses, which gained some applause; and sub- 
sequently entering the military service, he sail- 
ed, in 1674, to the West Indies, as a marine, 
under the celebrated Admiral De Ruyter. In 
the autumn of the same year, he returned to 
Utrecht, where he became acquainted with 
several scientific men. Here, in 1684, he pub- 
lished an edition of his poems. He afterwards 
received a military appointment at Amsterdam, 
where he remained till the peace of Ryswick, 
when he retired from the service with the rank 
of Captain. He was an editor, as well as an 
author, and published editions of several of the 
classics, with critical notes. He died in 1707. 
The best edition of his poems is that of Am- 
sterdam, 1711, quarto. 


SONG, 


I s1eH, lament, and moan, 

Whene’er I am alone; 
And, O, my eyes in bitterness complain, 
Which dared to gaze on her who caused my pain! 
At daybreak, and when night draws nigh, 
Clorinda still dwells in my memory : 
Yes, —there the lovely image is enshrined, 
Whose power I feel for ever in my mind. 


* My dreams are never free 
From this sad slavery : 
All other thoughts love in oblivion drowns. 
My heart throbs fluttering, fearful of her frowns; 
Her eye of light, her lip of rose, 
Her dulcet voice, her cheeks, where beauty 
glows, 


Are snares which lure the bosom that relies, 
And wound the soul that trusts them, through 
the eyes. 


Then go, my eyes, and crave 
Some pity for her slave : 
But let your mission unobtrusive be, 
Your language tempered with humility. 
She will not scorn the heart that brings 
Its love to her, and round her mercy clings. 
But if she do not listen to your prayer, 
Despise her heart, -—self-love alone is there. 


SONNET. 


Bryonp the Rhine, in solitudes and snows, 
Through every starless night and cheerless 
day, 
I muse, and waste myself in thought away, 
And breathe my sighs to where the Amstel 
flows. 
My spring of life is hastening to its close, 
The sun of youth emits its latest ray, 
While grief asserts its most ungentle sway ; 
And toils I bear, but toils without repose. 
But, O, my past enjoyment, life, and light! 
How soon would sorrow take its hurried flight, 


And every thought that pains my breast depart, 


If thou wert present when my spirits pine ! 
For theu wouldst bring, with those sweet 
eyes of thine, 
A summer in the Jand,—a heaven within my 
heart. : 


— es, 


MORNING, 


Tue morning hour, its brightness spreading, 
In more than common lustre rose ; 
And o’er day’s portals sparkling snows 


And corals, gems of gold, was shedding. 


The moon grew paler, paler yet, — 
And night, her gloomy face averting, 
Rolled slowly up her misty curtain, — 
And star by star in twilight set. 


Closed are the thousand eyes of heaven, 
And light shines brighter forth from one ; 
And, lo! the bee comes forth alone, 

To rob the rose and thyme till even. 


The lordly lion wakes the wood 
With mighty roar; his eyeball flashes ; 
He shakes his mane, his tail he lashes ; 
His loud voice breaks the solitude. 


Away, thou monarch, brave, unshaken ! 
Endymion, when he hears thy cries, 
Far from the woods in terror flies, 

And leaves his old abode forsaken. 


He finds his mistress on the mead, 
Who, where the shady boughs are twining, 
Upon the greensward is reclining, 

And counts the flocks that round her feed. 


BROEKHUIZEN.—SMITS.—BILDERDIJK. 
NE a ROR LE 2 Mies Wn RAT oO ONS PROD AE ON oe ea AACE Be, RS EERE EE TTP oe oi! 


How gayly comes that maiden straying, 
Before the sheep, that fawn and play ! 
All light and smiles, —like dawning day, 

When o’er the ocean’s bosom playing. 


The lambkin, youthful as the grass, 
As white as snow, as soft as roses, 
Now at her tarrying feet reposes, 

And now beside her loves to pass. 


The feathered choir, with songs of pleasure, 
Salute the sun, whose glowing ray 
Is shining on their plumage gay, 

And glads their thousand-chorus measure. 


What art can equal the sweet notes _ 
Of their wild lays in grief and sadness ? 
What hand can wake such tones of gladness 
As flow from their untutored throats ? 


The peasant, with the dawn beginning, 
Now yokes the oxen to the ploughs ; 
And peasant-girls, with laughing brows, 

Sing gay and cheerily while spinning. 


A varied sound and fitful light 
On dreams and silence are encroaching ; 
The sun in glory is approaching 

To wake to day the slumbering night. 


The lover, who with passion smarted, 
And sighed his soul at Chloris’ feet, 
Starts when he finds the night’s deceit, 

And Chloris with his dream departed. 


The busy smith, with naked arms, 
Whom sparks and blasts and flames environ, 
Beats sturdily the glowing iron, 

Which the loud-hissing water warms. 


Come, let us rise and wander, dear one! 
Our taper’s flame is faint and dead, 
The morning ray is on our bed; 

Come, let us rise and wander, fair one! 


Come, rouse, beloved! let us rove 
- Where ’neath our welcomed steps are growing 


Roses and lilies, fair and glowing 
As those upon thy cheeks, my love ! 


pe 


DIRK SMITS. 


DirK Smits was born at Rotterdam, in 1702. 
Gravenweert* describes his character as fol- 
lows: — ‘+ Nature alone formed him. He was 
employed in some small occupations in the cus- 
toms, and struggled all his life against the ine- 
qualities of fortune. Several of his pieces are 
still cited, as models of an agreeable and easy 
style. All his productions are full of grace and 
feeling, and every lover of letters knows the 


‘Song of the Cradle,’ and the ‘ Funeral Wreath 


+ Littérature Néerlandaise, p. 130. 
50 


393 


for my Daughter.’ In most of his poems, a grav- 
ity nearly approaching to melancholy reigns ; 
and, whether it be the influence of climate or 
national character, this tone predominates in 
the good poets of Holland; it is this which 
they have generally seized the best.” 


ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 


A nost of angels flying, 
Through cloudless skies impelled, 
Upon the earth beheld 
A pearl of beauty lying, 
Worthy to glitter bright 
In heaven’s vast halls of light. 


They saw, with glances tender, 
An infant newly born, 
O’er whom life’s earliest morn 
Just cast its opening splendor: 
Virtue it could not know, 
Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 


The blest angelic legion 
Greeted its birth above, 
And came, with looks of love, 
From heaven’s enchanting region ; 
Bending their winged way 
To where the infant lay. 


They spread their pinions o’er it, — 
That little pearl which shone 
With lustre all its own, — 

And then on high they bore it, 
Where glory has its birth; — 

But left the shell on earth. 


ree 


WILLEM BILDERDIJK. 


Witirm BirpeErpisK, renowned as a jurist, 
an accomplished scholar, and a poet, was born 
at Amsterdam, September 7th, 1756. He re- 
ceived a careful education. He studied at the 
University of Leyden, where he devoted him- 
self to jurisprudence under the direction of the 
learned Van der Keessel. He left his country 
when the French occupied it, went to Bruns- 
wick, and afterwards to London, where he 
delivered lectures on law, poetry, and litera- 


‘ture, which were numerously attended. In 


1806, he returned to Holland. At the begin- 
ning of the reign of Louis Bonaparte, Bilderdijk 
was selected by him to be his teacher in the 
Dutch language. After having resided in vari- 
ous places, he established himself in Haarlem 
in 1827, where he died, December 18th, 1831. 

His feelings were strong and impetifous. He 
was “a good hater’; and his expressions of 
literary and national animosity were often vio- 
lent and overcharged. Speaking of the French 
language, he says: 

‘Begone! thou bastard tongue, so base, so broken, 

By human jackals and hyenas spoken ; 


> 


LS 


spas 


it ce a 


MT 


394 


Formed for a race of infidels, and fit 

To laugh at truth and skepticize in wit ! 

What stammering, snivelling sounds, which scarcely date 
Through nasal channels to salute the ear, 

Yet, helped by apes’ grimaces and the devil, 

Have ruled the world, and ruled the world for evil!” 


One of his principal literary quarrels was 
with Siegenbeek, on the orthography of the 
Dutch language. During this controversy, he 
wrote a poetical pasquinade, entitled “¢ Dance 
round a Coffin,” in which he represents his 
enemies as dancing round his dead body, and 
rejoicing, that, their great schoolmaster and ty- 
rant being dead, they can corrupt the language 
at their pleasure. The following are a few 
stanzas of this poem. 


Now Bilderdijk, the dread, 
Is dead ! 

Now his mouth is shut, 
Now his pen and fingers still! 
Now has Marsyas his will! 

Faithful fellow-croakers, 
Bilderdijk is dead and gone, 

And our kingdom and our throne 

Shall no more be shaken ! 


Now again, with crash 
And dash, 

Bastardize our language; 
Metre, tone, and common sense 
Banish from the land far hence ! 

Hurrah, poetasters ! 

Lay the pure Hollandish by, 
And forward with your Moffery,! 
Modern-style schoolmasters ! 


Kwik-kwak-kwak! and Rik- 
Kik-kik ! 

Now is the time for gladness! 
Spring, then, merrily plunge and splash! 
Knights of the puddle, dive and dash 

In the muddy river ! 

Far and wide is holyday, 
Bilderdijk no more shall bray, 
Our throne stands fast for ever! 


Bilderdijk was one of the most learned and 
voluminous writers of Holland. 


umes, and there are more behind in manuscript. 
His character is strikingly delineated by Rob- 


ert Southey, in his “ Epistle to Allan Cunning- 


ham” (Works, Vol. II., pp. 311, 312). 


‘*¢ And who is Bilderdijk?’ methinks thou sayest. 
A ready question ; yet which, trust me, Allan;- 
Would not be asked, had not the curse that came 
From Babel clipped the wings of Poetry. 
Napoleon asked him once, with cold, fixed look, 
‘ Art thou, then, in the world of letters known ?? 
‘T have deserved to be,’ the Hollander 
Replied, meeting that proud imperial look 
With calm and proper confidence, and eye 
As little wont to turn away abashed 
Before a mortal presence. He is one 
Who hath received upon his constant breast 
The sharpest arrows of adversity ; 

Whom not the clamors of the multitude, 
Demanding, in their madness and their might, 
Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind; 
Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny 


1 Germanisms. 


DUTCH POETRY. 


His published | 


works fill more than one hundred octavo vol- | 


From the straight path of duty turn aside: 
But who, in public troubles, in the wreck 
Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile, 
Want, obloquy, ingratitude, neglect, 

* And what severer trials Providence 
Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves,— 
Tn all, through all, and over all, hath borne 
An equal heart, as resolute toward 
The world, as humbly and religiously 
Beneath his Heavenly Father’s rod resigned. 
Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man, 
True lover of his country and his kind ; 
In knowledge, and in inexhaustive stores 
Of native genius, rich; philosopher, 
Poet, and sage. The language of a state 
Inferior in illustrious deeds to none, 
But circumscribed by “narrow bounds, and now 
Sinking in irrecoverable decline, 
Hath pent within its sphere a name wherewith 
Europe should else have rung from side to side.”’ 


Gravenweert * says of him, “ This extra- 
ordinary genius is not only the greatest poet 
that Holland has produced, but he is one of 
her first grammarians and most distinguished 
scholars. Destined to the profession of an ad- 
vocate, besides being an excellent lawyer, he 
became a scholar, theologian, physician, critical 
historian, astronomer, antiquary, draftsman, and 
engineer, and acquired a thorough knowledge 
of nearly all the modern languages, as well as 
of the Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian, the most 
brilliant pieces in which he translated and imi- 
tated, but with a spirit which gives them an in- 
imitable color. Bilderdijk excels in every spe- 
cies of poetry, tragedy alone excepted ; in this 
he has been able to equal neither the ancients, 
nor the French triumvirate, nor Shakspeare, nor 
Schiller, nor Vondel; yet, excepting these great 
models, he bears a comparison with all that 


Europe has produced.” 


ODE TO BEAUTY. 


Cuitp of the Unborn! dost thou bend 
From Him we in the day-beams see, 
Whose music with the breeze doth blend? 
To feel thy presence is to be. P 
Thou, our soul’s brightest effluence, — thou 
Who in heaven’s light to earth dost bow, 
A spirit ’midst unspiritual clods, — 
Beauty ! who bear’st the stamp profound 
Of Him, with all perfection crowned, 
Thine image, — thine alone, —is God’s. 


How is thine influence o’er us spread, 
That in thy smile we smile and play? 
How art thou woven with life’s thread ? 
Thou consciousness of greatness! say, 
Art thou a spirit of the breeze, 
Which our awakening vision sees, 
That grasps our hand, and pours a flood 
Of glory, and, with thought more high 
Than mortal thoughts can magnify, 
Stirs with heaven’s warmth our icy blood? 


* Littérature Néerlandaise, pp. 188, 189. 


_ 


Thou dazzling, driving, despot power, 
- Mortality before thee kneels ; 

Thou wert not born in earthly hour, 
Whose breath the tomb with glory fills: 

No! thee the Almighty’s hand did mould 

Out of the morning-beams of gold 
Which burst on heaven when earth was | 

made, — 

He plumed aad he perfumed thy wings, 

And bade thee brood o’er mortal things, 
And in thy smiles his smile conveyed. 


How shall I catch a single ray 

Thy glowing hand from nature wakes,— 
Steal from the ether-waves of day 

One of the notes thy world-harp shakes, — 
Escape that miserable joy, 
Which dust and self with darkness cloy, 

Fleeting and false, — and, like a bird, 
Cleave the air-path, and follow thee 
Through thine own vast infinity, 

Where rolls the Almighty’s thunder-word ? 


Perfect thy brightness in heaven’s sphere, 

Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss 
Of anthems ever echoing there ! 

That, that is life, — not this, — not this: 
There in the holy, holy row, 

And not on earth, so deep below, 

Thy music unrepressed may speak ; 
Stay, shrouded, inthat holy place ; — 
Enough that we have seen thy face, 

And-kissed the smiles upon thy cheek. 


We stretch our eager hands to thee, 
And for thine influence pray, in vain ; 
The burden of mortality 
Hath bent us ’neath its heavy chain ; — 
And there are fetters forged by art, 
And science cold hath chilled the heart, 
And wrapped thy godlike crown in night ; 
On waxen wings they soar on high, 
And when most distant deem sles High) oe 
They quench thy torch, and dream of 
light. 


They dare, in their presumptuous pride, — 
They, — miserable clods of clay !— 
Thy glorious influence to deride, 
And laws to make, thy course to sway ; 
They, — senseless stones, and _ brainless 
things, — 
Would point thy course, unplume thy wings, 
And lower thee to theif littleness ; 
They,—fools unblushing, — vile and vain, — 
Would God, would truth, would thee con- 
strain, 
Their Midas’ idols to caress. 


See there the glory of the earth ! 
See there, how laurel wreaths are spread ! 
See the base souls, in swinish mirth, 
Worship the gold round Titan’s head! 
They tyrants will not crush, —not they! 
The despot gods of heathen-sway, — 


BILDERDIJK. 


The imps that out of darkness start : 
No! these they raise ;— but stamp, if thou 
To their vile bidding will not bow, 

Their iron foot upon thy heart. 


No! proud provokers! no! unhushed 

My song shall flow, my voice shall sound, 
And, till the world — till you — are crushed, 

Sing God, truth, beauty’s hymns around: 
I will denounce your false pretence, 

For holiness find eloquence, 

While genuine beauty sits beside ; — 
Crawl in the mire, ye mushroom crews ! 
Lo! I am fed with heavenly dews 

That nourish spirits purified. 


Child of the Unborn! joy! for thou 

Shinest in every heavenly flame, 
Breathest on all the winds that blow, 

While self-conviction speaks thy name: 
O, let one glance of thine illume 
The longing soul that bids thee come, 

And make me feel of heaven, like thee ! 
Shake from thy torch one blazing drop, 
And to my soul all heaven shall ope, 

And I —dissolve in melody ! 


THE ROSES. 


I saw them once blowing, 
Whilst morning was glowing ; 


But now are their withered leaves strewed o’er 


the ground, 
For tempests to play on, 
For cold worms to prey on, — 
The shame of the garden that triumphs around. 


Their buds, which then flourished, 
With dew-drops were nourished, 
Which turned into pearls as they fell from on 
high ; 
Their hues are now banished, 
Their fragrance all vanished, 
Ere evening a shadow has cast from the sky. 


I saw, too, whole races 
Of glories and graces 
Thus open and blossom, but quickly decay , 
And smiling and gladness, 
In sorrow and sadness, 
Ere life reached its twilight, fade dimly away. 


Joy’s light-hearted dances 
And Melody’ s glances 
Are rays of a moment, —are dying when born: 
And Pleasure’s best dower 
Is naught but a flower, — 
A vanishing dew-drop, —a gem of the morn. 


The bright eye is clouded, 
Its brilliancy shrouded, 
Ourstrength disappears, — we are helpless and 
lone: 
No reason avails us, 
And intellect fails us, 
Life’s spirit is wasted, and darkness comes on. 


DUTCH POETRY. 


H. TOLLENS. 


ToLLENS was'porn at Rotterdam, in 1778. 
He received a classical education, and also de- 
voted himself much to the modern languages. 
He showed early an inclination for poetry. His 
first attempts appeared in 1802, and gave an 
earnest of his future distinction. In 1806, he 
gained a prize by his well known poem entitled 
“The Death of Egmont and Horn.” A collec- 
tion of his poems was published in 1808. Since 
then, a long series of works has appeared from 
his indefatigable pen, which have had an im- 
mense circulation. He still lives to enjoy the 
honors which his admiring countrymen ‘have 
awarded him. Gravenweert* calls him “one 
of the greatest Dutch authors in descriptive 
poetry, the ballad, and the sweet, graceful, and 
moral kind which delineates the events of pri- 
vate life.’”’ 


eee 


SUMMER MORNING'S SONG. 


Up, sleeper! dreamer! up! for now 
There ’s gold upon the mountain’s brow, — 
There ’s light on forests, lakes, and meadows, — 
The dew-drops shine on floweret-bells, — 
The village clock of morning tells. 
Up, men! out, cattle! for the dells 
And dingles teem with shadows. 


Up! out! o’er furrow and o’er field ! 
The claims of toil some moments yield 
For morning’s bliss, and time is fleeter 
Than thought ;— so out! ’t is dawning yet; 
Why twilight’s lovely hour forget ? 
For sweet though be the workman’s sweat, 
The wanderer’s sweat is sweeter. 


Up! to the fields! through shine and stour ! 
What hath the dull and drowsy hour 
So blest as this, — the glad heart leaping 
To hear morn’s early songs sublime? 
See earth rejoicing in its prime ! 
The summer is the waking time, 
The winter time for sleeping. 


O, fool! to sleep such hours away, 
While blushing nature wakes to day, 
On down, through summer mornings snoring ! 
"T is meet for thee, the winter long, 
When snows fall fast and winds blow strong, 
To waste the night amidst the throng, 
Their vinous poisons pouring. 


The very beast that crops the flower 

Hath welcome for the dawning hour ; 
Aurora smiles, — her beckonings claim thee. 

Listen !— look round! —the chirp, the hum, 

Song, low, and bleat,—there ’s nothing 

dumb, — ». 
All love, all life! Come! slumberers, come! 
The meanest thing shall shame thee. 


* Littérature Néerlandaise, p. 226. 


We come,— we come,—our wanderings take 
Through dewy field, by misty lake, 
And rugged paths, and woods pervaded 
By branches o’er, by flowers beneath, 
Making earth odorous with their breath ; 
Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath, 
Or ’neath the poplars shaded. 


Were we of feather or of fin, 
How blest, to dash the river in, 
Thread the rock-stream as it advances, — 
Or, better, like the birds above, 
Rise to the greenest of the grove, 
And sing the matin song of love 
Amidst the highest branches ! 


O, thus to revel, thus to range, 
I’ll yield the counter, bank, or change ; 
The business crowds, all peace destroying ; 
The toil, with snow that roofs our brains; 
The seeds of care, which harvests pains ; 
The wealth, for more which strives and strains, 
Still less and less enjoying! 


O, happy, who the city’s noise 
Can quit for nature’s quiet joys, 
Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow ; 

No more ‘midst prison-walls abide, 
But in God’s temple vast and -wide 
Pour praises every eventide, 
Ask mercies every morrow! 


No seraph’s flaming sword hath driven 
That man from Eden or from heaven, 
From earth’s sweet smiles and winning features; 
For him, by toils and troubles tossed, 
By wealth and wearying cares engrossed, — 
For him, a paradise is lost, 
But not for happy creatures. 


Come, —though a glance it may be, —come, 
Enjoy, improve; then hurry home, 
For life’s strong urgencies must bind us. 
Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew, 
And we shall wake to bless it too. 
Homewards ! —the herds that shake the dew 
We ’Il leave in peace behind us. 


os 


WINTER EVENING’S SONG. 


Tue storm-winds blow both sharp and sere, 
The cold is bitter rude ; 

Thank Heaven, with blazing coals and wood 
We sit in comfort here ! 

The trees as whitest down are white, 
The river hard as lead. 

Sweet mistress! why this blank to-night? 

There ’s punch so warm, and wine so bright, 
And sheltering roof and bread. 


And if a friend should pass this way, 
We give him flesh and fish ; 
And sometimes game adorns the dish - 

It chances as it may. 


And every birthday festival, 
Some extra tarts appear, 
An extra glass of wine for all, — 
While to the child, or great or small, 
We drink the happy year. 


Poor beggars, all the city through 
That wander ! — pity knows 
That if it rains, or hails, or snows, 
No difference ’t is to you. 
Your children’s birthdays come, — no throng 
Of friends approach your door ; 
’T is a long suffering, sad as long: 
No fire to warm,—-to cheer, no song, — 
No presents for the poor. 


And should not we far better be, 
We far more blest than they ? 

Our winter hearth is bright and gay, 
Our wine-cups full and free ; 

And we were wrought in finer mould, 
And made of purer clay: 

God’s holy eyes, that all behold, 

Chose for our garments gems and gold, — 
And made them rags display. 


I? better 1? O, would ’t were so! 
I am perplexed in sooth ; 
I wish, I wish you ’d speak the truth ; 
You do not speak it, — no! 
Who knows —I know not — but that vest 
That ’s pieced and patched all through, 
May wrap a very honest breast, 
Of evil purged, by good possessed, 
Generous, and just, and true? 


And can it be? Indeed it can, 
That I so favored stand ; 
And he, the offspring of God’s hand, 
A poor, deserted man. 
And then I sit to muse; I sit 
The riddle to unravel ; 
I strain my thoughts, I tax my wit ; 
The less my thoughts can compass it, 
The more they toil and travel. 


And thus, and thus alone, I see, 
When poring o’er and o’er, 
That I can give unto the poor, 
But not the poor to me: 
That, having more than I require, 
That more I ’m bound to spread, 
Give from my hearth a spark of fire, 
Drops from my cup, and feed desire 
With morsels of my bread. 


And thus I found, that, scattering round 


Blessings in mortal track, 
The riddle ceased my brains to rack, 
And my torn heart grew sound. 
The storm-winds blow both sharp and sere, 
The cold is bitter rude ; 
Come, beggar, come, our garments bear, 
A portion of our dwelling share, 
A morsel of our food. 


TOLLENS. | 


List, boys and girls! the hour is late, 
There ’s some one at the door; 

Run, little ones! the man is poor ; — 
Who first unlocks the gate? 

What do I hear? Run fast, run fast! 
What do I hear so sad ? 

"T is a poor mother in the blast, 

Trembling, —I heard her as she passed, — 
And weeping o’er her lad. 


I thank thee, Source of every bliss, 
For every bliss I know ; 

I thank thee, thou didst train me so 
To learn thy way in this: 
That wishing good, and doing good, 

Is laboring, Lord, with thee ; 
That charity is gratitude ; 
And piety, best understood, 

A sweet humanity. 


JOHN A’ SCHAFFELAAR. 


Wuen high the flame of discord rose, 
And o’er the country spread, 

When friends were changed to deadliest foes, 
And nature’s feelings fled: 


When doubtful questions of debate 
Disturbed the public mind, 

And all, impelled by furious hate, 
Forgot their kin and kind: 


When foreign armies, helmed and plumed, 
Were hurrying to our strand, 

And fierce internal fires consumed 
The heart of Netherland: 


Then flourished John a’ Schaffelaar, — 
A hero bold was he, 

Renowned for glorious deeds of war, 
And feats of chivalry. 


Let him who would Rome’s Curtius name 
Give Schaffelaar his due, 

Who was, though lauded less by fame, 
The nobler of the two. 


Secluded virtue fairest shines, 
No flattery dims its rays; 
While virtue on a throne declines, 
And fades beneath its praise. 


You ask me once again to sing, — 
And I have yet the will; 

And whilst my lyre retains a string, 
"T will sound for Holland still. 


When Utrecht saw her sons appear 
Her bishop to depose, 

And all with musket and with spear 
Against his vassals rose : 


When Amersfoort had sworn to shield, 
Defend him, and obey ; 
And Barneveldt had made it yield, 


And wrested him away : 
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DUTCH POETRY. 


Then flourished John a’ Schaffelaar, — 
A hero bold was he, 

Renowned for glorious deeds of war, 
And feats of chivalry. 


Up, up the steepest tower he went, 
With eighteen men to aid, 

And from the lofty battlement 
A deadly havoc made. 


He dares their fire, which threatens death, 
And gives it back again ; 

And showers of bullets fall beneath, 
As thick as winter’s rain. 


Erect he stands, —no vain alarm, 
No fear of death appalls; 

And many a foeman, by his arm, 
Drops from the castle-walls. 


But courage must be crushed, at last, 
In such unequal fight: 

The best and bravest blood flows fast, 
And quenches gloryes light. 


Fearfully rolls the tempest there, 
And vengeance breathes around ; 
The thunder bursts and rends the air, 

And shrieks along the ground. 


The castle rocks at every blow 
Upon its giant frame ; 

The raging fire ascends, and, lo! 
The tower is wrapped in flame. 


“Your will?” cried John a’ Schaffelaar, 
*¢ Your will? my comrades true! 

Though thoughts of self are banished far, 
I still can mourn for you.” 


“© ©, yield to them! give up the tower !”’ 
To Schaffelaar they call ; 

«*¢ We cannot now withstand their power ; 
Yield, or we perish all. 


‘‘ The flames are round us, and our fate 
Is certain,”’ was the cry; 

“Then yield, O, yield, ere ’t is too late! 
Amid the smoke we die.”’ 


«© We yield it, then,” the hero cried, 
“We yield it to your might, 

We bow our stubborn necks of pride, 
Ye conquerors in the fight!” 


“ No! No!’ exclaimed the furious crowd 
«¢ A ransom we require ; 
A ransom, quick!” they called aloud, 


}? 


‘¢Or perish in the fire ! 


9 


«¢ What is your wish? — no more we war,” 
They cry to those without. 

“© We would have John a’ Schaffelaar,”’ 
The furious rabble shout. 


‘‘ Never! by Heaven! — we yield him not,” 
They cry, as with one voice ; 

“If death must be our leader’s lot, 
We ’II share it, and rejoice!” 


‘‘ Hold! on your lives!” with lifted hand 
Said Schaffelaar the free ; 

*‘ Whoe’er opposes their demand 
Is not a friend to me. 


«« Mine was the attempt, — be mine the fate, 
Since we in vain withstood ; 

On me alone would fall the weight 
Of all your guiltless blood. 


“The flames draw nearer, —all is o’er, — 
And here I may not dwell; 

Give me your friendly hands once more, — 
For ever fare ye well!” 


He rushes from his trusty men, 
Who would in vain oppose, 

And from the narrow loophole then 
He springs amid his foes. 


‘Here have ye John a’ Schaffelaar, — 
No longer battle wage, — 

Divide and banquet, hounds of war! 
And satisfy your rage. 


“« Now sheathe your swords, and bear afar 
The muskets that we braved ; 

Here have ye John a’ Schaffelaar ; — 
My comrades true are saved.” 


His limbs were writhing on the ground ’ 
In death’s convulsive thrill ; 
The blood-drops that are shed around 
With shame his foemen fill. 
~ 
The sounds of war no more arise, 
And banished is the gloom ; 
But glory’s wreath, which never dies, 
Surrounds the hero’s tomb. 


Let him who would Rome’s Curtius name 
Give Schaffelaar his due, 

Who was, though lauded less by fame, 
The nobler of the two. 


BIRTHDAY VERSES. 


Restiess Time, who ne’er abidest 
Driver, who life’s chariot guidest 
O’er dark hills and vales that smile! 
Let me, let me breathe awhile: 
Whither dost thou hasten? say ! — 
Driver, but an instant,stay. 


What a viewless distance thou, 

Still untired, hast travelled now! 
Never tarrying, — rest unheeding, — 
Over thorns and roses speeding, — 
Through lone places unforeseen, — 


Cliff and vast abyss between ! | 


BORGER, 


Five-and-twenty years thou ’st passed, 
Thundering on unchecked and fast, 
And, though tempests burst around, 
Stall nor stay thy coursers found : 

I am dizzy, faint, oppressed, — 
Driver! for one moment rest. 


Swifter than the lightning flies, 

All things vanish from my eyes ; 

All that rose so brightly o’er me, 

Like pale mist-wreaths, fade before me ; 
Every spot my glance can find 

Thy impatience leaves behind. 


Yesterday thy wild steeds flew 
O’er a spot where roses grew ; 
These I sought to gather blindly, 
But thou hurriedst on unkindly : 
Fairest buds I trampled, lorn, 
And but grasped the naked thorn. 


Driver! turn thee quickly back 

On the selfsame beaten track : 

I, of late, so much neglected, 

Lost, forgot, contemned, rejected, 
That I still each scene would trace : — 
Slacken thy bewildering pace ! 


Dost thou thus impetuous drive, 

That thou sooner may’st arrive 

Safe within the hallowed fences 

Where delight — where rest commences? 
Where, then, dost thou respite crave? 
All make answer, “ At the grave.” 


There, alas! and only there, 
Through the storms that rend the air, 
Doth the rugged pathway bend: 
There all pains and sorrows end; 
There repose’s goal is won : — 
Driver! ride, in God’s name, on! 


——_9——~ 


ELIAS ANNE BORGER. 


BoreeEr, well known as a Dutch theologian, 
was born February 26th, 1785, at Joure, in 
Friesland. In 1800, he resorted to the Uni- 
versity of Leyden, where he studied theology, 
and took the degree of Doctor,in 1807. In the 
same year, he was appointed Teacher of Biblical 
Exegesis in the University ; in 1813, be was 
made Professor Extraordinary, and in 1815, 
Professor Ordinary. In 1817, he left the theo- 
logical faculty and became Professor of History. 
He died, October 12th, 1820. His poems are 
of an elegiac character. 


ODE TO THE RHINE. 


In the Borean regions stormy 
There ’s silence, — battling hail and rain 
Are hushed. The calm Rhine rolls before me, 
Unfettered from its winter chain. 


399 


Its streams their ancient channels water, 
And thousand joyous peasants bring 
The flowery offerings of the spring 
To thee, Mount Gothard’s princely daughter ! 
Monarch of streams, from Alpine brow, 
Who, rushing, whelm’st with inundations, 
Or, sovereign-like, divid’st the nationss 
Lawgiver all-imperial, thou ! 


I have had days like thine, unclouded, — 
Days passed upon thy pleasant shore ; 
My heart sprung up in joy unshrouded, — 

Alas! it springs to joy no more. 

My fields of green, my humble dwelling, 
Which love made beautiful and bright, 
To me, —to her, — my soul’s delight, — 

Seemed monarchs’ palaces excelling, 
When, in our little happy bower, 

Or ’neath the starry vault at even, 

We walked in love, and talked of heaven, 
And poured forth praises for our dower. 


But now I could my hairs well number, 
But not the tears my eyes which wet: 
The Rhine will to their cradle-slumber 
Roll back its waves, ere I forget, — 
Forget the blow that twice hath riven 
The crown of glory from my head. 
God! I have trusted, — duty-led, 
’Gainst all rebellious thoughts have striven, 
And strive, —and call thee Father, — still 
Say all thy will is wisest, kindest, — 
Yet, — twice, — the burden that thou bindest 
Is heavy, —I obey thy will! 


At Katwyk, where the silenced billow 
Thee welcomes, Rhine, to her own breast, 
There, with the damp sand for her pillow, 
I laid my treasure in its rest. 
My tears shall with thy waters blend them : 
Receive those briny tears from me, 
And, when exhaled from the vast sea, 

To her own grave in dew-drops send them, — 
A heavenly fall of love for her. 
Old Rhine! thy waves ’gainst sorrow steel them: 
O, no! man’s miseries, —thou canst feel them ; — 

Then be my grief’s interpreter. 


And greet the babe, which earth’s green bosom 
Had but received, when she who bore 
That lovely undeveloped blossom 
Was struck by death,— the bud, — the flower. 
I forced my daughter’s tomb, — her mother 
Bade me, —and Jaid the slumbering child 
Upon that bosom undefiled. 
Where, where could J have found another 
So dear, so pure? ”T’ was wrong to mourn, 
When those so loving slept delighted : 
Should I divide what God united? 
I laid them in a common urn. 


There are who call this earth a palace 
Of Eden, who-on roses go; — 

I would not drink again life’s chalice, 
Nor tread again its paths of woe: 


— SS 


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DUTCH POETRY. 


I joy at day’s decline, —the morrow 

Is welcome. In its fearful flight, 

I count, and count with calm delight, 
My five-and-thirty years of sorrow 

Accompiished. Like this river, years 
Roll. Press, ye tombstones, my departed 
Lightly, and o’er the broken-hearted 

Fling your cold shield, and veil his tears. 


—4—_— 


DA COSTA. 


Da Costa belongs to the school of Bilder- 
dijk. A writer in the ‘“* Westminster Review ”’ 
(Vol. X., p. 43) says of this poet : — “ His pro- 
ductions have none of the ordinary defects of 
those of his master, — they are all smooth and 
polished, without those irregularities which so 
often destroy the charm of Bilderdijk’s compo- 
sitions. Da Costa, full of the pride of his Jew- 
ish ancestry, was some years ago converted to 
the Christian faith. Intense emotions, — pro- 
found and anxious studies, — the struggles of 
doubts and fears,— produced a state of mind 
which then often gave vent to its mingled emo- 
tions in language wonderfully eloquent and 
harmonious.” 


INTRODUCTION TO A HYMN ON PROVIDENCE. 


WueEn Homer fills his fierce war-trump of glory, 
And wakes his mighty lyre’s harmonious 
word, 
Whose soul but thrills enraptured at the story, 
As thrilled old Ilium’s ruins, when they heard ? 


Mezonian Swan! that shakes the soul, when 
loudly 
Rushing, — or melts the heart in strains sub- 
lime ; 
Strong as the arm of Hector, lifted proudly, — 
Sweet as his widow’s tears, in watching-time! 


Though still thy strains song's glorious crown 
inherit, 
Though age to age kneel lowly at thy shrine, 
Yet, (O, forgive me, — venerable spirit !) 
Thou leav’st a void within this heart of mine. 


My country is the land of sunbeams, — Heaven 
Gave me no cradle in the lukewarm West ; 
The glow of Libyan sands by hot winds driven 
Is like the thirst of song within my breast. 


What is this fray to me, — these battle-noises 
Of mortals led by weak divinities ? 
I must hear higher notes and holier voices, — 
Not the mere clods of beauteous things, like 
these. 


What are these perished vanities ideal 
Of thee, — old Grecian bard, — and follow- 
ing throng? 
Heaven, heaven, must wake the rapturous and 
the real, 
The sanctified, the sacred soul of song. 


Can they do this, the famed Hellenic teachers, 

Or Northern bards? O, no! ’t is not for 
them ; 

"T is for the inspired, the God-anointed preach- 
ers, — 


The holy prophets of Jerusalem ! 


O privileged race! sprung forth from chosen 
fathers, — 
The son of Jesse, and his fragrant name ! 
Within my veins thy holy life-blood gathers, 
And tracks the sacred source from whence it 
came. 


Angelic Monarch’s son! the great Proclaimer, 
The great Interpreter of God’s decree ! 

Herald, at once, of wrath, and the Redeemer ! 
Announcing hopes, — announcing agony ! 


The seraphs sing their “ Holy, holy, holy,” 
Greeting the Godhead on his awful throne; 
And earth repeats heaven’s song, — though far 

and lowly, — 
Poured, ’midst the brightness of the dazzling 
One, 


By safety-girded angels. Hallowed singers! 
Yours is the spirit’s spiritual melody ; 

Touch now the sacred lyre with mortal fingers, — 
Aspirers ! earth is gazing tremblingly. 


My heart springs up, —its earthly bonds would 
sever, 
Upon the pulses of that hymn to mount; 
My lips are damp with the pale blights of fever, 
And my hot blood grows stagnant at its fount. 


My Father! give me breath, and thought, and 
power! 
My heart shall heave with your pure, hal- 
lowed words; 
Hear! if ye hear, the loud-voiced psalm shall 
shower 
From east to west its vibrating accords. 


Inspire! if ye inspire, the glad earth, reeling 
With rapture, shall God’s glory echo round; 

And God-deniers, low in ashes kneeling, 
Blend their subjected voices in the sound. 


O, if my tongue can sing the Lord Of ages, 
The Ruler, the Almighty, King of kings; 
He who the flaming seraphim engages, 
His watchers, — while he makes the clouds 
his wings! 


Spread, spread your pinions, — spread your loft- 
1est pinions, 
Spirit of song, for me, — for me ! — in vain 
To the low wretchedness of earth’s dominions 
I seek your heavenly, upward course to rein! 


Wake, lyre! break forth, ye strings ! —let rap- 
ture’s current 
Soar, swell, surprise, gush, glow ! — thou 
heart, be riven! 
Pour, pour, the impassioned, overflowing torrent ° 
The hymns are hymns of heaven! 


“THE SABBATH. 


On the seventh day reposing, lo! the great 
Creator stood, 

| Saw the glorious work accomplished, — saw 
and felt that it was good ; 

Heaven, earth, man and beast have being, day 
and night their courses run, — 

First creation,— infant manhood,— earliest Sab- 
bath, —it is done. 


| On the seventh day reposing, Jesus filled his 
sainted tomb, 

From his spirit’s toil retreating, while he broke 
man’s fatal doom ; 

’'T was a new creation bursting, brighter than 
the primal one, — 

'T is fulfilment, — reconcilement, — ’t is re- 

| 

| 


demption, —~ it is done. 


-—---—-> 


KINKER. 


s¢ KINKER is one of the most remarkable men 
in Holland; his writings are tainted with the 
mysticisms of the Kant school, —but he is evi- 
dently a man of genius and erudition, whose 
power and influence would be much greater if 
he could see his way, which nobody can, through 
the mists and clouds of a philosophy which is 
darkness with a few sparks of light ;—a phi- 
losophy perplexing alike by its incumbrance of 
phrase and its vagueness of conception, —a 
sort of moral opium, exciting for a while, and 
then leaving the mind distressed and perplexed. 
| This confusion of ideas, conveyed in a very 
energetic phraseology, is found even in the 
poetry of Kinker. In truth, his verses are fre- 
quently unintelligible, though they leave the 
impression, that, if we could but understand 
them, they would be very fine. The same 
tone of mind gives a too common harshness 
even to his versification, though no man can 
discourse more fitly than he on the prosody 
and harmony of language. Yet it would seem 
as if his art produced his hard verses, for most 
of his off-hand and numerous pieces are smooth 
and flowing. His verses to Haydn are striking, 
and his ‘Adieu to the Y and the Amstel,’ on 
his removal to Liege, is among the best of mod- 
ern compositions.” * 


VIRTUE AND TRUTH. 


Goopwness and truth require no decoration ; 
They, in and through themselves, are great 
and fair : ; 
All ornament is supererogation, 
Giving false coloring and fictitious air. 


Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. IV., p. 73. 


51 


DA COST A.—KINKER. 


401 


Beauty is virtue’s image, truth’s best light, — 
Virtue and truth its representatives ; 

’T is the grand girdle, that, with radiance bright, 
To both, — in all that are, — their lustre gives. 


To its sublime control all evil bows, 
Or sneaks away, subjected to its reign 5 
O’er each defect a garb of mystery throws, 
Or seeks her midnight nakedness again. 


Error must be the lot of mortal kind, 


But virtue, in life’s night, man’s guide may 
be; 
For man’s dim eye, so weak,—’t is almost 
blind, — 


Scarce looks through mist-damps of mortality. 


Vain is endeavour ! — true; but that endeavour, || 
It goodness, truth, and virtue testifies ; 

Struggles and fails, but fails through weakness 

ever, | 

Yet, failing, pours out light on darkened eyes. 


Ye vainly dream, obscurers of the earth, i 
That all is tending downwards to its fall ; 
Vain aré your scoffs on manhood, and man’s | 
worth, | 

And that great tendency which governs all. |; 


In vain, with fading and offensive flowers, 
Ye hide the chains of mental tyranny : 
The unhealthy spirit, lured to treacherous bow- 
ers, 
May joy in its free-chosen slavery ; 


God’s children, bastards ; and its curses throw 
At all who bend not at its temple-gate, 
Nor to night’s image kneel in worship low 


We see in the unfinished, tottering, frail, 
A slowly, surely, sweetly working leaven, 
And in the childish dreams of life’s low vale, 
The faint, but lovely, shadowings-forth of 
heaven. 


Call what is incomplete, degenerate ; 


We sink not, sacred ones! but fluttering tend, — 
Though weak, we tend towards God: the 
word we hear, 
Audibly bidding us uprise, and wend 
Our way above man’s feebleness and fear. 


An idle toil is slumbering man’s poor fate, 
And duty neither lovely looks, nor true ; 

God’s mandate seems despotic, —— desolate 
His doings, — and his voice terrific too. 


Yet duty is but deeds of loveliness, 
And truth is power to make the prisoner free , 
And him, whose self-forged chains his spirit press, 
No effort shall arouse from slavery. 


What’s true and good demands no decoration ; 
It, in and through itself, is great and fair : 
All ornament is supererogation, 


Giving false coloring and fictitious air. 
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LOOTS. 


Or Loots and his productions, the writer in 
the Foreign Quarterly Review ” already cited 
(Vol. IV., p. 72) remarks: “His ‘Taal’ (Lan- 
guage), and ‘ Schilderkunst ’ (Painting), have 
some very fine passages; and his ‘Beurs van 
Amsterdam,’ too, must not be passed over. He 
has frequently an original air, though wild and 
strange, and wants that cultivation which clas- 
sical studies give. His portrait of De Ruyter is 
prettily drawn.” 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 


* 


Sout of living music! teach me, 
Teach me, floating thus along! 

Love-sick warbler! come and reach me 
With the secrets of thy song ! 


How thy beak, so sweetly trembling, 
On one note long lingering tries, — 

Or, a thousand tones assembling, 
Pours the rush of harmonies ! 


Or, when rising shrill and shriller, 
Other music dies away, 

Other songs grow still and stiller, — 
Songster of the night and day ! 


Till, — all sunk to silence round thee, — 
Not a whisper, — not a word, — 

Not a leaf-fall to confound thee, — 
Breathless all, — thou only heard. — 


Tell me, —thou who failest never, 
Minstrel of the songs Of spring! 

Did the world see ages ever, 
When thy voice forgot to sing? 


Is there in your woodland history 
Any Homer whom ye read? 

Has your music aught of mystery ? 
Has it measure, cliff, and creed ? 


Have ye teachers, who instruct ye, 
Checking each ambitious strain ; 

Learned parrots to conduct ye, 
When ye wander, back again? 


Smiling at my dreams, I see thee, — 
Nature, in her chainless will, 

Did not fetter thee, but free thee, — 
Pour thy hymns of rapture still! 


Plumed in pomp and pride prodigious, 
Lo! the gaudy peacock nears ; 

But his grating voice, so hideous, 
Shocks the soul, and grates the ears. 


Finches may be trained to follow 
Notes which dexterous arts combine ; 
But those notes sound vain and hollow, 
When compared, sweet bird, with thine. 


Classic themes no longer courting, 
Ancient tongues I ’ll cast away, 

And, with nightingales disporting, 
Sing the wild and woodland lay. 


DUTCH POETRY. 
aE nat ate ete ana Pas late oak bs Ldn alin ama ab orecorsacne ae 


WITHUIS. 
Wirnuis is one of the living poets of Hol- 
land. The following piece gives a very favor- 
able idea of his powers. 


ODE TO TIME. 


YE paint me old! and why? ye fools short- 
sighted ! 
And doth my speed eld’s frozen blood betray ? 
Methinks the storm-wind is not swifter-flighted ; 
The rapid lightning scarce o’ertakes my way. 
Ye think your hurrying thoughts perchance 
outrun me: 
Go, race with sunbeams,——-when they have 
outdone me, 
Talk of my age, —I fly more swift than they. 


Ye call me gray! Nowtry me. I'll confound ye 
With youth’s most vigorous arm. One glance 
— but one — 
O’er the huge tombs of vanished time, around 
Vesa 
Mountains of ruins piled by me alone: © 
I did it ; —I smote, yesterday, — to-morrow, 
I wait to smite,— your cities, — you : go, borrow 
Safety and strength, — they shall avail you 
none. 


Eternity was mine, — and still eternal 
I hold my cotrse,—God’s being is my stay,— 
I saw worlds fashioned by his word supernal : 
I saw them fashioned, — saw them pass away. 
I bear upon my cheeks unfading roses ; 
Man sees me, as he flits, — and, fool! supposes 
I have my grave, and limits to my sway. 


Take from my front the white locks folly fancies : 

My hair is golden, and my forehead curled, — 

My youth but sports with years,— fire are my 
glances, — 

My brow resists the wrinklings of the world. 
Not for the’scythe alone my hand was shapen: 
"T was made to crush; — give me the club, — 

that weapon 

Oft hath my power in awful moments hurled. 


But give me, too, the hour-glass, — ever raining 
Exhaustless streams untired, — for I am he 
Who pours forth gems and gold, and fruits un- 

draining, 
And treasures ever new. Or can it be 
For desolation only ? Do not new drops 
Of dew in summer fervors follow dew-drops ? 
Fresh flowers replace each flower that ’s 
crushed by me. 


I, the destroyer, do it, — without measure, 

I fill creation’s cup of joy, —man’s lot, 
That vibrates restlessly ’twixt pain and pleasure, 
Determine, —in my youth his years forgot, 
Worlds crumble, — virtue mounts to heaven,— 

no sleeping 
In dust for me,—but, with bright angels keeping 
God’s throne, with God I dwell, and perish 


not. 


. 


nT eS ene Ee TEN ee at aaeeneenemeeanapale 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Arter the Roman Conquest, the Latin be- 
came the prevalent language of Gaul. It was 
not the elegant and nervous Roman of the Au- 
gustan age, for the existence of the Latin lan- 
guage in its purity was limited to a single cen- 
tury, from the days of the last Scipio Africanus 
to those of Augustus.* The “Attic Nights”’ of 
the grammarian Aulus Gellius bears witness to 
its corruption at Rome ; infinitely greater must 
have been its corruption in the wide-spread 
territories of the Roman provinces.t 

Towards the middle of the fourth century, 
the Franks, after repeated forays and ravages 
in the territories of the Gaul, obtained a firm 
foothold, and established themselves to the 
westward of the Rhine. From this point they 
gradually widened the circle of their territory, 
until it reached the fertile borders of the Seine. 
In the latter half of the succeeding century, the 
victorious arms of Clovis triumphed over Alaric 
the Visigoth, who had crossed the Pyrenees 
from Spain, and pillaged the luxuriant provin- 
ces of the South. Thus a large portion of the 
Gallic territory passed under the sceptre of the 
Franks; and the throne of the French mon- 
archy was established. Instead of promulgat- 
ing an entirely new code of laws, the Franks 
received in part those of the conquered people. 
These laws, as well as all public acts and doc- 
uments, were in Latin, and continued to be so 
for centuries; though the court language of the 
Franks was the Franctheuch, called also the 
Théotique, or Tudesque. The Latin was thus 
preserved in public records, and in the ceremo- 
nies of the church; whilst with the people it 
was daily losing ground, and becoming more 
and more corrupt. It was gradually affected 
by the dialects of the North, till at length a 
new vulgar dialect was formed, called the Ro- 
mance Language, or the Roman Rustic ; a name 
given to it, because the Latin words and idioms 
predominated in its composition, and because it 
was the language of the peasantry and the 
lower classes of society. 

In the days of Charlemagne, we find that 
the Latin had become obsolete with the great 
mass of the people. It no longer existed, save 
in statutes and contracts, in the homilies of 
pious fathers, in ghostly diptychs, and the 


* Velleius Paterculus, speaking of Cicero, says, ‘‘ De- 
lectari ante eum paucissimis, mirari verum neminem pos- 
sis, nisi aut ab illo visum, aut qui illum viderit.” 

+ Specimens of the popular Latin of the seventh and 
ninth centuries may be found in three battle-songs given 
by Grimm in the “ Altdeutsche Walder,” Vol. IL, p. 31. 


legends of saints. By a canon of the third 
council of Tours, held in 813, one year before 
the death of Charlemagne, it was ordered, that 
the bishops should select certain homilies of 
the Fathers to be read in the churches, and 
that they should cause them to be translated 
into the Roman Rustic and into Tudesque, in 
order that the people might understand them.* 

Of the prevalence of the Roman Rustic in 
the eighth century, as the popular or vulgar 
language, throughout the southern dominions of 
Charlemagne, that is, throughout the South of 
France, a part of Spain, and nearly all Italy, 
there is ample evidence. The Tudesque, how- 
ever, continued to be the court language. In 
order to reduce it to fixed rules and principles, 
and to facilitate the acquisition of it, Charle- 
magne composed a grammar. With feelings of 
national pride he endeavoured to improve and 
extend it, hoping that he might one day publish 
his laws and edicts in his own maternal tongue, 
and that it would become the language of his 
realm. In this he was disappointed. The peo- 
ple were better pleased with the accents of 
their own unpolished jargon, than with the still 
ruder dialect of the North; and thus the Roman 
Rustic grew stronger day by day, and at length 
succeeded in completely dethroning the Tu- 
desque. 

The most ancient monument of the Roman 
Rustic, now existing, is the ‘‘Serment de Louis 
le Germanique.”’ This document is an oath of 
defensive alliance between Louis of Germany 
and Charles the Bold of France, against the 
dangerous and ambitious projects of their elder 
brother, Lothaire. It was made at Strasburg, 
in the year 842. 

Toward the close of the ninth century, the 
Roman Rustic became the court language of the 
king of Arles in Provence, and was called the 
Roman Provencal, or the Langue d’Oc. Ata 
later period, it was enriched and perfected by the 
poems of the Troubadours. During the twelfth 
and thirteenth centuries, it was in great repute, 
not only in France, but in Spain and Italy ; and 
every one, who has made himself at all familiar 
with the structure of the Troubadour poetry, 
must be fully persuaded of the richness and 
flexibility of a language, which afforded such a 
redundancy of similar sounds, and was mould- 
ed into such a variety of forms. 

Whilst the Roman Rustic had been thus 
perfected in the South of France, in the prov- 


* Mémoires de Académie des Inscriptions et Belles 
Lettres. Tome xvii., p. 173. 


SA OS ee a eereeraee | 


——-- 


fa 
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f cies on 


404 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


inces north of the Loire it had been gradually 
transformed into a new dialect. This change 
seems to have commenced about the close of the 
ninth century. Upon this subject, Cazeneuve 
writes thus: ‘Yet this Langue Romaine under- 
went in a short time a notable change; for, 
as languages generally follow the fortunes of 
states, and lose their purity as these decline, 
when the crown of Germany was separated 
from that of France, the court of our kings 
‘vas removed from Aix-la-Chapelle to Paris ; 
anv as this city was situated near the frontier 
of the German territory, and consequently at a 
distance from the Gaule Narbonnoise, where the 
Roman Rustic, or Langue Romaine, was spoken, 
there was imperceptibly formed atthe French 
court, and in the neighbouring provinces, a 
third language, which still retained the name 
of Romaine, but in the course of time became 
totally different from the ancient Langue Ro- 
maine, which, however, remained in its purity 
in the provinces south of the Loire; and since 
the people north of the Loire expressed affirma- 
tion by the word Oui, and those south of it, by 
the word Oc, France was divided into the land 
of the Langue d’ Oui, or French, and the land 
of the Langue d’Oc, or Provengal.’’* This 
northern Romance dialect was also called the 
Roman Wallon, or Walloon Romance, from the 
appellation of Waelches or Wallons, given by 
the Germans to the inhabitants of the North of 
France. 

This Roman Wallon soon ripened into a 
language, and at the commencement of the 
tenth century ,became the court dialect of Wil- 
liam Longue-Epée, duke of Normandy. The 
most ancient monument of this language, now 
existing, is to be found in the laws of William 
the Conqueror, who died in the year 1087. 
After this period, the Roman Wallon was called 
French. 

Speaking of his native language, Montaigne, 
who flourished in the latter half of the sixteenth 
century, says: “* There is stuff enough in our 
language, but there is a defect in fashioning it ; 
for there is nothing that might not be made 
out of our terms of hunting and war, which is 
a fruitful soil to borrow from; and the forms of 
speaking, like herbs, improve and grow strong- 
er by being transplanted. I find it sufficiently 
abounding, but not sufficiently pliable and vig- 
orous ; it quails under a powerful conception ; 
if you would maintain the dignity of your style, 
you will oft perceive it to flag and languish 
under you.’ t 

This opinion of the merits and defects of the 
French language, as it existed in the days of 
Montaigne, is to a certain extent just, when 
applied to its present character. Its chief char- 


* See RaynovarD. Choix des Poésies Originales des 


a language from its affirmative particle was a general one. 
The Italian was called the Langue de Si, and the German, 
the Langue de Ya. 

t Essays. Book III., Ch. V. 


ES Tome IL, p. xxvj. The custom of naming 


—————— eee 
$$ 


acteristics are ease, vivacity, precision, perspi- 
cuity, and directness. It is superior to all the 
other modern languages if colloquial elegance ; 
and those who are conversant with the genteel 
comedy of the French stage, and have frequent- 
ed the theatrical exhibitions of the French 
metropolis, must have been struck with the 
vast superiority of the French language over 
the English, in its adaptation to the purposes 
of conversation and the refinement of its fa- 
miliar dialogue. It possesses a peculiar point 
and antithesis in the epigram, a spirited ease in 
songs, and great sweetness and pathos in ballad- 
writing. But in the higher walks of tragic and 
epic poetry it feebly seconds the high-aspiring 
mind. The sound but faintly echoes to the 
sublime harmony of thought ; and the imagina- 
tion, instead of being borne upward, on sound- 
ing wings, stoops to the long accustomed rhyme, 
like a tired falcon to the hood and.jesses on a 
lady’s wrist.* 

The dialects of the French language may be 
divided into two great branches or families: 1. 
the dialects of the Langue d’ Oil, in the North, 
and 2. those of the Langue d’Oc, in the South. 
A line drawn from the mouth of the Gironde 
eastward to Savoy in Switzerland divides them 
geographically. The principal dialects of the 
North are: 1. The Poitevin; 2. The Sainton- 
geois; 3. The Burgundian; 4. The Franc-Com- 
tois; 5. The Lorrain; 6. The Picard; 7. The 
Walloon. The principal dialects of the South 
are: 1. The Gascon; 2. The Périgourdin ; 3. 
The Limousin; 4. The Languedocien; 5.:The 
Provengal ; 6. The Daupbinois. These prin- 
cipal dialects have numerous subdivisions, more 
or less distinctly marked, amounting in all to 
seventy or eighty. Specimens of all these may 
be found in a work entitled “¢* Mélanges sur les 
Langues, Dialectes: et Patois,’” t in which will 
be found the parable of the Prodigal Son in one 
hundred dialects, nearly all of them French. 
The Bas-Breton, a Celtic dialect, is spoken in 
Lower Brittany, or the Basse-Bretagne ; and the 
Basque, in a portion of the Basses-Pyrénées. 

Some of the Southern dialects’ are soft and 
musical. Those of the North have greater 
harshness. In many of them there are amus- 
ing perversions of words; as, for example, in 
the Lorrain, infection for affection; engendré 


* For amore complete history of the French language, 
the reader is referred to the Histoire de la Langue Fran- 
caise, par M. Henri: Paris: 2vols. 8vo.;— Révolutions 
de la Langue Frangaise, by the Abbé RAvALLIERE, in the 
first volume of Les Poésies du Roy de Navarre: Paris: 
1742 ; — Origine et Formation de la Langue Romaine, par 
M. Raynovarp, in his Choix des Poésies des Troubadours: 
Paris: 6 vols. 8vo. 1816-21. 

t+ Mélanges sur les Langues, Dialectes et Patois, renfer: 
mant. entre autres, une collection de versions de la Parabole 
de l’Enfant Prodigue en cent idiomes en Patois différens, 
presque tous de France. Paris: 1831. 8vo.—See also, on 
this subject, CHamponLLion-FicEac, Nouvelles Recherches 
sur les Patois. Paris: 1809. 12mo;—Osentin, Essai sur 
le Patois Lorrain des environs du Comté du Ban de la 
Roche. Strasbourg: 1775. 12mo. 


a 


for herité, as “Il a engendré son ptre”’; bru- 
talité for pluralité, as“ Il a été élu a la brutalite 
des voix.’’ Most of the dialects have their 
literature; consisting mainly of popular songs 
and Christmas carols. The name of Pierre 
Goudelin, tte Gascon, is well known in the 
annals of song; and, at the present day, many 
a traveller on the banks of the Garonne stops 
at the town of Agen, to be shaved by the Trou- 
badour-Barber. * 

The history of French poetry may be conve- 
niently divided into the following periods : — 
I. From the earliest times to 1300. II. From 
1300 to 1500. III. From 1500 to 1650. IV. 
From 1650 to 1700. V. From 1700 to 1800. 
VI. From 1800 to the present time. 

I. From the earliest times to 1300. To this 
period belong the Jongleurs, the Trouvéres, 
and the Troubadours.t The Jongleurs were in 
France what the Gleemen were in England. 
They were wandering minstrels, who sang at 
thé courts of kings and princes the heroic 
achievements of their ancestors. They may be 
traced back as far as the tenth century; but at 
a later day they degenerated into mimes and 
mountebanks. The Jongleur of the twelfth 
century became the Juggler of the fifteenth. 

To the Jongleurs and Trouvéres are to be 
referred the old rhymed romances, or Chan- 
sons de Geste, if not as they now exist, at least 
in their original form. The three great divisions 
of these romances are: 1. The Romances of 
Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers; 2. The 
Romances of Arthur and the Round Table, and 
of the St. Grail; and, 3. The Miscellaneous 
Romances. 

Speaking of these ancient Chansons de Geste, 


* The following are among the most important works in 
the literature of the French dialects. 

Gur Barézat. Noei Borguignon. Dijon: 1776. 12mo. 

Recueil de Poétes Gascons. Amsterdam: 1700. 2 vols. 
8vo. Containing the works of Goudelin of Toulouse, Sieur 
Lesage of Montpellier, and Sieur Michel of Nismes. 

Pierre Goupetin. Las Obros augmentados d’uno nou- 
bélo Floureto. ‘Toulouse: 1648. 4to. 


Avera GAILLARD. Toutos las Obros. Paris: 1583. 8vo. 


Poésies en Patois du Dauphiné. Grenoble: 1840. 12mo. 
Gros. Recueil de Pouesies prouvengalos. Marseille: 
1763. 8vo. 


+ On the Jongleurs and Trouvéres, see the following 
works. 

Agpk DE LA Rus. Essais Historiques sur les Bardes, 
les Jongleurs et les Trouvéres Normands et Anglo-Nor- 
mands. 3vols. Caen: 1834. 8vo. 

De RoqueFortT. De Etat de la Poésie Frangoise dans 
les XIJe et XIIle Siécles. Paris: 1821. Svo. 

Faucuer. Recueil de l’Origine de la Langue et Poésie 
Frangoise, Ryme et Romans. Paris: 1581. 4to. 

Bargeazan. Fabliaux et Contes des Poétes Frangois des 
XI., XIIL., XIIL., XIV. et XVe Siécles. 4 vols. Paris: 1808. 
8vo. 

AUGUIS. 
jusqu’a Malherbe. 


Les Poétes Francois, depuis le XIle Siécle 
6 vols. Paris: 1824. 8vo. 

Van Hassext. Essai sur l’Histoire de la Poésie Fran- 
gaise en Belgique. Bruxelles: 1838. to. 

Stsmonp1,_ Historical View of the Literature of the South 
of Europe. Translated by THomas Roscog, Esq. 2 vols. 
New York: 1827. 8vo. 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


many of which are anonymous and of uncertain 
date, M. Paulin Paris* remarks : — rs 

“©We possessed in former times great epic 
poems, which, for four centuries, constituted the 
principal study of our fathers. And during that 
period, all Europe,— Germany, England, Spain, 
and Italy,—having nothing of the kind to boast 
of, either in their historic recollections or in 
their historic records, disputed with each other 
the secondary glory of translating and imitating 
them. 

«Even amid the darkness of the ninth and 
tenth centuries, the French still preserved the 
recollection of an epoch of great national glory. 
Under Charlemagne, they had spread their con- 
quests from the Oder to the Ebro, from the Bal- 
tic to the Sicilian Sea. Mussulmans and Pagans, 
Saxons, Lombards, Bavarians, and Batavians, 
— all had submitted to the yoke of France, all 
had trembled at the power of Charles the Great. 
Emperor of the West, King of France and Ger- 
many, restorer of the arts and sciences, wise 
lawgiver, great converter of infidels, — how 
many titles to the recollection and gratitude of 
posterity! Add to this, that, long before his 
day, the Franks were in the habit of treasuring 
up in their memory the exploits of their ances- 
tors; that Charlemagne himself, during his 
reign, caused all the heroic ballads, which cele- 
brated the glory of the nation, to be collected 
together; and, in fine, that the weakness of his 
successors, the misfortunes of the times, and the 
invasions of the Normans, must have increased 
the national respect and veneration for the illus- 
trious dead, and you will be forced to con- 
fess, that, if no poetic monuments of the ninth 
century remained, we ought rather to conjec- 
ture that they had been lost, than that they 
had never existed. 

“«¢ As to the contemporaneous history of those 
times, it offers us, if I may so speak, only the 
outline of this imposing colossus. Read the 
Annals of the Abbey of Fulde and those of 
Metz, Paul the Deacon, the continuator of 
Frédégaire, and even Eginhart himself, and you 
will there find registered, in the rapid style of 
an itinerary, the multiplied conquests of the 
French. The Bavarians, the Lombards, the 
Gascons revolt ;— Charles goes forth to subdue 
the Bavarians, the Lombards, and the Gascons. 
Witikind rebels ten times, and ten times Charles 
passes the Rhine and routs the insurgent army; 
and there the history ends. Nevertheless the 
emperor had his generals, his companions in 
glory, his rivals in genius; but in all history 


* In the Introductory Letter prefixed to ‘‘ Li Roman de 
Berthe aus grans piés.”? Paris: 1832. This is the first ofa 
series of the Romances of the Twelve Peers. The following 
works have since been published in continuation : — Nos. 
II., I1I., Roman de Garin le Loherain, 2 vols.; I1V., Parise 
la Duchesse; V., VI., Chansons de Saxons ; VIL, Raoul 
de Cambray; VIII., IX., La Chevalerie Ogier de Dane- 
marche, 2 vols. The whole of M. Paris’s introductory letter 
may be found translated in the ‘‘ Select Journal of Foreign 
Periodical Literature.”? Boston: 1833. Vol. I., pp. 125-152. 


nn 


Ra eae: | 


| 


oe | 


as 


el et i i ls atin rc 


406 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


a a 


we find not a whisper of their services; hard- 
ly aye their names mentioned. It has been left 
to the popular ballads, barren as they are of all 
historic authority, to transmit to posterity the 
proofs of their ancient renown. 

‘“‘ But although these ancient Chansons de 
Gesie, or historic ballads, fill up the chasms of 
true history, and clothe with flesh the meagre 
skeleton of old contemporaneous chroniclers, 
yet you must not thence conclude that I am 
prepared to maintain the truth of their nar- 
ratives. Far from it. Truth does not reign 
“supreme on earth; and these romances, after 
all, are only the expression of public opinion, 
separated by an interval of many generations 
from that whose memory they transmit to us. 
But to supply the want of historians, each great 
epoch in national history inspires the song of 
bards; and when the learned and the wise 
neglect to prepare the history of events which 
they themselves have witnessed, the people 
prepare their national songs; their sonorous 
voice, prompted by childish credulity and a free 
and unlimited admiration, echoes alone through 
succeeding ages, and kindles the imagination, 
the feelings, the enthusiasm of the children, by 
proclaiming the glory of the fathers. Thus Ho- 
mer sang two centuries after the Trojan war; 
and thus arose, two or three centuries after the 
death of Charlemagne, all those great poems 
called the ‘ Romances of the Twelve Pectasaa 

After speaking of the metre of these poems, 
which, like the old Spanish ballads, are mono- 
rhythmic, that is, preserving the same rhyme or 
assonance for a strophe of many consecutive 
lines, he goes on to say: “ After an attentive 
examination of our ancient literature, it is im- 
possible to doubt, for a moment, that the old 
monorhyme romances were set to music, and 
accompanied by a viol, harp, or guitar; and 
yet this seems hitherto to have escaped obser- 
vation. In the olden time no one was esteemed 
a good minstrel, whose memory was not stored 
with a great number of historig ballads, like 
those of ‘ Roncesvalles,’ ¢ Garin le Loherain,’ 
and ‘Gerars de Roussillon.’ It is not to! be 
supposed that any one of these poems was ever 
recited entire ; but as the greater part of them 
contained various descriptions of battles, hunt- 
ing adventures, and marriages, — scenes of the 
court, the council, and the castle, — the audi- 
ence chose those stanzas and episodes which 
best suited their taste. And this is the reason 
why each stanza contains in itself a distinct and 
complete narrative, and also why the closing 
lines of each stanza are in substance repeated 
at the commencement of that which immedi- 
ately succeeds. 

“In the poem of ‘Gerars de Nevers’ I find 
the following curious passage. Gerars, betrayed 
by his mistress and stripped of his earldom of 
Nevers by the duke of Metz, determines to 
revisit his ancient domains. To avoid detec- 
tion and arrest, he is obliged to assume the 
guise of a minstrel. 


«Then Gerars donned a garment old, 
And round his neck a viol hung, 
For cunningly he played and sung. 


. . . . 


Steed he had none; so he was fain 

To trudge on foot o’er hill and plain, 
Till Nevers’ gate he stood beforet 
There merry burghers full a score, 
Staring, exclaimed in pleasant mood: 
“This minstrel cometh for little good ; 
I wene, if he singeth all day long, 

No one will listen to his song.’? ? 


“‘In spite of these unfavorable prognostics, 
Gerars presents himself before the castle of the 
duke of Metz. 


‘“‘* Whilst at the door he thus did wait, 

A knight came through the courtyard gate, 

Who bade the minstrel enter straight, 

And led him to the crowded hall, 

That he might play before them all. 

The minstrel then full soon began, 

In gesture like an aged man, 

But with clear voice and music gay, 

The song of ‘‘ Guillaume au cornez.?? 
Great was the court in the hall of Lodn, 
The tables were full of fowl and venison, 
On flesh and fish they feasted every one; 
But Guillaume of these viands tasted none, 
Brown crusts ate he, and water drank alone. 
When had feasted every noble baron, 
The cloths were removed by squire and scullioz. 
Count Guillaume then with the king did thus reason :— 
“What thinketh now,” quoth he, “‘the gallant Char- 

lon? * 

Will he aid me against the prowes of Mahon 2”? 
Quoth Loéis, ‘‘ We will take counsel thereon ; 
To-morrow in the morning shalt thou comne, 
If aught by us in this matter can be done.?? 
Guillaume heard this, — black was he as carbon, 
He louted low, and seized a baton, 
And said to the king, ‘‘Of your fief will I none, 
I will not keep so much as a spur’s iron; 
Your friend and vassal I cease to be anon; 
But come you shall, whether you will or non.” 

Thus full four verses sang the knight, 

For their great solace and delight.’ ”’ 


The limits of this Introduction prevent us 
from going much into detail upon the writings 
of the Jongleurs and Trouvéres. We can do no 
more than enumerate some of their most famous 
romances. These are, 1. Of Charlemagne and 
his Twelve Peers: ‘¢ Charlemagne,” “ Ogier 
le Danois,”’ “ Garin de Lorraine,” “ Guillaume 
d’Aquitaine.”” 2, Of the Round Table: “Le 
Brut d’Angleterre,” “ L’Atre Périlleux,’’ “« Mer- 
lin,” “¢ Meliadus’’; and of the St. Grail: “ Tris- 
tan,” “Lancelot du Lac,” “Perceval le Gal- 
lois.”” 3. Miscellaneous Romances: “ Guy de 
Warwick,” ‘* Beuves de Hanstone,’’ “ Robert- 
le-Diable,”’ “Roman du Rou,” “ Haveloc le 
Danois,” ‘* Le Roi Horn,”’ “« Ypomédon,” “ Pro- 
thésilatis,” two ‘Romans du Renard;” and 
eight, of which Alexander is the hero. 

The Trouvéres differed from the Jongleurs 
in not being minstrels; they did not sing the 
songs they wrote. They were poets, not ballad- 
singers; and often accused the Jongleurs of 
appropriating their works. In return, they avail- 


* Charlemagne. 


Pape ne ee er nee SUT EN Een eat Hae tee ee Wat WeneT ere e En ToT SUNN Cn I = Se ee 


FRENCH LANGUAGE 


ed themselves of the ballads of the Jongleurs ; 
and many of the romances of chivalry, which 
in their present form come from the pens of 
distinguished Trouveres, had an earlier origin 
and a ruder form among the Jongleurs. The 
greater part of the writings of the Trouveéres are 
epic in their character, consisting of romances, 
fabliaux, and tales. There are no traces of 
lyric compositions, properly so called, till about 
the commencement of the thirteenth century. 
Their taste for song-writing is probably to be 
attributed to the influence of the Troubadours. 
Their songs are marked by graceful simplicity, 
which is their greatest merit. 

Among the Trouvéres existed poetic societies, 
for the recital of songs, and the distribution of 
prizes. These were known under the names of 
Chambres de Rhétorique, Cours d’ Amour, Puys 
d’ Amour, and Puys Verts. They were called 
Puys from the Latin Podiwm, the judges of the 
meeting being seated upon an elevated platform. 
The earliest mentioned Puy is that of Valen- 
ciennes, in the year 1229.* As early as the 
days of Robert Wace, there existed at Caen, in 
Normandy, the Puy de la Conception de la 
Vierge, in imitation of the Puys d’ Amour. 
Here these poets sang the beauty of the Dame 
des Cieux, instead of the praises of an earthly 
lady-love. The prizes were palms, golden 
rings, and plumes of silver. t It was not, how- 
ever, till the following century that these con- 
fréries flourished in all their glory. 

While the Jongleurs and Trouvéres were fill- 
ing the North of France with their romances 
and fabliaux, in the accents of the Langue d’ Oil, 
the Troubadours of the South poured forth their 
songs of love upon a balmier air, and in the 
more melodious numbers of the Langue d’ Oc. 
Their poems are almost entirely lyrical. Only 
four Provengal romances are in existence, and 
one of these is in prose.{ They called their 
art Le Gai Saber, and La Gaia Sciencia. Many 
of the Troubadours sang their own songs ; oth- 
ers were poets only, and not minstrels. These 
had Jongleurs to sing their songs. 

From a well written article in an English 
review, § we take the following passage, on 
the character of the Troubadour poetry. 

«¢ An essential characteristic of this poetry is, 
that it is addressed rather to the fancy, than to 
the hearts of its hearers. The love which inspir- 
ed the bosom of the Troubadour partook of the 
same character as the poetry which emanated 
from its existence. It was essentially a poetical 
passion, that is, a passion indulged in less from 
the operation of natural feelings, than from the 
advantages it presented in its poetical uses. The 
poet selected, for the object of his songs, the 
lady whom he deemed most worthy of that 


* See Van HASSELT. 
p. 126. 

+ Dexwa Ruz. Vol. IL, p. 173. 

t Gerars de Roussillon, Jaufré the son of Dovon, Ferabras, 
and. in prose, Philomena. 

§ Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XII., pp. 173, 174. 


Poésie Francaise en Belgique. 


AND POETRY. 407 


honor, —sométimes the daughter, frequently the 
wife, of the noble under whose roof he resided. 
Inferiority of condition on the side of the poet 
was no bar to his claim to a requital of his af 
fections, for his genius and his talent might en- 
title him to take rank with the highest. The 
marriage vow, on the part of the lady, was no 
bar to the advances of the poet, for a serious 
and earnest passion rarely existed between the 
parties. But according to the usages of the 
times, every noble beauty must muster in her 
train some admiring poet,—every bard was 
obliged to select some fair object of devotion, 
whom he might enshrine in his verses, and 
glorify before the world ; and both parties. were 
well content to dignify the cold-blooded rela- 
tionship, in which they stood to each other, by 
the hallowed name of love. That the head, 
and not the heart, was most frequently the 
source of this simulated affection, is shown by 
the fact, that we find, in cases where the chosen 
fair one was living in single blessedness, the 
poetical wooings of her imaginative adorer rare- 
ly terminated in the prose of marriage. There 
were instances, certainly, of such events result- 
ing from these poetical connections, but they 
were few; not so those in which the married 
fair, who woke the poet’s lyre, broke the silken 
bonds of matrimony, and made returns some- 
what more’ than Platonic to the herald of her 
charms. The connection between the parties 
frequently degenerated into intrigue, but rarely 
elevated itself into a noble and virtuous attach- 
ment. 

“That a passion, so essentially artificial in 
its origin, should give rise to equally artificial 
forms for its avowal, was to be expected. Ac- 
cordingly, we find the amatory poetry of the 
Troubadours distinguished more for delicacy of 
expression, than fervency of thought, —for a 
pleasing application of well known images, rath- 
er than a ready coinage of new and appropriate 
ones. The feelings of the poet were evinced 
rather in the constancy, than in the ardor of 
his homage. ‘From morn till noon, from noon 
till dewy eve,’ he was expected to mark his 
devotion to his mistress, by harping variations 
on one endless theme,—her beauty and his love. 
In the execution of this task, he was not con- 


choose the Chant or the Chanson, the Son or 
the Sonet, the Alba or the Serena, or, in fact, 
whichsoever of the many ‘set forms of speech’ 
he thought best adapted to record his sufferings, 
or display his genius. Such is the general 
character of this branch of Troubadour poetry ; 
there are exceptions certainly, exhibiting both 
fervor and sincerity, and in a high degree ; but 
in these cases the sentiments to which they 
have given expression appear to have been the 
result of real, and not of counterfeit emotions. 
The Planhs, or songs written upon the death 
of a mistress, generally display the pathos and 
tenderness which such an event might be ex- 
pected to call forth.” 


fined to one style of composition, but might 


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The Troubadours, as well as the Trouvéres, 
had their Courts of Love, commencing as far 
back as the twelfth century ; and continuing 
till as late as the close of the fourteenth. At 
those courts ladies of high degree presided. 
There was the court of Ermengarde, viscount- 
ess of Narbonne, there was the court of Queen 
Eléonore, and many others. Before them ques- 
tions of love and gallantry were debated, and by 
them judgment was pronounced. These ques- 
tions were decided in conformity with the Code 
of Love, of which the following are some of 
the Articles. 

“Marriage is no legitimate excuse for not 
having a lover. 

‘«‘ Love must always increase or diminish. 

“Every lover turns pale in the presence of 
his mistress. 

“At the sudden appearance of his mistress, 
the heart of the lover trembles. 

“A lover is always timid. 

“Little sleepeth and eateth he who is ha- 
rassed by the thoughts of love. 

‘“‘ Love can deny nothing unto love. 

‘“¢ Nothing prevents a woman from being loved 
by two men, nor aman from being loved by 
two women.” * 

The following are specimens of the questions 
and decisions in these courts. 

Question. ‘*Can true love exist between 
husband and wife ?”’ 

Judgment of the countess of Champagne. 
“ We hereby declare and affirm, by the tenor 
of these presents, that love cannot exercise its 
power over husband and wife, &c., &c. 

“ Let this decision, which we have pro- 
nounced with extreme prudence, and by the 
advice and consent of a great number of other 
ladies, be for you of constant and irrefragable 
verity. Thus decided, in the year 1174, the 
3d day of the kalends of May, indiction VIIe.”’ 

Question. “A knight was enamoured of a 
lady already engaged; but she promised him 
her love, if it ever happened that she should 
lose the affection of her lover. Shortly after, 
the lady and her lover were married. The 
knight claimed the love of the young bride; 
she refused, pretending she had not lost the 
affection of her lover.”’ 

Judgment. This case being brought before 
Queen Eléonore, she decided thus: ‘“* We dare 
not set aside the decision of the countess of 
Champagne, who, by a solemn judgment, has 
pronounced that true love cannot exist between 
husband and wife. We therefore decide that 
the aforementioned lady accord the love she 
promised.”’ t 


%* RAYNOUARD, II., cv. 

t+ RaynovarD, II., cvii. The reader will there find a 
sketch of the Courts of Love, drawn chiefly from the ‘‘ Livre 
de l’Art d’aimer, et de la Réprohation de VAmour,’’ by 
the chaplain André, a writer of the twelfth century. In 
the fifteenth century, the Courts of Love and their de- 
cisions were ridiculed by Martial de Paris, in his ‘‘ Arréts 
d’Amours.”? An amusing notice of this book, with ex- 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


The songs of the Troubadours died away 
amid the discords of the wars of the Albigenses, 
during the thirteenth century. In the follow- 
ing century, in 1323, a few poets of Toulouse 
were accustomed to meet together in the gar- 
dens of the Augustine monks, for an acade- 
my, which they called La Sobregaya Compan- 
hia dels Sept Trobadors de Tolosa. In 1324, 
this society, in connection with the Capitouls, 
or chief magistrates of Toulouse, established the 
Jeux Floraux, or Floral Games, which are still 
in existence. A golden violet was offered as a 
prize for the best poem in the Provengal lan- 
guage; and on the first of May, in the gardens 
of the Augustine convent, and in the presence 
of a vast multitude, the poems of the rival can- 
didates were read, and the prize was awarded to 
Arnaud Vidal, who was straightway declared 
Doctor in the Gay Science. In 1355, the 
number of prizes was increased to three: a 
golden violet for the best song; a silver eglan- 
tine for the best pastoral; and a flor de gaug, 
or flower of joy, the yellow acacia blossom, for 
the best ballad. * 


tracts, may be found in the ‘‘ Retrospective Review,’’ Vol. 
V., pp. 70 - 86, from which we take the following cases. 

“This was an action brought by the plaintiff, a lover, 
against the defendant, to whom he was attached, for refus- 
ing to dance with him. The declaration stated, that on, 
&c., at, &c., the plaintiff had requested the said defendant 
to dance, which she, without any reasonable cause in that 
behalf, refused to do, alleging a certain frivolous excuse. 
That afterwards the said plaintiff did again, with great 
earnestness, humbly request the said defendant to dance a 
few steps with him, to save him, the said plaintiff, from 
being laughed at by certain persons then and there present, 
which she also refused to do. And he averred that he had, 
on divers occasions, moved to the said defendant, and taken 
off his hat, whenever he, the said plaintiff, met her. Yet, 
although the said defendant well knew that he was stricken 
with and loved her, she nevertheless wholly disdained and 
refused to speak to him, the said plaintiff; or if at any time 
the said defendant said, ‘How d’ ye do?’ to the said plain- 
tiff, it was with a toss of the head of her, the said defendant. 
The declaration concluded in the usual manner.’’ 

“ An action was brought by a young married lady against 
her husband, for not allowing her to wear a gown anda 
bonnet made in the newest fashion. The pleadings ran toa 
considerable length, and the Court declared that the matter 
should be referred to two milliners, who should report there- 
on; and if any thing objectionable were found in the fash- 
ion of the gown and bonnet, the Court directed that the ref- 
erees should call in the assistance of two ladies, on the part 
of the plaintiff, and two on the part of the defendant, to as- 
sist them in their judgment.’’ 

“ An action was brought by the plaintiff against the de- 
fendant, for having pricked him with a pin, whilst she was 
giving him a kiss. The defendant denied ever having given 
the plaintiff a kiss, but, on the contrary, said that the plain- 
tiff had taken it; and she said that the wound, if any, had 
happened only by mischance and accident. Certificates 
from several surgeons were produced of the nature and ex- 
tent of the wound, and the Court sentenced the defendant 
to kiss the wound at all reasonable times, until it was heal- 
ed, and to find linen for plasters.”’ 

* On the Troubadours and their poetry, see the following 
works. 


RaynovarpD. Choix des Poésies Originales des Trouba- 
dours. 6 vols. Paris: 1816-21. 


CRESCIMBENI. Vite de’ Poeti Provenzali. Translated 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


To this period is to be referred, also, the first 
trace of the French drama. It began in the 
Miracles and Mystéres of the Jongleurs, the rep- 
resentation of which can be traced as far back 
as the close of ,the eleventh century. The M- 
racles were founded on the legends of saints, 
and the Mystéres on the Old and New Tes- 
taments. The earliest play now extant is, how- 
ever, of a much later date, and will be noticed 
in the history of the next period. 

II. From 1300 to 1500. The most popular 
poem of this period— the poem which seems 
to have been to the French what the “ Divina 
Commedia’”’ was to the Italians, and which 
fully satisfied the romantic and poetic taste of 
the age — was the ‘ Romaunt of the Rose.” 
It was commenced in the latter part of the thir- 
teenth century by Guillaume de Lorris, and fin- 
ished in the first part of the fourteenth by Jean 
de Meun. This was by no means a poetic age. 
Next to Meun, the writers most worthy of 
mention are, Jean Froissart, better known as a 
chronicler than as a poet; Christine de Pise ; 
Alain Chartier ; Charles, duke of Orleans; 
Francois Villon; Jean Regnier, and Martial de 
Paris. From the writings of these authors, and 
of several others, extracts will be given. 

Though some traces of the drama have been 
discovered as far back as the close of the eleventh 
century, the history of the French theatre be- 
gins, properly speaking, with the fifteenth. At 
this period, certain pilgrims, returning from the 
Holy Land, formed themselves into the Con- 
frérie de la Passion. In 1402, they received 
the permission of Charles the Sixth to establish 
themselves at Paris, and accordingly opened 
their theatre in the Hopital de la Trinité. Their 
stage was filled with several scaffolds, or étab- 
lies, the highest of which represented heaven, 
and the lower, different parts of the scene. Be- 
neath, in the place of the modern trap-door, 
hell was represented by the jaws of a dragon, 
which opened and shut for the entrances and 
exits of the devils. At the sides were seats for 
the actors, most of whom seem never to have 
left the stage. Here was represented the cele- 
brated ‘‘ Mystére de la Passion,” divided into 
four journées,* or days; as the play was con- 
tinued for successive days. In the first journée 
there are thirty-two scenes and eighty-seven 
characters; in the second, twenty-five scenes 
and one hundred characters; in the third, sev- 


from the French of NotrepamgE. In Vol. II. of the Istoria 


della Volgar Poesia. 6 vols. Venezia: 1730-31. 4to. 
Mrttor. Histoire Littéraire des Troubadours. 3 vols. 
Paris: 1774. 12mo. 
Scuiecen. Observations sur la Langue et la Littérature 
Provencales. Paris: 1818. 8vo. 4 
Diez. Die Poesie der Troubadours. Zwickau: 1826. 8vo. 
Diez. Leben und Werke der Troubadours. Zwickau: 
1829. 8vo. 


* The word jornada is still preserved in the Spanish 
drama, though the French journée has given place to the 
word acte. It originally indicated the portion of a play 
acted in one day. 

; 52 


409 


enteen scenes and eighty-seven characters; and 
in the fourth, twelve scenes and one hundred 
and five characters. The following scenes of 
this play are from Roscoe’s translation of Sis- 
mondi.” 

‘Saint John enters into a long discourse, 
and we can only account for the patience with 
which our forefathers listened to these tedious 
harangues, by supposing that their fatigue was 
considered by them to be an acceptable offering 
to the Deity; and that they were persuaded, 
that every thing, which did not excite them to 
laughter or tears, was put down to the account 
of their edification. The following scene in 
dialogue, in which Saint John undergoes an 
interrogation, displays considerable ability. 


ABYAS. 
Though fallen be man’s sinful line, 
Holy prophet! it is writ, 
Christ shall come to ransom it, 
And by doctrine and by sign 
Bring them to his grace divine. 
Wherefore, seeing now the force 
Of thy high deeds, thy grave discourse, 
And virtues shown of great esteem, 
That thou art he we surely deem. 


SAINT JOHN. 
I am not Messiah, —no! 
At the feet of Christ I bow. 


ELYACHIM. 
Why, then, wildly wanderest thou 
Naked in this wilderness ? 
Say! what faith dost thou profess ? 
And to whom thy service paid? 


BANNANYAS. 
Thou assemblest, it is said, 
In these lonely woods, a crowd 
To hear thy voice proclaiming loud, 
Like that of our most holy men. 
Art thou a king in Israel, then ? 
Know’st thou the laws and prophecies ? 
Who art thou ? say! 


NATHAN. 


Thou dost advise 
Messiah is come down below. 
Hast seen him? Say, how dost thou know ? 
Or art thou he 2? 


SAINT JOHN. 
I answer, No! 


* Historical View of the Literature of the South of Eu- 
rope, Vol. I., pp. 179-184. In the first volume of the ‘‘ His- 
toire du Théatre Francais’? (15 vols. Paris: 12mo.), an 
analysis, with extracts, is given of this Mystery, and of 
those of the Conception and the Resurrection. These three 
Mysteries have been published together, ‘‘ as played at Paris 


in the year of grace, 1507.”? The whole title is, ‘‘ Le Mystere’ 


de la Conception et Nativité de la glorieuse Vierge Marie, 
avec le Mariage d’icelle, la Nativité, Passion, Résurrection 
et Assencion de Nostre-Sauveur et Redempteur Jesu-Christ, 
jouée a Paris lan de grace mil cinq cens et sept; imprimée 
audict lieu, pour Jehan Petit, Geuffroy de Marnef et Mi- 
chel le Noir, Libraires-Jurez en l’Université de Paris, de- 
mourans en la grant rué P. Jacques.” 

In the second volume of the ‘‘ Histoire du Théatre Fran- 
cais? may be found a chronological catalogue of the other 
Mysteries of the fifteenth century. 

vif 


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lowing lines be repeated : — 


FRENCH 


NACHOR. 
Who art thou? Art Elias, then? 
Perhaps Elias ?, 


SAINT JOHN, 
No! 


BANNANYAS. 
Again, 
Who art thou? what thy name? Express! 
For never, surely, shall we guess. 
Thou art the prophet. 


SAINT JOHN. 
I am not. 


ELYACHIM. 
Who and what art thou? Tell us what; 
That true answer we may bear 
To our lords, who sent us here 
To learn thy name and mission. 


SAINT JOHN. 
Ego 
Vor clamantis in deserto: 
A voice, a solitary ery, 
In the desert paths am I. 
Smooth the paths, and make them meet 
For the great Redeemer’s feet, 
Him, who, brought by our misdoing, 
Comes for this foul world’s renewing. 


“The result of this scene is the conversion 
of the persons to whom Saint John addresses 
himself. They eagerly demand to be baptized, 
and the ceremony is followed by the baptism 
of Jesus himself. But the versification is not 
so remarkable as the stage directions, which 
transport us to the very period of these Gothic 
representations. 

«Here Jesus enters the waters of Jordan, 
all naked, and Saint John takes some of the 
water in his hand and throws it on the head of 


Jesus.’ 
SAINT JOHN, 
Sir, you now baptized are, 
As it suits my simple skill, 
Not the lofty rank you fill: 
Unmeet for such great service I; 
Yet my God, so debonair, 
All that ’s wanting will supply. 


“«¢ Here Jesus comes out of the river Jordan, 
and throws himself on his knees, all naked, 
before paradise. Then God the Father speaks, 
and the Holy Ghost descends, in the form of a 
white dove, upon the head of Jesus, and then 
returns into paradise : — and note that the words 
of God the Father be very audibly pronounced, 
and well sounded in three voices; that is to 
say, a treble, a counter-treble, and a counter- 
bass, all in tune: and in this way must the fol- 


, 
‘ Hic est filius meus dilectus, 
In quo mihi bene complacut. 
O’estui-ci est mon fils amé Jésus, 
Que bien me plaist, ma plaisance est en lui.’ 

** As this Mystery was not only the model of 
subsequent tragedies, but of comedies likewise, 
we must extract a few verses from the dialogues 
of the devils, who fill all the comic parts of the 
drama. The eagerness of these personages to 


LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
a 


maltreat one another, or, as the original ex- 
presses it, @ se torchonner (to give one another 
a wipe), always produced much laughter in the 
assembly. 
BERITH. 
Who he is I cannot tell, — 
This Jesus ; but I know full well, 
That, in all the worlds that be, 
There is not such a one as he. 
Who it is that gave him birth 
I know not, nor from whence on earth 
He came, or what great devil taught him; 
But in no evil have I caught him, 
Nor know I any vice he hath. 
SATAN. 
Haro! but you make me wroth, 
When such dismal news I hear. 
_BERITH. 
Wherefore so ? 


SATAN, 
Because I fear 
He will make my kingdom less. 
Leave him in the wilderness, 
And let us return to hell, 
To Lucifer our tale to tell, 
And to ask his sound advice. 
BERITH. 
The imps are ready in a trice; 
Better escort cannot be. * 
LUCIFER. 
Is it Satan that I see, 
And Berith, coming in a passion ? 
ASTAROTH, 
Master, let me lay the lash on. 
Here ’s the thing to do the deed. 
LUCIFER. 
Please to moderate your speed 
To lash behind and lash before ye, 
Ere you hear them tell their story, 
Whether shame they bring, or glory. 


“As soon as the devils have given an ac- 
count to their sovereign of their observations 
and their vain efforts to tempt Jesus, Astaroth 
throws himself upon them with his imps, and 
lashes them back to earth from the infernal re- 
gions.” 

The success of the Confrérie de la Passion 
inspired the Clercs de la Bazosche, or Students 
of the Inns of Court, already an incorporated 
society, with their king, chancellor, and other 
high dignitaries, to represent plays. But as the 
Confrérie de la Passion had by law the exclu- 
sive right to the Miracles and Mysteries, the 
clerks invented Moralités, or allegorical plays, 
and Farces. The most renowned of these is 
‘‘ La Farce de Maistre Pierre Pathelin,” * first 
performed in 1480, and still held in high esteem 
as a characteristic specimen of French fun. 

During the thirteenth century, was formed a 
third dramatic corps, who, being lovers of mirth 
and frolic, took the merry name of Les Enfans 
sans Souci. Their leader bore the title of Prince 
des Sots, and the plays were called Sotises, and 


* A neat edition of this famous farce was published at 
Paris, in 1723. 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


were filled with the follies of the time, and 
sometimes with personal satire.” 

III. From 1500 to 1650. This is a far more 
brilliant epoch than that which preceded it. 
It embraces the names of Rabelais and Mon- 
taigne in prose, and of Marot and Malherbe in 
poetry. It commences with the reign of Francis 
the First, who was surnamed the Father of Let- 
ters. The better to understand how much this 
monarch contributed to the cultivation of his 
native tongue, it should be borne in mind, that 
until his day all public acts and documents were 
published in Latin, and that to him belongsgthe 
praise of having abolished this ancient usage, 
and ordered that ¢ doresnavent tous arréts sotent 
prononcés, enregistrés. et délivrés aux parties en 
langage maternel Francois, et non aultrement.”’ 
This elevated the character of the language, and 
gave a fresh impulse to its advancement. The 
new encouragement given to literature, and the 
new honors paid to literary men, seconded this 
impulse; and during the single reign of this 
munificent monarch, the French language made 
as much progress in ease and refinement, as it 
has made from that day to the present. Pre- 
eminent among the names of those authors 
who were instrumental in effecting the im- 
provement stands that of Clement Marot, the 
most celebrated of all the ancient worthies of 
French poetry. Surrounded by the elegance 
and refinement of the French court, and guided 
by the counsels of his friend and preceptor, 
Jehan Lemaire, he applied himself assiduously 
to the cultivation of his native tongue, and to 
establishing for it those rules and principles 
which would give it permanence and precision, 
but which all previous writers had entirely dis- 
regarded. ‘+ Marot,” says M. Auguis, in his 
‘‘ Discourse upon the Origin and Progress of 
the Poetic Language of France,”’ “‘ had but one 
course to pursue ; to leave the imitation of every 
other language, and seek for the genius of our 
own within itself: and this he did. The as- 
perity of its terminations and connections was 
the fatal quicksand of our grammar; he ad- 
hered to those words and turns of expression 
which had been smoothed by the constant attri- 
tion of good usage. He treasured up and em- 
ployed every pleasing rhyme and easy-flowing 
phrase which by chance had fallen from the 
pens of more ancient writers ; but it was in the 
cultivated and refined conversations of ladies 
of high rank, that he acquired the most delicate 
perception of the true harmony of language ; 
it was from the natural beauty of their expres- 
sions, and the vivacity, clearness, and melody 
of their periods, that he drew his own honeyed 
sweetness, and learned the true character of our 
language. This was all which at that period 
could be done; and it was doing much, to teach 
the future scholar that the genius of the French 


* Fora full account of the Clercs de la Bazosche, and 
the Enfans sans Souci, the reader is reterred to the ‘‘ His- 
toire du Théatre Frangais,’”’ Vol. II., pp. 78, 198. 


411 


language consists in its ease, its vivacity, its 
precision, and, above all, in its perspicuity and 
directness.’ * ‘ 

About the middle of the sixteenth century, 
the poet Ronsard, thinking the language poor 
and feeble, conceived the design of enriching 


it with phrases from the Greek and Latin : 
‘‘ Et sa muse, en Francois, parla Grec et Latin.’’ 


This was like equipping the graceful limbs of 
a ballet-dancer in a ponderous suit of antique 
armor. Ronsard was called the Prince of the 
French Poets. He gathered around him a soci- 
ety of friends and admirers, who assumed the 
name of the Pleiades. The principal star in 
this constellation was Ronsard himself. The 
other six were Joachim du Bellay, Antoine de 
Baif, Pontus,de Thyard, Remi Belleau, Jean 
Dorat, and Etienne Jodelle, whose tragedy of 
*¢ Cleopatra,’ formed on the classic model, took 
the place of the old Mysteries and Moralities, 
and began a new era in the French drama. 
The grace of the language began to yield 
beneath the weight of this scholastic jargon ; 
when fortunately a superior mind appeared, to 
rescue literature from the ill effects of this 
perverted taste. This was Malherbe; who 
so strenuously asserted the rights of his native 
tongue against all foreign usurpation, that he 
gained at court the appellation of the Tyrant of 
Words and Syllables. It is related of him, that, 
but an hour before his death, his father-confes- 
sor, speaking to him of the felicity of the life 
beyond the grave, expressed himself in lan- 
guage so vulgar and incorrect, that the dying 
poet exclaimed, ‘¢ Say no more of it; your pit- 
iful style will disgust me with it.” 

Malherbe is regarded by the French as the 
father of their poetry. To him belongs the 
glory of having first developed the full power 
of the French language in many of the various 
branches of poetic composition. ‘Beauty of 
expression and imagery,” says Auguis, “rapidity 
of movement and sublimity of ideas, enthusi- 
asm, number, cadence, all are to be found in 
his beautiful odes. No one knew better than 
he the effects of harmony ; no one possessed a 
more exquisite taste, or a more delicate ear. 
Grief and sensibility find beneath his pen ex- 
pressions natives and pathetic, and the form of 
versification follows naturally the emotions of 
the soul. We are filled with astonishment and 
admiration, when we compare his noble lan- 
guage with the barbarous style of the disciples 
of Ronsard. ‘Thus was ushered in the brilliant 
age of Louis the Fourteenth.” t 


* Poétes Francois. Discours Préliminaire. I., 20. 

+ Poétes Francois, VI., 53. This work contains selec- 
tions from the writings of two hundred and seventy-two 
authors, sixty-six of whom are Troubadours. At the close 
of the work is a list of poets before Malherbe, from whose 
writings no extracts are given. These are two hundred and 
eighty-eight Troubadours, one hundred and seventy-three 
Trouvéres, and four hundred and fifty-four early French po- 
ets. This makes in all one thousand one hundred and eighty- 
seven poets before the middle of the seventeenth century. 


=a 


tor” 


eee ota 


The poets and versifiers of this period are | mixture of magnanimity and littleness ;—his 


very numerous, amounting in all to one hundred 
and thirty-seven. Extracts from the writings 
of all of these may be found in the collection 
of Auguis. Among them are several royal 
authors: Francis the First, Henry the Second, 
Charles the Ninth, Henry the Fourth, and his 
mother, Jeanne d’Albret; Marie Stuart, and 
Marguerite de Navarre. 

IV. From 1650 to 1700. The age of Louis 
the Fourteenth is one of the most brilliant in 
history ; illustrious by its reign of seventy-two 
years, its eighty-seven marshals, and its three 
hundred and seventy authors.* The reign of 
this monarch has been called ‘a satire upon 
despotism.” His vanity was boundless; his 
magnificence equally so. The palaces of Mar- 
ly and Versailles are monuments of his royal 
pride. Equestrian statues, and his figure on 
one of the gates of Paris, represented as a 
naked Hercules, with a club in his hand anda 
flowing wig on his head, are monuments of his 
self-esteem. 

His court was the home of etiquette and the 
model of all courts. “It seemed,” says Vol- 
taire, ‘that Nature at that time took delight in 
producing in France the greatest men in all the 
arts ; and of assembling at court the most beau- 
tiful men and women that had ever existed. 
But the king bore the palm away from all his 
courtiers, by the grace of his figure, and the 
majestic beauty of his countenance. The no- 
ble and winning sound of his voice captivated 
the hearts that his presence intimidated. His 
carriage was such as became him and his rank 
only, and would have been ridiculous in any 
other. The embarrassment he inspired in those 
‘who spoke with him flattered in secret the 
self-complacency with which he recognized his 
own superiority. The old officer who became 
agitated and stammered in asking a favor from 
him, and, not being able to finish his discourse, 
exclaimed, ‘Sire, I do not tremble so before 
your enemies!’ had no difficulty in obtaining 
the favor he asked.” t 

All about him was pomp and theatrical show. 
He invented a kind of livery which it was 
held the greatest honor to wear ; a blue waist- 
coat, embroidered with gold and silver; —a 
mark of royal favor. To all around him he 
was courteous; towards women chivalrous. 
He never passed even a chambermaid without 
touching his hat; and always stood uncovered 
in the presence of a lady. When the disap- 
pointed duke of Lauzun insulted him by break- 
ing his sword in his presence, he raised the 
window, and threw his cane into the court- 
yard, saying, “I never should have forgiven 
myself, if I had struck a gentleman.” 

He seems, indeed, to have been a strange 


* Prefixed to Vorrarre’s ‘‘Siécle de Louis XIV.,” is a 
catalogue of these authors, with a word or two of comment 
on each. 

t Siécle de Louis XIV., ch. 25. 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


gallantries veiled always in a show of decency ; 
severe, capricious, fond of pleasure, — hardly less 
fond of labor. One day, we find him dashing 
from Vincennes to Paris in his hunting-dress, 
and, standing in his great boots, with a whip in 
his hand, dismissing his parliament, as he would 
a pack of hounds. The next, he is dancing in 
the ballet of his private theatre, in the character 
of a gypsy, and whistling or singing scraps of 
opera songs; and then parading at a military 
review, or galloping at full speed through the 
patk of Fontainebleau, hunting the deer in a 
calash drawn by four ponies. Towards the 
close of his life, he became a devotee. “It is 
avery remarkable thing,” says Voltaire, “that 
the public, who forgave him all his mistresses, 
could not forgive him his father-confessor.”’ He 
outlived the respect of his subjects. When he 
lay on his death-bed,— those godlike eyes, 
that had overawed the world, now grown dim 
and lustreless, —his courtiers left him to die 
alone, and thronged about his successor, the 
duke of Orleans. An empiric gave him an 
elixir, which suddenly revived him. He ate 
once more, and it was said he would recover. 
The crowd about the duke of Orleans dimin- 
ished very fast. “If the king eats a second 
time, I shall be left all alone,” said he. But 
the king ate no more. He died like a philoso- 
pher. To Madame de Maintenon he said, “I 
thought it was more difficult to die!” and to 
his domestics, ““ Why do you weep? Did you 
think I was immortal?” 

Of course, the character of the monarch 
stamped itself upon the society about him, 
The licentious court made a licentious city. 
Yet everywhere external decency and decorum 
prevailed. The courtesy of the old school 
held sway. Society, moreover, was pompous 
and artificial. There were pedantic scholars 
about town, and learned women, and Précieuses 
Ridicules, and Euphuism. With all its great- 
ness, it was an effeminate age. 

The old city of Paris, which lies in the: 
Marais, was once the court end of the town. 
It is now entirely deserted by wealth and fash- 
ion. Travellers, even, seldom find their way 
into its broad and silent streets. But sightly 
mansions, and garden walls, over which tall, 
shadowy trees wave to and fro, speak of a more 
splendid age; when proud and courtly ladies 
dwelt there, and the frequent wheels of gay 
equipages chafed the now grass-grown pave- 
ments. 

In the centre of this part of Paris, within 
pistol-shot of the Boulevard St. Antoine, stands 
the Place Royale; the Little Britain of Paris. 
Old palaces, of a quaint and uniform style, with 
a low arcade in front, run quite round the 
square. In its centre is a public walk, with 
trees, an iron fence, and an equestrian statue of 
Louis the Thirteenth. It was here that mon- 
arch held his court. But there is no sign of a 
court now. Under the arcade are shops and 


ca | 


| 


fruit-stalls, and in one corner sits a cobbler, 
seemingly as old and deaf as the walls around 
him. Occasionally you get a glimpse through 
a grated gate into spacious gardens, and a large 
flight of steps leads up into what was once a 
royal palace and is now a tavern. 

Not far off is the Rue des Tournelles; and 
the house is still standing, in which lived and 
loved that Aspasia of the seventeenth century, 
—the celebrated Ninon de l’Enclos. From the 
Boulevard you look down into the garden 
where her illegal and ill-fated son, on discover- 
ing that the object of his passion was his own 
mother, put an end to his miserable life. Not 
very remote from this is the house once occu- 
pied by Madame de Sévigné. You are shown 
the very cabinet where she composed those 
letters which beautified her native tongue, and 
“make us love the very ink that wrote them.” 
In a word, you are here in the centre of the 
Paris of the seventeenth century ; the gay, the 
witty, the licentious city, which in Louis the 
Fourteenth’s time was like Athens in the age 
of Pericles. And now all is changed to soli- 
tude and silence. The witty age, with its 
brightness and licentious heat, all burnt out, — 
puffed into darkness by the breath of Time. 
Thus passes an age of libertinism, and bloody, 
frivolous wars, and fighting bishops, and devout 
prostitutes, and “factious beaux esprits, impro- 
vising epigrams in the midst of seditions, and 
madrigals on the field of battle.” 

Westward from this quarter, near the Seine 
and the Louvre, stood the famous Hotel de 
Rambouillet, the court of euphuigsm and false 
taste. Here Catherine de Vivonne, marchion- 
ess of Rambouillet, gave her esthetical soirées 
in her bedchamber, and she herself in bed, 
among the curtains and mirrors of a gay alcove. 
The master of ceremonies was the lady’s cava- 
lier servente, and bore the title of the Alcoviste. 
He did the honors of the house, and directed 
the conversation ; and such was the fashion of 
the day, that no evil tongue soiled with malig- 
nant whisper the fair fame of the précieuses, as 
the ladies of the society were called. 

Into this bedchamber came all the noted 
literary personages of the day: Corneille, Mal- 
herbe, Bossuet, Fléchier, La Rochefoucault, 
Balzac, Bussy-Rabutin, Madame de Sévigné, 
Mademoiselle de Scudéri, and others of less 
note, though hardly less pretension. They 
paid their homage to the marchioness under 
the titles of Arthénice, Eracinthe, and Carinthée, 
anagrams of the name of Catherine. There, 
as in the Courts of Love of a still earlier age, 
were held grave dissertations on frivolous 
themes, —and all the metaphysics of love and 
the subtilties of exaggerated passion were dis- 
cussed with most puerile conceits and vapid 
sentimentality. ‘* We saw, not long since,” 
says La Bruyére, ‘‘a circle of persons of the 
two sexes, united by conversation and mental 
sympathy. They left to the vulgar the art of 
speaking intelligibly. One obscure expression 


~ eh san lee mn i i palo 


FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


413 


brought on another still more obscure, which 
in turn was capped by something truly enig- 
matical, attended with vast applause. With 
all this so-called delicacy, feeling, and refine- 
ment of expression, they at length went so far, 
that they were neither understood by others, 
nor could understand themselves. For these 
conversations one needed neither good sense, 
nor memory, nor the least capacity ; only esprit, 
and that not of the best, but a counterfeit kind, 
made up chiefly of fancy.” 

The chief poets of this period are Corneille, 
Molicre, Racine, La Fontaine, Boileau, Jean 
Baptiste Rousseau, Benserade, Chapelle, Chau- 
lieu, La Fare, Quinault, Thomas Corneille, Cré- 
billon, and Fontenelle. In addition to an im- 
mense amount of dramatic, lyric, satiric, and 
epistolary poems, this period produced five un- 
successful epics; namely, the ‘“ Clovis’ of Dem- 
arets; the “Pucelle, ou la France Délivrée,” 
of Chapelain; the “ Alaric, ou Rome Vaincue,” 
of George de Scudéri; the ‘“ St. Louis, ou la 
Sainte Couronne Reconquise,” of Le Moine ; 
and finally, another ‘ Clovis,” by St. Didier. 

V. From 1700 to 1800. 
Voltaire, Jean Jacques Rousseau, and the En- 
cyclopedists, Diderot and D’Alembert. Vol- 
taire stands at the head of the French epic poets, 
and, as a tragic writer, next to Corneille and 
Racine. His is the greatest name of this period. 
After him, in the list of poets, may be men- 
tioned Ducis, Chenier, Piron, Louis Racine, 
Parny, Colardeau, Dorat, St. Lambert, Delille, 
Florian, and Gresset. 

VI. From 1800 to the present time. The 
writings of Chateaubriand, like a bridge, ex- 
tending from century to century, connect the 
literature of the last period with that of the 
present. He belongs, however, chiefly to the 
past. He writes “* new books with an old faith ”’ ; 
and this faith is not the popular faith of the day. 

The principal poets of this period are Mille- 
voye, Delavigne, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Bé- 
ranger, Barbier, De Musset, De Vigny, Madame 
Tastu, and Madame Desbordes-Valmore. 


For a further history of French poetry, see 
the following works. ‘Histoire Littéraire de 
la Fragce,’’ 17 vols., Paris, 1733-1832; a 
very learned and elaborate work, commenced 
by monks of St. Maur, and continued by mem- 
bers of the Institute. It brings the bistory of 
French literature down to the thirteenth centu- 
ry. —‘ Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsam- 
keit,”’ von Friedrich Bouterwek, Vols. V. and 
VL., Géttingen, 1806, 8vo. — “ Cours de Litté- 
rature Francaise,” par A. F. Villemain, 6 vols., 
Paris, 1840, Svo. —“ Lycée, ou Cours de Lit- 
térature Ancienne et Moderne,” par J. F. de La 
Harpe, 17 vols., Paris, An VII., 8vo. — ‘¢ Frag- 
mens du Cours de Littérature,’’ Paris, 1808 ; 
and “Tableau Historique de I’Etat et des Pro- 
grés de la Littérature Frangaise depuis 1789” ; 
par M. J, de Chénier. 


This is the age of | 


: 11 2 


FIRST PERIOD.—CENTURIES XII., XIII. 


JONGLEURS, TROUVERES, AND TROUBADOURS. 


—_—_— 


I.— CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 


DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN. Slow beats his heart,—his panting bosom 
heaves, — 

Death comes apace, —no hope of cure relieves. 

Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and 
prayed 

That God, who for our sins was mortal made, — 

Born of the Virgin, — scorned and crucified, — 

In paradise would place him by his side. 


FROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND. 


Tue archbishop, whom God loved in high de- 
gree, 

Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free ; 

And then his cheek more ghastly grew and 
wan, 

And a faint shudder through his members ran. 

Upon the battle-field his knee was bent ; 

Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went, 

Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, 

And tore the shining haubert from his breast ; 

Then raising in his arms the man of God, 

Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. 

ut “ Rest, Sire,” he cried, —“ for rest thy suffering ROMAN DU ROU. 

eats needs.” 

: The priest replied, ‘ Think but of warlike deeds! 
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife ! 
But death steals on, —there is no hope of life ; 
In paradise, where the almoners live again, 
ite There are our couches spread, — there shall we 
3 st | rest from pain.”’ 

Sore Roland grieved ; nor marvel I, alas ! 
That thrice he swooned upon the thick green 


Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, 

In battle great and eke great orison ; 

’Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ; — 
God grant to him his holy benison ! 


—_¢—— 


Rosert Wacz, the author of this romance, 
was one of the most distinguished Trouvéres 
of the twelfth century. He was born in,the 
island of Jersey ; the date of his birth and death 
are uncertain. For a long time he resided 
in the city*of Caen, where he devoted him- 
self to the composition of romances, of which 
he wrote many, as he himself declares : — 


grass. 
5 . . . . éc a] 1 ? - H 

When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, 3, Romanz, faire m ei. 

“O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie ! Mult en escris et mult en fis. 

Why lingers death to lay me in my grave? Only two of them have reached our day. The 


Beloved France! how have the good and brave | first of these is ‘Le Brut d’Angleterre,”’ so 
- Been torn from thee and left thee weak and | called from Brutus, son of Ascanius, and grand- 


poor!” son of Aineas, and first king of the Britons. It 

Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er | gives the history of the kings of Great Britain, 

His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, from the sack of Troy to the end of the seventh 

*‘ My gentle friend !— what parting full of woe! century. Geoffrey of Monmouth translated it 

. Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ;— from the original Armorican, or British, into 

Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee! Latin prose, and Wace turned it into French 

Christ, who did save from realms of woe be- | verse. Robert de Brune translated part of it 

neath into English in the fourteenth century; and a 
Wa The Hebrew prophets from the second death.” | new prose translation has lately appeared in 
. Then to the paladins, whom well he knew, England. The work is in great part fabulous ; 
He went, and one by one unaided drew and is a romance, rather than a history. It de- 

To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore ;— | scribes the Round Table, and the sports and 


B. : heart had he to smile, — but, weeping sore, | tourneys of King Arthur’s court; and may be 

He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that regarded as the fountain-head of the romances 

Be a: he of the Round Table. It had immense populari- 
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. | ty in its day. 

The “ Roman du Rou,” so called from Rollo, 


: | The archbishop, then, — on whom God’s beni- | is a poetic chronicle of the dukes of Normandy. 
Hie (i son rest ! — , y It is in two parts; the first written in Alexan- 
he Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast ; — | drines ;‘the second, in octo-syllabic verse. 
1.5 Oana His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, . A few other poems by Wace have been pre- 
4 ae many a wound his swollen visage .bore. served, but these are the most important. 
al) 
‘| 


| 
| 
| 
| 
| 


oem 
FE a a a Tay 


CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 


DUKE WILLIAM AT ROUEN. 


FROM THE ROMAN DU ROU. 


Turn Duke William was right sorrowful, and 
strength and power had none, 

For he thought that in the battel he should 
well-nigh stand alone ; 

He knew not who would fight for him, or who 
would prove a foe: : 

«© Why should we linger here?” quoth he, — 
“¢T into France will go.” 

Then said Boten, —“ Duke William, thou hast 
spoke a coward’s word ; — 

What! fly away at once, ere thou hast wielded 
lance or sword? 

Think’st thou I e’er will see thee fly? 
talk’st quite childishly. 

Summon thy men, prepare for fight, and have 
good heart in thee ; 

Perjured thy foemen are, and they shall surely 
vanquished be.” 

“‘ Boten,” said William, ‘how can I prepare 
me for the fight ? ' 

Rioulf can bring four well armed men for every 
single wight 

I can command ;—I sure shall die, if I against 
him go.” 

“That thou ’rt a coward,” said Boten, ‘Saint 
Fiacre well doth know ; 
But, by the faith which firm I hold to the Son 
of God, I say, 
Whoe’er should do as 
beating in the fray ; 

For thou wilt neither arm nor fight, but only 
run away.” 

“Mercie!” cried William, ‘‘see ye not how 
Rioulf me sieges here ? 

And my perjured knights are all with him; 
must it not cost me dear? 

And they all hate me unto death, and round 
encompass me ; 

I never can, by my soul I swear, drive them 
from this countrie ; 

I must forsake it, and to Francé right speedily 
I'll flee.” 

Then spake Bernart, — “ Duke, know this well, 
we will not follow thee. 

Too much of ill these men have wrought, but 
a day will surely come 

For payment, and we ’ll pay them well. When 
erst we left our home 

In Denmark, and to this land came, we gained 
it by our might ; 

But thou to arm thee art afraid, and dar’st not 
wage the fight. 

Go, then, to France, enjoy thyself, a wretched 
caitiff wight ; 

No love of honest praise hast thou, no prayer 
will e’er avail thee. 

O wicked one! why shouldst thou fear that 
God will ever fail thee ? 


Thou 


thou deserves sound 


Rollo, like bold and hardy chief, this land by 


his good sword won ; 
And thou wouldst do even as he did, wert thou 
indeed his son !”’ 


A415 


“‘ Bernart,”’ said William, “‘ well, methinks, thou 
hast reviled me, 

Offence enow to me hast given, enow of vil- 
lainye ; 

But thou shalt see me bear myself even as a 
man right wode ; 

Whoe’er will come and fight with me shall see 
my will is good. 

Boten, good friend,” said he, “‘ Bernart, now list 
to me, I pray; 


No longer hold me evil one, nor coward, from — 


this day ; 

Call my men unto the battle-field; I pledge my 
word, and know, 

That, henceforth, for the strife of swords ye 
shall not find me slow.” 


Then all did rush to arms, and all with equal 


spirit came ; 

And, fully armed, thrice haughtily defiance did 
proclaim 

To Rioulf and his vassals, who the challenge 
heard with glee, 

And flung it back to William, who returned it 
joyfully. 

Full harnessed was he now, and toward his 
foemen blithe he ran; 

‘¢ God be our aid!”’ he shouted, and rushed on 
like a giant man. 

Ye never saw such heavy blows as Duke Wil- 
liam gave that day; 

For when the sword was in his grasp, scant 
need of Jeech had they 

Who felt its edge; and vain were lance and 
brand ’gainst him, I trow ; 

For when Duke William struck them down, 
joy had they never moe. 

’'T was blithe to see how he bore himself, like 
a wild bull, ’mid the fight, 

And drove his foemen left and right, all flying 
with sore affright ; 

For truly he did pay them off, and with a right 
good will. 


Now when Rioulf saw his vassals there, lying 
all cold and still 

Upon the field, while William’s men boldly 
maintained their ground, 

He seized his good steed’s bridle-rein, and 
madly turned him round, 

And stayed not to prick and spur, till near a 
wood he drew ; 

Then, fearing that Duke William’s men did 
even yet pursue, 

His hauberk, lance, and trusty sword away he 
gladly threw, 

That more swiftly he might speed along; — but 
though he was not caught, 

Scarce better fate that gallant fight unto bold 
Rioulf brought ; 

For there he’ died, heart-broke, I ween, with 
shame and mickle woe, 

And his corpse was after in the Seine (do not 
all that story know ?) 


er 


oe Sa Se Pe SS 


416 


Found floating on the rising tide. So the vic- 


tory was won, 
And far and wide was the story spread of the 
deeds the duke had done.’’ 


— 


RICHARD’S ESCAPE. 


FROM THE SAME, 


‘AnD now, fair Sir,” said Osmont, «I pray you, 
j 


sickness feign, 

And keep your bed, nor eat, nor drink ; but, 
as in bitter pain, 

Groan loudly, sigh, and moan, and then at last, 
as near your end, 

Pray that a priest, to housel ye, the king at least 
may send ; 

And bear ye warily in all, for I do trust that ye, 

By God’s aid, even yet shall "scape from this 
captivity.” 

“This will I do,” said Richard, ‘even as ye 
counsel me.”’ 


And well did Richard act the part that Os- 
mont taught ; . 

He kept his bed, nor ate, nor drank, and thus 
so low was brought, 

That his flesh was soft and sallow, his visage 
deadly pale ; 

For so well acted he his part, that all thought 
his life must fail. 

But when King Louis heard of it, his woe was 
scant, I trow ; 

For he thought Duke Richard’s heritage to his 
eldest son would go. 

Then Osmont made loud sorrow, and mourned 
and wept full sore: ; 

*‘ Alas, Sire Richard! one so mild and courte- 
ous never more 

Shall we behold !— Ay, ’t was alone for thy 
goodly heritage 

That Louis snatched thee from thy friends, and 
at such tender age 

A captive deemed thee, — O, his hate but from 
thy lands arose ! 

Alas! that our rich Normandie should make so 
many foes ! — 

O, what will Bernart say, who watched thy 
tender infancy, 

That thou here shouldst die, not in the town 
of thy nativity ? — 

O God! look down, for only thou our failing 
hope can raise! 

Thou know’st how well beloved he was, how 
worthy of all praise 

And honor too; O, there was none ever belov- 
ed as he!” 

Now when the warders heard Osmont mourn- 
ing so bitterly, 

They doubted not but Richard then upon his 
death-bed lay ; 

And others thought so too, and each did to the 
other say 

That Richard’s spirit certainly was passing swift 
away. 


FRENCH PO 


er eee pr ee nee ma ony le 


ETRY. 


Now it came to pass that night the king at 
supper sat, 

And they who guarded Richard most carelessly 
of late 

Kept watch and ward, for well they thought he 
was so weak and low, 

That, save unto his burial, abroad he ne’er 
would go; 

For how could he live long who never spoke, 
or tasted food ? 

And wherefore else should Osmont weep and 
be so sad of mood ? 

Then when good Osmont saw the watch right 
from the door depart, 

His steeds he caused ydight to be, in readiness 
to start ; 

Then he hastened to Duke Richard’s bed, and 
bade him swift uprise ; 

Then in a truss of rushes green hides him from 
prying eyes, 

And binds and cords the bundle well; 
menye mount and ride; 

In a churchman’s gown he wraps himself, nor 
heeds what may betide, 

So Richard ’s safe ; then, last of all, he follows 
his menye ; — 

The night was dark, and that was well, for no 
need of light had he. j 

Soon as outside the walls they came, Duke 
Richard they unbound, 

And brought to him as gallant steed as ever 
stepped on ground ; 

Right glad was he to mount, I ween, right glad 
were they also, 

And off they set, and spurred well, for they 
had far to go. 


bids his 


O, when Duke Richard seized the rein, a joy- * 


ful one was he! 
But, whether he rode fast or no, ye need not 
ask of me. 


ee 


THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD. 


In days of yore, at least a century since, 

There lived a carle as wealthy as a prince: 

His name I wot not; but his wide domain 

Was rich with stream and forest, mead and plain; 

To crown the whole, one manor he possessed 

In choice delight so passing all the rest, 

No castle burgh or city might compare 

With the quaint beauties of that mansion rare. 

The sooth to say, I fear my words may seem 

Like some strange fabling, or fantastic dream, 

If, unadvised, the portraiture I trace, 

And each brave pleasure of that peerless place ; 

Foreknow ye, then, by necromantic might 

Was raised this paradise of all delight. 

A good knight owned it first; he, bowed with 
age, 

Died, and his son possessed the heritage ; 

But the lewd stripling, all to riot bent, — 

His chattels quickly wasted and forespent, — 


a a 


CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, 


| Was driven to see this patrimony sold 
To the base carle of whom I lately told: 
Ye wot right well there only needs be sought 
One spendthrift heir, to bring great wealth to 
naught. 
A lofty tower and strong, the building stood 
’Midst a vast plain surrounded by a flood ; 
And hence one pebble-paved channel strayed, 
That compassed in a clustering orchard’s shade : 
"'T was achoice, charming plat; abundant round, 
Flowers, roses, odorous spices clothed the 
ground ; 
Unnumbered kinds; and all profusely showered 
Stich aromatic balsam, as they flowered, 
| Their fragrance might have stayed man’s part-' 
ing breath, 
And chased the hovering agony of death. 
The sward one level held; and close above, 
Tall, shapely trees their leafy mantles wove, 
All equal growth, and low their branches came, 
Thickset with goodliest fruits of every name. 
In midst, te cheer the ravished gazer’s view, 
A gushing fount its waters upward threw, 
Thence slowly on with erystal current passed, 
And crept into the distant flood at last ; 
But nigh its source a pine’s umbrageous head 
Stretched far and wide, in deathless verdure 
spread, 
Met with broad shade the summer’s sultry gleam, 
And through the livelong year shut out the beam. 
Such was the scene ; — yet still the place was 
blessed 
With one rare pleasure passing all the rest: 
A wondrous bird, of energies divine, 
Had fixed his dwelling in the tufted pine; 
There still he sat, and there with amorous lay 
‘Waked the dim morn and closed the parting 
day : 
Matched with these strains of linked sweetness 
wrought, 
'| The violin and full-toned harp were naught; 
| Of power they were with new-born joy to move 
The cheerless heart of long-desponding love ; 
Of power so strange, that, should they cease to 
sound, 
And the blithe songster flee the mystic ground, 
That goodly orchard’s scene, the pine-tree’s 
shade, 
Trees, flowers, and fount, would all like vapor 
fade. 
«« Listen, listen to my lay!” 
Thus the merry notes did chime, 
“ All who mighty love obey, 
Sadly wasting in your prime, 
Clerk and laic, grave and gay! 
Yet do ye, before the rest, 
Gentle maidens, mark me tell! 
| Store my lesson in your breast : 
| Trust me, it shall profit well: 
Hear and heed me, and be blessed 
So sang the bird of old; but when he spied 
The carle draw near, with altered tone he 
cried, — 
“¢ Back, river, to thy source ! and thee, tall tower, 


sf ; ! 
Thee, castle strong, may gaping earth devour ! 
% core) 


i? 


LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 


417 


Bend down your heads, ye gaudy flowers, and 
fade ! 
And withered be each fruit-tree’s mantling 
shade ! 
Beneath these beauteous branches once were 
seen 
Brave gentle knights disporting on the green, 
And lovely dames ; and oft these flowers among 
Stayed the blithe bands, and joyed to hear my 
song ; 
Nor would they hence retire, nor quit the grove, 
Till many a vow were passed of mutual love : 
These more would cherish, those would more 
deserve 
Cost, courtesy, and arms, and nothing swerve. 
O, bitter change ! for master now we see 
A faitour villain carle of low degree ; 
Foul gluttony employs his livelong day, 
Nor heeds nor hears he my melodious lay.” 
So spake the bird ; and, as he ceased to sing, 
Indignantly he clapped his downy wing, 
And straight was gone;— but no abasement 
stirred 
In the clown’s breast at his reproachful word : 
Bent was his wit alone by quaint device 
To snare, and sell him for a passing price. 
So well he wrought, so craftily he spread 
In the thick foliage green his slender thread, 
That, when at eve the little songster sought 
His wonted spray, his heedless foot was caught. 
“¢ How have I harmed you?’’ straight he ‘gan 
to cry, 
«¢ And wherefore would you do me thus to die?” 
“Nay, fear not,” quoth the clown, ‘for death 
or wrong ; 
I only seek to profit by thy song ; 
I'll get thee a fine cage, nor shalt thou lack 
Good store of kernels and of seeds to crack ; — 
But sing thou shalt; for if thou play’st the 
mute, 
I ’ll spit thee, bird, and pick thy bones to boot.” 
“© Ah, woe is mé!”’ the little thrall replied, 
«© Who thinks of song, in prison doomed to bide ? 
And, were I cooked, my bulk might scarce af- 
ford 
One scanty mouthful to my hungry lord.” 
What may I more relate? The captive wight 
Assayed to melt the villain all he might; 
And fairly promised, were he once set free, 
In gratitude to teach him secrets three : 
Three secrets, all so marvellous and rare, 
His race knew naught that might with these 
compare, 
The carle pricked up his ears amain; he 
loosed 
The songster thrall, by love of gain seduced. 
Up to the summit of the pine-tree’s shade 
Sped the blithe bird, and there at ease he stayed, 
And tricked his plumes full leisurely, I trow, 
Till the carle claimed his promise from below. 
“Right gladly,” quoth the bird; “‘now grow 
thee wise: 
All human prudence few brief lines comprise : 
First, then, lest haply in the event it fail, 
Vield not a ready faith to every tale.” 


‘eee : — 


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“Ts this thy secret?’’ qucxh the moody elf, — 

“Keep, then, thy silly lesson for thyself; 

I need it not.’”’ * Howbe, ’t is not amiss 

To prick thy memory with advice like this; 

But late, meseems, thou hadst forgot the lore ; 

Now may’st thou hold it fast for evermore. 

Mark next my second rule, and sadly know, 

What’s lost, ’t is wise with patience to forego.”’ 

The carle, though rude of wit, now chafed 

amain ; 

He felt the mockery of the songster’s strain. 

‘« Peace,’ quoth the bird ; “‘ my third is far the 
best ; 

Store thou the precious treasure in thy breast : 

What good thou hast, ne’er lightly from thee cast.” 

He spoke, and twittering fled away full fast. 

Straight, sunk in earth, the gushing fountain 
dries ; 

Down fall the fruits; the withered pine-tree dies; 

Fades all the beauteous plat, so cool, so green, 

Into thin air, and never more is seen. 

Such was the meed of avarice : — bitter cost ! 
The carle, who all would gather, all has lost. 


—-o—_— 


PARADISE. 


FROM LE VOYAGE DE SAINT BRANDAN, 


Issurne from the darkness, see, 
With joyful hearts, right gratefully, 
Beyond the cloud that bright wall rise, 
That round engirdleth paradise. 
A lofty wall was it, and high, 
Reaching as though ’t would pierce the sky,— 
All battlemented, — but no tower, 
Breastwork, nor palisade, — for power 
Of foe was never dreaded there. 
And snowy white beyond compare 
Its hue; and gems most dazzling to sight, 
In inlay work, that wall bedight; 
For it was set with chrysolite, 
And many a rich gem flashing light ; 
Topaz and emerald fair to see, 
Carbuncle and chalcedony, 
And chrysoprase, sardonyx fair, 
Jasper and amethyst most rare, 
Gorgeously shining, jacinth too, 
Crystal and beryl, clear to view, — 
Each to the other giving brightness. 

Right toward the port their course they hold ; 
But other dangers, all untold, 
Were there ; before the gate keep guard 
Dragons of flaming fire, dread ward ! 
Right at the entrance hung a brand 
Unsheathed, turning on either hand 
With innate wisdom ; they might well 
Bear it, for ’t was invincible, — 
And iron, stone, ay, adamant, 
Against its edge had strength full scant. 
But, lo! a fair youth came to meet them, 
And with meek courtesy did greet them, 
For he was sent by Heaven’s command 
To give them entrance to that land; 


FRENCH POETRY. 
Nn ne ae ee ROE 


«7 


So sweetly he his message gave, 
And kissed each one, and bade the glaive 
Retain its place ; the dragons, too, 
He checked, and led them safely through, 
And bade them rest, now they had come 
At last unto that heavenly home; 
For they had now, all dangers past, 
To certain glory come at last. 

And now that fair youth leads them on, 
Where paradise in beauty shone ; 
And there they saw the land all full 
Of woods and rivers beautiful, 
And meadows large besprent with flowers, 
And scented shrubs in fadeless bowers, # 
And trees with blossoms fair to see, 
And fruit also deliciously 
Hung from the boughs ; nor brier, nor thorn, 
Thistle, nor blighted tree forlorn 
With blackened leaf, was there, — for spring 
Held aye a year-long blossoming ; 
And never shed their leaf the trees, 
Nor failed their fruit; and still the breeze 
Blew soft, scent-laden from the fields. 
Full were the woods of venison ; 
The rivers of good fish each one, 
And others flowed with milky tide, — 
No marvel all things fructified. 
The earth gave honey, oozing through 
Its pores, in sweet drops like the dew; 
And in the mount was golden ore, 
And gems, and treasure wondrous store. 
There the clear sun knew no declining, 
Nor fog nor mist obscured his shining ; 
No cloud across that sky did stray, 
Taking the sun’s sweet light away ; 
Nor cutting blast, nor blighting air, — 
For bitter winds blew never there ; 
Nor heat, nor frost, nor pain, nor grief, 
Nor hunger, thirst, — for swift relief 
From every ill was there ; plentie 
Of every good, right easily, 
Rach had according to his will, 
And aye they wandered blithely still 
In large and pleasant pastures green, 
O, such as earth hath never seen ! 
And glad was Brandan, for their pleasure 
So wondrous was, that scant in measure 
Their past toils seemed; nor could they rest, 
But wandered aye in joyful quest 
Of somewhat fairer, and did go 
Hither and thither, to and fro, 
For very joyfulness. And now 
They climb a mountain’s lofty brow, 
And see afar a vision rare 
Of angels, —I may not declare 
What there they saw, for words could ne’er |! 
The meaning tell; and melodie 
Of that same heavenly company, 
For joy that they beheld them there, 
They heard, but could not bear its sweetness, 
Unless their natures greater meetness 
To that celestial place had borne, — 
But they were crushed with joy. “Return,” 
Said they, — “* we may not this sustain.”’ 
Then spoke the youth in gentle strain ; 


Sa LS STS AAT a SO TEN ED LNT EE 


13 


a = = 
CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 419 
a ps 
*“O Brandan, God unto thine eyes Nor shie!d of bark, nor steel, nor lanee, : 
Hath granted sight of paradise ; Aught may ward the dire mischance. 
But know, it glories hath more bright When he slumbers, when he sleeps, | 
Than e’er have dazed thy mortal sight ; Still‘on head his helm he keeps ; 
One hundred thousand times more fair Other pillow fits not him, 
Are these abodes; but thou couldst ne’er Stern of heart and stout of limb. 
The view sustain, nor the ecstasy Broken swords, and spears that fail, | 
Its meanest joys would yield to thee : And the shattered hauberk’s mail, | 
For thou hast in the body come ; These compose the warrior’s treat - 
But, when the Lord shall call thee home, Of poignant sauce or comfits sweet ; 
Thou, fitted then, a spirit free And dust he quaffs in fields of death, | 
From weakness and mortality, And quaffs the panting courser’s breath. 
Shalt aye remain, no fleeting guest, When the lusty chase he tries, 
But taking here thine endless rest. On foot o’er hill and dale he hies ; 
And while thou still remain’st below, Lion, rutiing hart, or bear, 
That Heaven’s high favor all may know, He joys to seek and slaughter there. 
| Take hence these stones, to teach all eyes Wealth to all throughout the land 
| That thou hast been in paradise.” Wide he deals with lavish hand. 
Then Brandan worshipped God, and took 
Of paradise a farewell look, | 
: The fair youth led them to the gate; 
They entered in the ship, and straight Site A 
The signal ’s made, the wind flows free, THE PRIEST WHO ATE MULBERRIES, | 
The sails are spread, and o’er the sea 
| They bound; but swift and blithe, I trow, Yr lordings all, come lend an ear ; ‘ 
| Their homeward course ; for where was foe, It boots ye naught to chafe or fleer, | 
| Of earth or hell, ’gainst them to rise, As overgrown with pride : 
| Who were returned from paradise ? Ye needs must hear Dan Guerin tell | 
| What once a certain priest befell, | 
H een To market bent to ride. 
| 
THE GENTLE BACHELOR. The morn began to shine so bright, 
| When up this priest did leap full light 
| Wuar gentle bachelor is he, And called his folk around : 
Sword-begot in fighting-field, He bade them straight bring out his mare, 
I Rocked and cradled in a shield, For he would presently repair 
Whose infant food a helm did yield? Unto the market-ground. 
| On lion’s flesh he makes his feast ; 
| Thunder lulls him to his rest ; So bent he was on timely speed, 
i His dragon-front doth all defy, So pressing seemed his worldly need, 
His lion-heart, and libbard-eye, He weened ’t were little wrong 
| His teeth that like boar’s tushes are, If pater-nosters he delayed, 
| His tiger-fierceness, drunk with war. And cast for once they should be said 
Ponderous as a mace, his fist E’en as he rode along. 
| Down descends where’er it list, — 
| Down, with bolt of thunder’s force, And now with tower and turret near 
1 Bears to earth both knight and horse. Behold the city’s walls appear, 
: Keener far than falcon’s sight, When, as he turned. aside, 
| His eye pervades the clouds of fight ; He chanced in evil hour to see 
And at tourneys ’t is his play All hard at hand a mulberry-tree 
To change the fortune of the day, That spread both far and wide. 
Wielding well his helpful arm, , 
Void of fear, as naught might harm. Its berries shone so glossy black, 
O’er the seas to English ground, The priest his lips began to smack, 
Be some rare adventure found, Full fain to pluck the fruit ; 
Or to Jura’s mount, he hies; But, woe the while! the trunk was tall, 
These are his festivities. And many a brier and thorn did crawl 
In the fields of battle joined, Around that mulberry’s root. 
Like to straws before the wind, 
All his foes avoid his hand ; The man, howbe, might not forbear, 
None that deadly brunt may stand. But reckless all he pricked his mare 
Him in joust may no man see In thickest of the brake ; 
But still with foot from stirrup free, Then climbed his saddle-bow amain, 
Knight and courser casting down And tiptoe ’gan to stretch and strain 
Oft with mortal dint o’erthrown ; Some nether bough to take. 


[ ere re 


A nether bough he raught at last ; 

He with his right hand held it fast, 
And with his left him fed : 

His sturdy mare abode the'sheck, 

And bore, as steadfast as a rock, 
The struggling overhead. 


So feasted long the merry priest, 
Nor much bethought him of his beast 
Till hunger’s rage was ended ; 
Then, ‘Sooth!” quoth he, ‘“ whoe’er should 
cry, 
‘What ho, fair sir!’ in passing by, 
Would leave me here suspended.” 


Alack! for dread of being hanged, 
With voice so piercing shrill he twanged 
The word of luckless sound, 
His beast sprang forward at the cry, 
And plumb the priest dropped down from 
high 
Into the brake profound. 


There, pricked and pierced with many a 
thorn, 
And girt with brier, and all forlorn, 
Naught boots him to complain : 
Well may ye ween how ill bested 
He rolled him on that restless bed, 
But rolled and roared in vain: 


For there algates he must abide 
The glowing noon, the eventide, 
The livelong night and all ; 
The whiles with saddle swinging round 
And bridle trailing on the ground, 
His mare bespoke his fall. 


? 


O, then his household shrieked for dread, 
And weened at least he must be dead ; 
His lady leman swooned : 
Eftsoons they hie them all to look 
If haply in some dell or nook 
His body might be found. 


Through all the day they sped their quest ; 
The night fled on, they took no rest; 
Returns the morning hour : 
When, lo! at peeping of the dawn, 
It chanced a varlet boy was drawn 
Nigh to the mulberry-bower. 


The woful priest the help descried : 
**O, save my life! my life!’ he cried, 
*¢ Knthralled in den profound ! 
O, pluck me out, for pity’s sake, 
From this inextricable brake, 
Begirt with brambles round !”’ 


“ Alas, my lord! my master dear ! 

What ugly chance hath dropped thee here? ”’ 
Exclaimed the varlet youth. 

‘T'was gluttony,” the priest replied, 

“‘ With peerless folly by her side : 
But help me straight, for ruth !”’ 


FRENCH POETRY. 
De NAN ae 


By this were come the remnant rout; 
With passing toil they plucked him out, 
And slowly homeward led; 
But, all so tattered in his hide, 
Long is he fain in bed to bide, 
But little less than dead. . 


a ees 


THE LAND OF COKAIGNE. 


We tt I wot ’t is often told, 
Wisdom dwells but with the old; 
Yet do I, of greener age, 
Boast and bear the name of sage: 
Briefly, sense was ne’er conferred 
By the measure of the beard. 

List, — for now my tale begins, — 
How, to rid me of my sins, 
Once I journeyed far from home 
To the gate of holy Rome : 
There the Pope, for my offence, 
Bade me straight, in penance, thence 
Wandering onward, to attain 
The wondrous land that hight Cokaigne. 
Sooth to say, it was a place 
Blessed with Heaven’s especial grace ; 
For every road and every street 
Smoked with food for man to eat : 
Pilgrims there might halt at will, 
There might sit and feast their fill, 
In goodly bowers that lined the way, 
Free for all, and naught to pay. 
Through that blissful realm divine 
Rolled a sparkling flood of wine ; 
Clear the sky, and soft the air, 
For eternal spring was there ; 
And all around, the groves among, 
Countless dance and ceaseless song. 


But the chiefest, choicest treasure, 
In that land of peerless pleasure, 
Was a well, to saine the sooth, 
Cleped the living well of youth. 
There, had numb and feeble age 
Crossed you in your pilgrimage, 
In those wondrous waters pure 
Laved awhile you found a cure ; 
Lustihead and youth appears 
Numbering now but twenty years. 
Woe is me, who rue the hour! 
Once I owned both will and power 
To have gained this precious gift ; 
But, alas! of little thrift, 

From a kind, o’erflowing heart, 
To my fellows to impart 

Youth, and joy, and all the lot 

Of this rare, enchanted spot, 
Forth I fared, and now in vain 
Seek to find the place again. 

Sore regret I now endure, — 

Sore regret beyond a cure. 

List, and learn from what is passed, 
Having bliss, to hold it fast. 


THE LAY OF BISCLAVERET. 


Marie pre France, the author of this and 
|| thirteen other lays, was one of the most popu- 
lar writers of the thirteenth century. She has 
been called the Sappho of her age. Of her his- 
tory nothing is known, save that she was born 
in France, and passed the greater part of her 
life in England. 


— 


WueEn lays resound, ’t would ill beseem 
Bisclaveret were not a theme: 

Such is the name by Bretons sung, 

And Garwal! in the Norman tongue ; — 
A man of whom our poets tell, — 

To many men the lot befell ! — 

Who in the forest’s secret gloom 

A wolf was destined to become. 


This savage monster in his mood 

Roams through the wood in search of blood, 
Nor man nor beast his rage will spare, 
When wandering near his hideous lair. 

Of such an one shall be my lay, — 

A legend of Bisclaveret. 


In Brittany a knight was known, 

Whose virtues were a wonder grown: 

His form was goodly, and his mind 

With truth endued, with sense refined : 
Valiant, and to his lord sincere, 

And by his neighbours held most dear. 
His lady was of fairest face, 

And seemed all goodness, truth, and grace. 
They lived in mutual love and joy, 

Nor could one thought their peace annoy, 
Save that, three days each week, the knight 
Was absent from his lady’s sight, 

| Nor knew she where he made repair ; 

| In vain all questions and all care. 


g, as they sat reclined, 
And rest and music soothed his mind, 
With winning smiles and arts she strove 
| To gain the secret from his love. 
| ‘©Ah! is‘it well,’? she softly sighed, 
| “ Aught from this tender heart to hide? 
Fain would I urge, but cannot bear 
That thy dear brow a frown should wear, 
Else would I crave so small a boon: 
*T is idly asked, and granted soon.” 
The gentle knight that lady pressed, 
And drew her closer to his breast : 
«¢ What is there, fairest love,”’ he cried, 
“© T ever to thy wish denied ? 
What may it be I vainly muse 
That thou couldst ask, and I refuse ?”’ 


: 
: 
| One evening 


1 Garwal isa corruption of the Teutonic Wer-wolf or 
English Were-rolf, the same as the Avxavipwaros of the 
Greeks, Man-wolf, Lowp-garou, aman who has the power 
of transforming himself into a wolf.. It does not appear 
that this word, Garzra/, has continued in Normandy to our 
time; neither is that of Bisclaveret found among Bretons, 
who still say Denbleis (Man-wolf). 


: 
i 
; 
: 
| 
| 


CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 421 


‘¢ Gramercy,” said the artful dame, 

“¢ My kindest lord, the boon I claim. 

O, in those days, to sorrow known, 

When left by thee in tears alone, 

What fears, what torments wound my heart, 
Musing in vain why thus we part! 

If I should lose thee! if no more 

The evening should thy form restore !— 
O, ’t is too much! I cannot bear 

The pangs of such continued care ! 

Tell me, where go’st thou ? — who is she 
Who keeps my own dear lord from me? 
For ’t is too plain, thou lov’st me not, 
And in her arms I am forgot !”’ 

‘“¢ Lady,” he said, “*by Heaven above 

No deed of mine has wronged thy love 
But, were the fatal secret thine, 
Destruction, death, perchance were mine.” 


Then pearly tears that lady shed, 

And sorrow bowed her lovely head ; 
And every grace, and art, and wile, 
Each fond caress, each gentle smile, 

She lavished on her lord, who strove 

In vain against her seeming love, 

Till all the secret was revealed, 

And not the slightest thought concealed : 
“ Know, then, a truth which shuns the day, 
I am a foul Bisclaveret ! 

Close sheltered in my wild retreat, 

My loathsome food I daily eat, 

And, deep within yon hated a 

[ ee on rapine and on blood !” 


Faint grew that pale and lovely dame, 

A shudder crept o’er all her frame ; 

But yet she urged her questions still, 
Mindless but af her eager will, 

To know if, ere the change was made, 
Clothed or unclad he sought the shade. 

‘¢ Unclad, in savage guise [ range, 

Till to my walker shape I change. 

“¢ Where are thy vestments then concealed?’ 
“That, lady, may not be revealed, — 
For, should I lose them, or some eye 
Where they are hid presume to pry, 
Bisclaveret I should remain, 

Nor ever gaze on thee again, 

Till he who caused the fatal harm 
Restored them and dissolved the charm.”’ 
‘6 Alas!”’ she said, ‘my lord, my life, 
Am I not thine, thy soul, thy wife? 
Thou canst not doubt me, yet I feel 

I die if thou the truth conceal. 

Ah ! is thy confidence so small, 

That thou shouldst pause, nor tell me all?” 
Long, long she strove, and he denied ; 
Entreaties, prayers, and tears were tried, 
Till, vanquished, wearied, and distressed, 
He thus the fatal truth confessed : 

“¢ Deep in the forest’s awful shade 

Has chance a frightful cavern made ; 

A ruined chapel moulders near, 

Where oft is shed my secret tear : 

oi 


? 


" 


“ 


a erat a: 


Ae SS MR Oe 


There, close beside a hollow stone, 
With rank and bushy weeds o’ergrown, 
My garments lie, till I repair, 

My trial past, to seek them there.’ 


The lady heard the wondrous tale, 

Her cheek now flushed, now deadly pale ; 
And many a day and fearful night, 
Pondered with horror and affright. 

Fain would she the adventure try, 

Whose thought drove slumber from her eye. 
She dared not seek the wood alone, — 

To whom, then, could she make it known ? 


A knight there was, whose passion long 
Had sought the hapless lord to wrong ; 
But coldly from his vows she turned, 
And all his feigning ardor spurned. 

Yet now, a prey to evil’s power, 

She sought him, in a luckless hour, 
And swore a deadly oath of love, 

So he would the adventure prove : 

The wood’s recess, the cave, the stone, 
All to his willing ear made known ; 
And bade him seize the robes with speed, 
And she shculd be the victor’s meed. 


Thus man, by too much trust betrayed, 
Too often is a victim made! 


Great search was made the country round, 
But trace was none, nor tidings found ; 

All deemed the gallant knight was dead, — 
And his false dame again was wed. 


Scarce had the year attained an end, 
The king would to the greenwood wend, 
Where, ’midst the leafy covert lay 

The fierce and fell Bisclaveret. 

Soon as the hounds perceive the foe, 
Forward at once with yells they go; 
The hunters urge them on amain, 

And soon the Garwal had been slain, 
But, springing to the monarch’s knee, 
Seemed to implore his clemency : 

His stirrup held, embraced his feet, 

And urged his suit with gestures meet. 
The king, with wondering pity moved, 
His hunters called, his hounds reproved : 
‘¢’'T is strange,” he said; ‘“ this beast, indeed 
With human reason seems to plead. 
Who may this marvel clearly see ? — 
Call off the dogs, and set him free ; 
And, mark me, let no subject dare 

To touch his life which thus I spare. 
Let us away, nor more intrude 

On this strange creature’s solitude ; 

And from this time I ’Il come no more 
This forest’s secrets, to explore.” 

The king then rode in haste away ; 

But, following still, Bisclaveret 

Kept ever closely by his side ; 

Nor could the pitying monarch chide, 
But led him to his castle fair, 

Whose goodly towers rose high in air 


? 


FRENCH POETRY. 
Sc acaaRaLE NERA SRR er mere er RON 


There staid the Garwal, and apace 

Grew dearer in the monarch’s grace, 

And all his train he bade beware, 

To tend and to entreat him fair; 

Nor murmured they, — for, though unbound, 
He still was mild and gentle found. 

Couched at his master’s feet he lay, 

And with the barons loved to stay ; 
Whene’er the king abroad would wend, 
Still with him went his faithful friend : 
In hall or bower, at game or feast, 
So much he loved the gallant beast. 


It chanced the king proclaimed a court, 
Where all his barons made resort ; 

Not one would from the presence stay, 
But came in rich and bright array ; 
Among them, he who with his wife 
Had practised on the Garwal’s life. 

He, all unconscious, paced along 
Amidst that gay and gallant throng, 
Nor deemed his steps that fatal day 
Watched by the sad Bisclaveret. 

With sudden bound on him he flew, 
And towards him by his fangs he drew; 
Nor would have spared him, but the king, 
With angry words and menacing, 

Forbade the vengeance which had straight 
Dealt to the trembling wretch his fate. 
Much marvel all, and wondering own 

He ne’er before so fell was known : 

Why single out this knight from all ? 

Why on him thus so fiercely fall ? 

In much amaze each went his way, 

But pondered on it many a day. 


The king next eve the forest sought, 
Where first Bisclaveret was caught, 
There to forget the toils of state 
That on a monarch’s splendor wait. 
The guilty wife, with false intent | 
And artful wiles, to meet him went, 
Apparelled in her richest guise, | 
To draw on her admiring eyes: 
Rich presents brought she in her train, 
And sought an audience to gain. 
When she approached Bisclaveref, | 
No power his vengeance could allay : 
With hideous howl he darted forth 
Towards the fair object of his wrath, 
And soon her false but beauteous face 
Of deadly fury bore the trace : 
All rush to stanch the dreadful wound, 
And blows and shouts assail him round. 
\ ‘ 
Then spoke a learned and reverend sage, 
Renowned for wisdom, gray with age : 
“Sire, let the beast receive no wrong ; 
Has he not here been harboured long, 
And never, even in sport, been seen 
To show or cruelty or spleen ? 
This lady and her lord alone 
The fury of his ire have known. 
Twice has the lady been a, wife ; — 
How her first lord was refi of life, 


il 


For whom each baron sorrows still, 
Breeds in my mind some fear of ill. 
Question the wounded dame, and try 

If we may solve this mystery 5 

I know, by long experience taught, 

Are wondrous things in Bretagne wrought.” 
The king the sage advice approved, 
And bade the lady be removed, 

And captive held till she should tell 

All that her former lord befell : 

Her guilty spouse they seek with speed, 
And to a separate dungeon lead. 

'T was then, subdued by pain and fear, 
The fearful tale she bade them hear ; 
How she her lord sought to betray, 

And stole his vestments where they lay, 
So that for him the hope were vain 

To gain his human form again. 


Her deed of treachery displayed, 

All pause, with anxious thought dismayed ; 
Then each to each began to say, 

“Tt is the beast Bisclaveret !”’ 


Soon are the fatal vestments brought, — 
Straight is the hapless Garwal sought ; 

Close in his sight the robes they place, 

But, all unmoved, and slow his pace, 

He heeds not as he passes by, 

Nor casts around a curious eye. 

All marvel, save the sage alone, — 

The cause is to his prescience known : 

‘‘ Hope not,’ he said, ‘‘ by means so plain 
The transformation to obtain. 

Deep shame and grief the act attend, 

And secrecy its aid must lend ; 

And to no vulgar mortal eye 

'T is given to view this mystery. 

Close, then, each gate, — be silence round, — 
And let a hollow stone be found ; 

Choose ye a solitary room, — 

Shade each recess with deepest gloom ; 
Spread forth the robes, — let none intrude,— 
And leave the beast to solitude.” 


All that-the sage advised was done. 

And now the shades of night were gone, 
When towards the spot, with eager haste, 
The king and all his barons passed : 
There, when they oped the guarded door, 
They saw Bisclaveret no more, — 

But on a couch, in slumber deep, 

Beheld the uncharmed knight asleep! 


With shouts of joy the halls resound ; 

The news soon spreads the country round ; 
No more condemned to woe and shame, 
He wakes to life, to joy, and fame! 
Admired, caressed, ’midst hosts of friends, 
At once his lingering torment ends. 

His Jands restored, his foes o’erthrown, 
Their treacherous arts to all made known: 
The guilty pair condemned to fly 

To banishment and infamy. 


’'T ig said their lineage to all time 

Shall bear a mark that speaks their crime ; 
Deep wounds and scars their faces grave, 
Such as the furious Garwal gave. 

And well in Brittany is known 

The wondrous tale my lay has shown; 
Nor shall the record fade away, 

That tells us of Bisclaveret. 


—__4—— 


FROM THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE, 


Towarps the middle of the thirteenth centu- 
ry, flourished Guillaume de Lorris, whom Marot 
called the French Ennius. French literature 
owes to his genius the commencement of ** The 
Romaunt of the Rose,’ a poem remarkable for 
the brilliant fancy and easy versification it dis- 
plays, and still more remarkable as ‘standing 
preéminent above all others of its time. 

“The Romaunt of the Rose ”’ is an allegorical 
poem, in which sacred history is mingled with 
fable, and the morals of a licentious age are 


satirized with unsparing severity. The main 
subject is the art of love; or, as the author 


informs us, at the commencement of the work, 
‘Oe est li Rommanz de la Roze, 
Ou Vart d’amors est tote enclose..’ 

The death of Guillaume de Lorris is sup- 
posed to have taken place about the year 1261. 
Forty years after, “The Romaunt of the Rose ” 
was completed by Jean de Meun. To this 
man has been yielded the palm not only of 
being the greatest poet, but likewise of being 
one of the most learned men of his age. He 
died about the year 1320. Having been the 
scourge of the hypocrisy of the priests during 
his life, one of his last acts was a practical sat- 
ire upon their cupidity. In his will he be- 
queathed to’a convent of Dominican friars a 
large chest, which was not to be opened till 
after the death of the testator. Supposing, from 
its great weight, that it was full of valuable 
effects, they gave the poet an honorable burial 
in their convent. No sooner were- the funeral 
obsequies over, than they opened the strong- 
box with eager curiosity, and found it full, not 
of money and precious articles, but of large 
squares of slate, covered with inexplicable math- 
ematical figures and diagrams. 

The limits of this work render it impossible 
to give extracts from that part of “The Ro- 
maunt of the Rose” of which Meun was the 
author. Many portions of it are very beautiful ; 
particularly the description of the Loves of the 
Golden Age, when 

‘Les oyseaux en leur latin 
S’estudient chascun matin.” 


Wirury my twentie yeere of age, 
When that love taketh his courage 
Of younge folke, I wente soone 
To bed, as I was wont to doone : 


CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 423 | 


424 


And fast I slept: and in sleeping, 

Me mette such a swevening,} 

That liked me wondrous wele: 

But in that sweven is never a dele 2 

That it n’is® afterward befall, 

Right as this dreame woll tell us all. 
Now this dreame woll I rime aright, 

To make your heartes gay and light: 

For love it prayeth, and also 

Commaundeth me, that it be so. 
And if there any aske me, 

Whether that it be he or she, 

How this booke which is here 

Shall hatte, that I rede > you here: 

It is the Romaunt of the Rose, 

In which all the art of love I close. 
The matter faire is of to make: 

God graunt me in gree ® that she it take 

For whom that it begonnen7 is: 

And that is she that hath ywis ® 

So mokel prise,? and thereto she 

So worthie is beloved to be, 

That she wel ought, of prise and right, 

Be cleped Rose of everie wight. 

That it was May me thoughte tho, 

It is five yere or more ago, 

That it was May, thus dreamed me, 

In time of ‘love and jolitie, 

That all thing ginneth waxen gay : 

For there is neither buske !! nor hay 

In May, that it n’ill !2 shrouded bene, 

And it with newe leves wrene: 13 

These woodes eke recoveren grene, 

That drie in winter ben to sene, 

And the erth waxeth proud withall, 

For swote 14 dewes that on it fall, 

And the poore estate forget, 

In which that winter had it set: 

And than!® become the ground so proude 

That it wol have 2 newe shroude, 

And maketh so queint his robe and faire, 

That it had hewes an hundred paire, 

Of grasse and floures, of Inde and Pers, 

And many hewes full divers: 

That is the robe I mean ywis, 

Through which the ground to praisen is. 
The birdes, that han left hir +4 song, 
While they han suffred cold full strong, 
In wethers grille,'7 and derke to sight, 

Ben in May, for the sunne bright, 

So glad, that they shew, in singing, 
That in hir heart is such liking, 

That they mote singen and ben light : 
Than doth the nightingale her might 
To maken noyse and singen blithe; 
Than is blisfull many a sithe,?8 


? 


1 Dreaming. 9 Much praise. 

2 Neverabit, nothing atall. 10 Then, 

3 For ne is, is not. 11 Bush. 

4 Be namad. 12 For ne wil2, will not. 


5 Advise, explain. 13 Covered. 
6 Pleasure, good will; to 14 Sweet. 
take in gree, to take in good 15 Then. 
part. 16 Their. 
7 Begun. 17 Dreadful, horrible, 
8 Certainly. 18 Time, 


SS SE EEE 


is, 


FRENCH POETPRY.. 


, 


The chelaundre,!° and the popingaye: 
Than younge folke entenden 2° aye, 
For to ben gay and amorous, 

The time is then so savorous.?! 

Harde is his heart that loveth nought 
In May, whan all this mirth is wrought, 
Whan he may on these braunches here 22 
The smalle birdes singen clere 
Hir blisfull swete song piteous, 

And in this season delitous: 

When love affirmeth all thing, 

Me thought one night, in my sleeping 
Right in my bed full readyly, 

That it was by the morrow 22 early, 
And up I rose, and gan me cloth, 
Anone I wysshe24 mine hondes 2° both, 
A silver needle forth I drow 

Out of an aguiler 26 queint ynow, 

And gan this needle thread anone, 
For out of towne me list to gone, 

The sound of birdes for to heare 

That on the buskes singen cleare, 

In the swete season that lefe is: 

With a thred basting my slevis, 

Alone I went in my playing, 

The smal foules song hearkening, 
That payned hem 27 full many a paire 
To sing on bowes blossomed faire : 
Jolife?® and gay, full of gladnesse, 
Toward a river gan I me dresse,?? 
That I heard renne *° faste by, 

For fairer playeng®! none saw 1 

Than playen me by the rivere : 

For ‘from an hill, that stood there nere, 
Come downe the stream full stiffe and bold, 
Clere was the water, and as cold 

As any well is, sooth to saine,32 

And somedele lasse 5* it was than Saine, 
But it was straiter, weleaway, 

And never saw I, ere that day, 

The water that so wele liked me, 

And wonder *4 glad was I to se 

That lusty °° place, and that rivere : 
And with that water, that ran so clere, 
My face I wysshe, tho saw I wele 
The bottome ypaved °° everidele 27 
With gravel, full of stones shene : 38 
The meadowes sofie, sote,®® and grene, 
Beet right upon the water side: 

Full clere was than the morowe tide, 
And full attempre “° out of drede : 4 
Tho gan I walken thorow the mede, 
Downward aye, in my playing, 

The rivers side coésting. 


19 Goldfinch. 30 Run. 
20 Listen to, attend. 31 


21 Sweet, pleasant. 32 To say the truth. 
22 Hear. 33 Somewhat less. 

23 In the morning. 34 Wonderfully, very. 
24 Washed. 35 Pleasant, 

25 Hands. 86 Paved. 


26 Needle-case. 37 Entirely, every part. 
Bright, beautiful. 
Sweet. 

Temperate. 


Without doubt. 


27 Pained themselves, that 38 
took great pains or trouble. 39 
28 Joyful. 40 
29 To address, turn towards. 41 


Enjoyment, enjoying. 


$$ 


—S—S— 


IL—LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES. 


LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY. 


Tur Chatelain de Coucy lived towards the 
end of the twelfth century. His passion for the 
Dame de Fayel, and its tragical result, are very 
characteristic of the age. Learning that his 
mistress was about to accompany her husband 
to the Holy Land, he took the cross to follow 
her. The husband, informed of the feelings of 
his wife towards Coucy, forbade her departure. 
The Chatelain distinguished himself by his 
valor at Ascalon and Cesarea ; but having been 
dangerously wounded, he left the war, to see 
once more the object of his love. He died on 
the homeward passage; but before breathing 
his last, he charged his squire to embalm his 
heart, and to convey it to his mistress. The 
squire was intercepted by the jealous lord, who 
ordered his cook to prepare the heart and serve 
it up for his wife. The Dame de Fayel, in- 
formed by her barbarous husband that she had 
just eaten the heart of her lover, died «of de- 
spair. This tradition is the subject of a beau- 
tiful ballad by Uhland. The proud device of 
the family of De Coucy was, 

‘Ne prince je suis, 
Ni comte aussi, 
Mais le Sire de Coucy.”’ 


My wandering thoughts awake to love anew, 
And bid me rise to sing the fairest fair 

That e’er before the world of beauty knew, 
That e’er kind Nature made her darling care: 

And when, entranced, on all her charms I muse, 

All themes but that alone my lays refuse ; 

Each wish my soul can form is hers alone,— 

My heart, my joys, my feelings all her own ! 


Since first my trembling heart became a prey, 
I have no power to turn me back again ; 

At once I yield me to that passion’s sway, 
Nor idly seek its impulse to restrain. 

If she, who is all sweetness, truth, and joy, 

Were cold or fickle, were she proud or coy, 

I might my tender hopes at once resign : 

But not, thank Heaven! so sad a lot is mine! 


If aught I blame, ’t is my hard fate alone, — 
Not those soft eyes, those gentle looks of thine, 

On which I gazed till all my peace was gone! 
Not-at their dear perfection I repine, — 

I cannot blame that form, all winning grace, 

That fairy hand, that lip, that lovely face ; 

All I can beg is that she love me more, 

That I may live still longer to adore ! 


Yes, all I ask of thee, O lady dear, 

Is but what purest love may hope to find ; 
And if thine eyes, whose crystal light so clear 
Reflects thy thoughts, be not to me unkind, 

54 


LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES. 


Well may’st thou see, by every mournful lay, 
By all I ever look, or sigh, or say, 

That I am thine, devoted to thy will, 

And, ’midst my sadness, fondly thank thee still. 


I thank thee, even for these secret sighs, 
For all the mournful thoughts that on thee 
dwell ; 
For as thou bad’st them in my bosom rise, 
Thou canst revive their sweetest hopes as 
well, — 
The blissful remedy for all my woe 
In those dear eyes, that gentle voice, I know: 
Should Fate forbid my soul to love thee more, 
My life, alas! would with my grief be o’er. 


To thee my heart, my wishes, I resign: 
I am thine own, — O lady dear, be mine! 


Tur first approach of the sweet spring 
Returning here once more, — 
The memory of the love that holds 
In my fond heart such power, — 
The thrush again his song essaying, — 
The little rills o’er pebbles playing, 
And sparkling as they fall, — 
The memory recall 
Of her on whom my heart’s desire 


Is, shall be, fixed till I expire. 


With every season fresh and new 
That love is more inspiring : 
Her eyes, her face, all bright with joy, — 
Her coming, her retiring, — 
Her faithful words, — her winning ways, — 
That sweet look, kindling up the blaze 
Of love, so gently still, 
To wound, but not to kill, — 
So that when most I weep and sigh, 
So much the higher springs my joy. 


oN 


HUGUES D’ATHIES. 


Hvuaves v’Aruies lived in the latter half of 
the twelfth century. He held the office of Grand 
Panetier, or Pantler, in the household of Philip 
Augustus, and afterwards of Louis the Eighth. 


Foot! who from choice can spend his hours 
Sowing the barren sand with flowers ; — 
And yet more weak, more foolish you, 

Who seeex a fickle fair to woo. 


No certain rule her course presents 5 
Quickly she loves, as quick repents : 
Her smiles shall naught but grief confer 


On him who vainly trusts in her. 
iy 


as 


= 


ee 


wuatyeen Cae 
a ee 
= ae eee 


i 
. 
VW 


ww 


DS ETE pier ielate Mma 
mace - od 


426 


a 


ERENCH POETRY. 


rete ni cl 


The valiant knight her love may boast, 
But soon shall rue his labor lost ; 

His fate the mariner’s shall be, 
Braving untoward gales at sea. 


Fit wooer he for such an one 

The flatterer, with his wily tongue, 

Who knows the way, by shrewd address, 
To crown his purpose with success. 


NaS 


THIBAUD DE BLAZON. 


Tuizaup pE Brazon lived early in the thir- 
teenth century. He was attached to the ser- 
vice of Thibaud, the poetical king of Navarre, 
and wrote twenty-seven songs. 


I am to blame !— Why should I sing ? 
My lays ’t were better to forget ; 
Each day to others joy may bring, — 
They can but give to me regret! 
Love makes my heart so full of woe, 
That naught can please or soothe me more, 
Unless the cruel cause would show 
Less coldness than I found of yore. 
Yet wherefore all my cares repeat ? 
Love’s woes, though painful, still are sweet. 
I am to blame ! 


I ain to blame !— Was I not born 

To serve and love her all my life? 
Although my recompense is scorn, 

And all my care with pain is rife, — 
Yet should I die, nor ever know 

What ’t is to be beloved again ; 
At least, my silent life shall show 

How patiently I bore my chain. 
Then wherefore all my griefg repeat? 
Love’s woes, though painful, still are sweet. 

I am to blame! 


e. st ee 


THIBAUD, KING OF NAVARRE. 


Tis prince was born in 1201, a few months 
after the death of his father, Thibaud the Third, 
count of Champagne. During his minority, his 
states were governed by Blanche of Navarre, 
his mother. He was educated at the court of 
Philip Augustus. In 1234,,he succeeded his 
maternal uncle, Sancho, as king of Navarre, 
and, in 1239, embarked for the Kast, to take 
part in the crusade. On his return from this 
expedition two years after, he devoted himself 
to the government of his dominions, and made 
himself deeply beloved by his subjects. He 
cultivated literature, filled his court with those 
who were distinguished in poetry, and loaded 
them with benefits. His poetical talent pro- 
cured him the name of the Song-maker. He 
died at Pampeluna, in 1253. His works were 
published by La Ravalliere, in two volumes, 
12mo., Paris, 1742. 


Lapy, the fates command, and I must go, — 
Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me: 
Here my heart suffered many a heavy woe ; 
But what is left to love, thus leaving thee ? 
Alas! that cruel land beyond the sea! 
Why thus dividing many a faithful heart, 
Never again from pain and sorrow free, 
Never again to meet, when thus they part? 


I see not, when thy presence bright I leave, 

How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my 
lot ; 

Ne’er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve 
As now in leaving thee ; and if thy thought 

Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught, 
Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee, 

Dwelling, in fruitless wishes, on this spot, 
And all the gracious words here said to me. 


O gracious God! to thee I bend my knee, 
For thy sake yielding all I love and prize ; 
And O, how mighty must that influence be, 
That steals me thus from all my cherished 
joys! 
Here, ready, then, myself surrendering, 
Prepared to serve thee, I submit; and ne’er 
To one so faithful could I'service bring, 
So kind a master, so beloved and dear. 


And strong my ties, — my grief unspeakable ! 
Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign ; 
Yet stronger still the affections that impel 
My heart toward Him, the God whose love 
is mine. 
That holy love, how beautiful! how strong ! 
Even wisdom’s favorite sons take refuge 
there; 
"T is the redeeming gem that shines among 
Men’s darkest thoughts, — for ever bright and 
fair. 


—_—o@— 


GACE BRULEZ. 


Gace Brutez, called in some of the manu- 
scripts Gaste Blé, flourished in the first half of 
the thirteenth century. He was the friend of 
Thibaud, and one of the most pleasing poets of 
his age. Most of his songs, amounting to sev- 
enty-nine in number, are addressed to a lady 
whose name is not given. Some of them were 
attributed to the king of Navarre. 


Tue birds, the birds of mine own land 
I heard in Brittany; 
And as they sung, they seemed to me 
The very same I heard with thee. 
And if it were indeed a dream, 
Such thoughts they taught my soul to frame, 
That straight a plaintive number came, 
Which still shall be my song, 
Till that reward is mine which love hath prom- 
ised long. 


Raou DE Sorssons was a contemporary and 
friend of Thibaud, king of Navarre, who gives 
him, in his songs, the title of Svre de Vertus. 
A similar taste for poetry bound them in the 
closest friendship. Raoul de Soissons is sup- 
posed to be the same as Henri de Soissons, who 
followed St. Louis to the Holy Land, was taken 
prisoner at the battle of Massura in 1250, and 
composed verses on his captivity. 


An! beauteous maid, 
Of form so fair ! 
Pearl of the world, 
Beloved and dear! 
How does my spirit eager pine 
But once to press those lips of thine ! — 
Yes, beauteous maid, 
Of form so fair ! 
Pearl of the world, 
Beloved and dear! 


And if the theft 
Thine ire awake, 
A hundred fold 
I ’d give it back, — 
Thou beauteous maid, 
Of form so fair! 
Pearl of the world, 
Beloved and dear ! 


—_¢—— 


JAQUES DE CHISON. 


Tus poet lived about the middle of the thir- 
teenth century. He composed songs full of 
grace and feeling, and is considered one of the 
most distinguished bards of this period; but 
nothing further is known of his life. 


Wuen the sweet days of summer come at last, 
And leaves and flowers are in the forest 
springing ; 
When the cold time of winter ’s overpast, 
And every bird his own sweet song is singing ; 
Then will I sing, 
And joyous be, 
Of careless heart, 
Elate and free ; 
For she, my lady sweet and sage, 
, Bids me, as ever wont, engage 


In joyful mood to be. 


Nor is it yet the spirit of the season, — 
The summer time, —that makes my song so 
gay > 
But softer thoughts, and yet a sweeter reason, — 
Love,— that o’er all my happy heart hath 


| sway 5 


LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES. 


427 


RINE TOOT CREE en ant TEC 


RAOUL, COMTE DE SOISSONS. 


That with delight my soul will ceaseless turn 


Toward her I ween of all the world the best: 

And if my songs be sweet, well may they learn 

Sweetness from her whose love my heart has 
blest. 


And since that love is rightfully my boon, 
Well may I hold her.chief within my soul, 
Who helps my numbers, gives me song and tune, 
And her own grace diffuses o’er the whole. 

For when I think of those dear eyes of hers, 
Whence the bright light of love is ever break- 
mg, 
Delight and hope that happy thought confers, 
And I am blest beyond the power of speaking. 


a 


DOETE DE TROIES. 


Tus poetess is mentioned in the “Bible 
Guyot de Provins,” as having been present at 
the court of the Emperor Conrad, at Mentz. 


‘¢De Troye la bele Doete 
Y chantait cette chansonette, 
‘Quant revient la saison 
Que l’herbe reverdoie.’ ’” 


WueEn comes the beauteous summer time, 
And grass grows green once more, 
And sparkling brooks the meadows lave 
With fertilizing power ; 

And when the-birds rejoicing sing 
Their pleasant songs again, 

Filling the vales and woodlands gay 
With their enlivening strain ; — 

Go not at eve nor morn, fair maids, 
Unto the mead alone, 

To seek the tender violets blue, 
And pluck them for your own ; 

For there a snake lies hid, whose fangs 
May leave untouched the heel, 

But not the less, —O, not the less, 
Your hearts his power shall feel ! 


4 


A SS te SST ac 


BARBE DE VERRUE. 


Turs lady is said to have received her name 
from a Comte de Verrue, by whom she was 
adopted. The romance of “ Aucassin et Nico- 
lette’’ is attributed to her. 


Tur wise man sees his winter close 
Like evening on a summer day ; 
Each age, he knows, its roses bears, 

Its mournful moments and its gay. 


Thus would I dwell with pleasing thought 
Upon my spring of youthful pride ; 
Yet, like the festive dancer, glad 
To rest in peace at eventide. 


5 Eee See CARPAL MO Toe eee AT PUEE = 


428 


FRENCH POETRY. 


heer ght pn 


The gazing crowds proclaimed me fair, 
Ere, autumn-touched, my green leaves fell: 
And now they smile, and call me good ;— 
Perhaps I like that name as well. 


On beauty bliss depends not; then 
Why should I quarrel with old Time? 
He marches on : — how vain his power 
With one whose heart is in its prime! 


Though now, perhaps, a little old, 
Yet still I love with youth to bide ; 

Nor grieve I, if the gay coquettes 
Seduce the gallants from my side. 


And I can joy to see the nymphs 
For favorite swains their chaplets twine, 
In gardens trim, and bowers so green, 
With flowerets sweet and eglantine. 


I love to see a pair defy 
The noontide heat in yonder shade ; 
To hear the village song of love 
Sweet echoing through the woodland glade. 


I joy, too, — though the idle crew 

Mock somewhat at my lengthened tale, — 
To see how lays of ancient loves 

The listening circle round regale. 


They fancy time for them stands still, 
And pity me my hairs of gray ; 

And smile to hear how once their sires 
To me could kneeling homage pay. 


And I, too, smile, to gaze upon 
These butterflies in youth elate, 

So heedless, sporting round the flame 
Where thousand such have met their fate. 


THE AUTHOR OF THE PARADISE OF 
LOVE. 


THE romance entitled “The Paradise of 
Love,’ from which the following song is taken, 
belongs to the thirteenth century. An abridg- 
ment of it was published by Le Grand d’Aussy, 
and a free translation by Mr. Way. 


Hark! hark ! 
Thou merry lark! 

Reckless thou how I may pine! 
Would but love my vows befriend, 
To my warm embraces send 

That sweet fair one, 
Brightest, dear one, 
Then my joy might equal thine. 


Hark! hark! 
Thou merry lark ! 
Reckless thou how I may pine ! 
Let love, tyrant, work his will, 
Plunging me in anguish still ; 
W hatsoe’er 
May be my care, 
True shall bide this heart of mine. 


Hark! hark! 
Thou merry lark! : 
Reckless thou what griefs are mine! 
Come, relieve my heart’s distress ; 
Though, in truth, the pain is less, 
That she frown, 
Than if unknown 
She for whom I ceaseless pine. 
Hark! hark! 
Thou merry lark! 
Reckless thou how I may pine ! 


IIIlL— LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 


GUILLAUME, COMTE DE POITOU. 


Guittaume IX., Comte de Poitou, and Duc 
d’Aquitaine, commonly called William, Count 
of Poictiers, was born in 1071. 
to be the oldest of the Troubadours whose 
works have been preserved. He was distin- 
guished by the beauty of his person, his ex- 
quisite voice, and his bravery. He died in 
1122. His remaining pieces, nine in number, 
are marked by facility and elegance of yersi- 
fication; but several of them are rather licen- 
tious in their character. 


— 


Axrrw I tune my lute to love, 

Ere storms disturb the tranquil hour, 
For her who strives my truth to prove, 
My only pride and beauty’s flower, — 


He is thought 


But who will ne’er my pain remove, 
Who knows and triumphs in her power. 


Tam, alas! her willing thrall ; 
She may record me as her own; 
Nor my devotion weakness call, 
That her I prize, and her alone. 
Without her can I live at all, 
A captive so accustomed grown? 


What hope have I, O lady dear? 
Do I, then, sigh in vain for thee ? 

And wilt thou, ever thus severe, : 
Be as a cloistered nun to me? 

Methinks this heart but ill can bear 
An unrewarded slave to be! 


Why banish love and joy thy bowers, — 
Why thus my passion disapprove, — 
When, lady, all the world were ours, 
If thou couldst learn, like me, to lover 


PIERRE ROGIERS. 


Tu1s Troubadour lived about the middle of 
the twelfth century. He was canon of Cler- 
mont, but, not finding the monastic life agreea- 
ble to his taste, he renounced it for the pursuits 
of poet and courtier. He was attracted to the 
court of Ermengarde, the daughter and heiress 
of Aiméri II., Vicomte de Narbonne. He be- 
came the poetical, and perhaps the real, lover 
of this princess, and celebrated her in his 
poems under the name of Tort-n’avetz. He 
was dismissed from her court on account of 
the malicious comments of the gossips, and re- 
tired to that of Rambaud d’Orange. Afterwards, 
he lived successively at the courts of Alphonso 
the Second, king of Aragon, and of Raimond 
the Fifth, count of Toulouse. At length he 
wholly withdrew from the world, and entered 
the monastery of Grammont, where he died. 


Wuo has not looked upon her brow 
Has never dreamed of perfect bliss: 
But once to see her is to know 
What beauty, what perfection, is. 


Her charms are of the growth of heaven, 
She decks the night with hues of day: 

Blest are the eyes to which ’t is given 
On her to gaze the soul away ! 


—_f—- 


GEOFFROI RUDEL. 

Grorrror Rupet, prince of Blaye, near Bor- 
deaux, lived in the last half of the twelfth cen- 
tury. He was the friend and favorite of Geof- 
«|| frey Plantagenet, the elder brother of Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion, and resided some time at the 
court of England. It was during this period 
of his life that he fell desperately in love with 
“a certain countess of Tripoli, whose beauty, 
grace, and munificent hospitality were cele- 
brated by the pilgrims and crusaders, returning 
from the Holy Land. The story is gracefully 
told by Mrs. Jameson, in the “Loves of the 
Poets,” pp. 26, 27. 

“These reports of her beauty and her benefi- 
cence, constantly repeated, fired the susceptible 
faney of Rudel: without having seen her, he 
fell passionately in love with her, and, unable 
to bear any longer the torments of absence, he 
undertook a pilgrimage to visit this unknown 
lady of his love, in company with Bertrand 
d’Allamanon, another celebrated Troubadour of 
those days. He quitted the English court in 
spite of the entreaties and expostulations of 
Prince Geoffrey Plantagenet, and sailed for the 
Levant. But so it chanced, that, falling griev- 
ously sick on the voyage, he lived oy till his 
vessel reached the shores of Tripoli. The 
countess, being told that a celebrated poet had 
just arrived in her harbour, who was dying for 


LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 


es 


and carried it always in her bosom; and his 


commemorating his genius and his love for her.” 


her love, immediately hastened on board, and, 
taking his hand, entreated him to live for her 
sake. Rudel, already speechless, and almost 
in the agonies of death, revived for a moment 
at this unexpected grace; he was just able to 
express, by a last effort, the excess of his grati- 
tude and love, and expired in her arms. There- 
upon, the countess wept bitterly, and vowed 
herself to a life of penance for the loss she had 
caused to the world. She commanded that the 
last song which Rudel had composed in her 
honor should be transcribed in letters of gold, 


remains were enclosed in a magnificent mauso- 
leum of porphyry, with an Arabic inscription, 


ArounD, above, on every spray, 
Enough instructers do I see, 
To guide my unaccustomed lay, 
And make my numbers worthy thee : 
Each field and wood and flower and tree, 
Each bird whose notes with pleasure thrill, 
As, warbling wild at liberty, 
The air with melody they fill. 
How sweet to listen to each strain ! 
But, without love, how cold, how vain! 


The shepherds love the flocks they tend, 
Their rosy children sporting near ; 

For them is joy that knows no end, 
And, O, to me such life were dear ! 


To live for her I love so well, 
To seek her praise, her smile to win, — 
But still my heart with sighs must swell, 
My heart has still a void within! 


Far off those towers and castles frown 
Where she resides in regal state, 

And I, at weary distance thrown, 
Can find no solace in my fate. 


Se 


Why should I live, since hope alone 
Is all to my experience known ? 


——@—— 


GAUCELM FAIDIT. 


Tus Troubadour was born in the latter part 
of the twelfth, or not far from the beginning of 
the thirteenth, century. Nostradamus gives 
1220 as the date of his death ; but there exists 
a poem, attributed to him, on the death of Béa- 
trix, countess of Provence, who died in 1260. 
Having lost his fortune by play, he embraced 
the profession of Jongleur, and, after the death 
of Richard Coour-de-Lion, travelled from place 
to place many years, seeking his fortune. Fifty- 
two pieces of his poetry have been preserved. 


ed 


Anp must thy chords, my lute, be strung 
To lays of woe so dark as this? 

And must the fatal truth be sung, — 
The final knell of hope and bliss, — 


OnE 


Which to the end of life shall cast 
A gloom that will not cease, 
Whose clouds of woe, that gather fast, 
Each accent shall increase ? 
Valor and fame are fled, since dead thou art, 
England’s King Richard of the Lion Heart ! 


SR ee 


Beare So TN 


Yes, — dead !— whole ages may decay, 

Kre one so true and brave 

Shall yield the world so bright a ray 
As sunk into thy grave ! 

Noble and valiant, fierce and bold, 
Gentle and soft and kind, 

Greedy of honor, free of gold, 
Of thought, of grace, refined : 

Not he by whom Darius fell, 
Arthur, or Charlemagne, 

With deeds of more renown can swell 
The minstrel’s proudest strain ; 

For he of all that with him strove 
The conqueror became, 

Or by the mercy of his love, 
Or the terror of his name. 


- 2 ple te pees mae 

ee ee ieee 
Sk eee ™ 

coll a Z 


I marvel, that, amidst the throng 
Where vice has sway so wide, 
To any goodness may belong, 
Or wisdom may abide ; 
Since wisdom, goodness, truth must fall, 
And the same ruin threatens all ! 


I marvel why we idly strive 
And vex our lives with care, 
Since even the hours we seem to live 
But death’s hard doom prepare. 
Do we not see, that, day by day, 
The best and bravest go ? 
They vanish from the earth away, 
And leave regret and woe. 
Why, then, since virtue, honor, cannot save, 
Dread we ourselves a sudden, early grave? 


O noble king! O knight renowned! 
Where now is battle’s pride, 

\ Since, in the lists no longer found, 
With conquest at thy side, 

Upon thy crest and on thy sword 
Thou show’dst where glory lay, 

And sealed, even with thy slightest word 
The fate of many a day? 


? 


Where now the open heart and hand 
All service that o’erpaid, 

The gifts that of a barren land 
A smiling garden made ? 

And those whom love and honest zeal 
Had to thy fate allied, 

Who looked to thee in woe and weal, 
Nor heeded aught beside : 

The honors thou couldst well allow 
What hand shall now supply ? 

What is their occupation now ? 
To weep thy loss, —and die! 


The haughty pagan now shall raise 
The standard high in air, 

Who lately saw thy glory’s blaze, 
And fled in wild despair. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


The Holy Tomb shall linger long 
Within the Moslem’s power, 

Since God hath willed the brave and strong, 
Should wither in an hour. 

O, for thy arm on Syria’s plain, 

To drive them to their tents again! 


Has Heaven a leader still in store 
That may repay thy loss, 
Those fearful realms who dares explore, 
And combat for the Cross ? 
Let him — let all— remember well 
Thy glory and thy name, — 
Remember how young Henry fell, 
And Geoffrey, old in fame! 


O, he, who in thy pathway treads, 
Must toil and pain endure ; 


His head must plan the boldest deeds, 
His arm must make them sure ! 


a 


GUILLAUME DE CABESTAING. 


CaBEsTAInG, one of the Troubadours of the 
twelfth century, Chatelain of the Comte de Rous- 
sillon, was the chevalier of the Dame Sermonde, 
the wife of Raimond de Chateau Roussillon, a 
powerful seigneur, especially celebrated for his 
ferocity. He became jealous of the poet, and 
shut his wife up in a tower, subjecting her to. 
the most savage treatment; and resolved to take 
summary vengeance upon the poet, who had 
written a song upon the lady’s imprisonment. 
He attacked the Troubadour at a distance from 
the chateau, cut off his head, and tore out his 
heart. The latter he caused to be dressed and 
served up to his wife, — a favorite punishment, 
it would seem, with the jealous lords of the 
Middle Ages. She ate it, unconscious of what 
it was. ‘Do you know that meat?” said the 
barbarian. ‘No, but I have found it very: 
good.”’ “No doubt, no doubt,”’ responded the 
grim husband, and thereupon showed her Ca- 
bestaing’s head. At this horrible sight, Ser- 
monde exclaimed, “ Yes, barbarian, I have found 
it delicious, and it is the last thing I shall ever 
eat.’’ Scarcely had she spoken these words, 
when Raimond fell upon her, sword in hand ; 
she fled, threw herself from a balcony, and was 


killed by the fall. 


— 


No, never since the fatal time 
When the world fell for woman’s crime, 
Has Heaven in tender mercy sent — 
All preordaining, all foreseeing — 
A breath of purity that lent 
Existence to so fair a being ! 
Whatever earth can boast of rare, 
Of precious, and of good, — 
Gaze on her form, ’t is mingled there, 
With added grace endued. 


a Sea 


ae 


Re aes ito natche ans is 


Why, why is she so much above 
All others whom I might behold, — 
Whom I, unblamed, might dare to love, 
To whom my sorrows might be told ? 
O, when I see her, passing fair, 
I feel how vain is all my care: 
I feel she all transcends my praise, 
I feel she must contemn my lays: 
I feel, alas! no claim have I 
To gain that bright divinity ! 
Were she less lovely, less divine, 
Less passion and despair were mine. 


hee 


LA COMTESSE DE PROVENCE. 


Beatrix Dg Savoir, wife of Raimond Béren- 
ger, the last count of Provence, lived in the 
first half of the thirteenth century. Only one 
of her pieces has been preserved, — the lines 
addressed to her husband. She was a friend 
and protector of the poets, who repaid her 
beneficence by their praises. 


I rain would think thou hast a heart, 
Although it thus its thoughts conceal, 
Which well could bear a tender part 
In all the fondness that I feel ; 
Alas! that thou wouldst let me know, 
And end at once my doubts and woe ! 


It might be well that once I seemed 

To check the love I prized so dear ; 
But now my coldness is redeemed, 

And what is left for thee to fear? 
Thou dost to both a cruel wrong ; 

Should dread in mutual love be known? 
Why let my heart lament so long, 

And fail to claim what is thine own? 


ee 


THE MONK OF MONTAUDON. 


Turs person, whose real name is unknown, 
lived in the latter half of the thirteenth century. 
He became monk of the abbey of Orlac, and 
afterwards prior of Montaudon. Becoming dis- 
satisfied with the monastic life, he obtained 
permission to visit the court of Alphonso the 
Third, king of Aragon, from whom he re- 
ceived the lordship of Puy-Sainte-Marie, a fief 
which he held for a long time, but finally lost 
by some unexplained change in his fortunes. 
He then traversed Spain, and was everywhere 
received with honor and loaded with benefits 
by the great. Finally, he obtained the priory 
of Villefranche, in Roussillon, whither he re- 
tired and died. 


I rove the court by wit and worth adorned, 
A man whose errors are abjured and mourned, 
My gentle mistress by a streamlet clear, 
Pleasure, a handsome present, and good cheer. 


LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 


are eee ere CD en aaa EEEEEEESENT RTD 


I love fat salmon, richly dressed, at noon; 
I love a faithful friend both late and soon. 


I hate small gifts, a man that’s poor and proud, 
The young who talk incessantly and loud ; 

T hate in low-bred company to be, 

I hate a knight that has not courtesy. 

I hate a lord with arms to war unknown, 

I hate a priest or monk with beard o’ergrown ; 
A doting husband, or a tradesman’s son, 

Who apes a noble, and would pass for one. 

I hate much water and too little wine ; 

A prosperous villain, and a false divine ; 

A niggard lout who sets the dice aside ; 

A flirting girl all frippery and pride ; 

A cloth too narrow, and a board too wide ; 
Him who exalts his handmaid to his wife, 

And her who makes her groom her lord for life ; 
The man who kills his horse with wanton speed, 
And him who fails his friend in time of need. 


—¢-—— 


CLAIRE D’ANDUZE. 


Tue history of this poetess is quite unknown. 
She probably belonged to the noble family of 
Bernard, baron of Anduze, one of the most 
powerful seigneurs in Provence. Only one piece 
of her poetry has been preserved. 


Tury who may blame my tenderness, 
And bid me dote on thee no more, 
Can never make my love the less, 
Or change one hope I formed before ; 
Nor can they add to each endeavour, 
Each sweet desire, to please thee ever ! 


If any my aversion raise, 
On whom my angry looks I bend, 
Let him but kindly speak thy praise, 
At once I hail him as my friend. 


They whom thy fame and worth provoke, 
Who seek some fancied fault to tell, 
Although with angels’ tongues they spoke, 
Their words to me would be a knell. 


sa eet 


ARNAUD DANIEL. 


Tus celebrated person is often mentioned 
by the Italian poets. The testimonies of Dante, 
Petrarch, Pulci, and Ariosto would seem to 
place him, at least in early fame, at the head 
of the Provencal poets. He was born of poor 
but noble parents, at the castle of Ribeyrac, 
in Périgord, and was, according to a Proven- 
cal authority cited by Raynouard (Vol. V., p. 
31), at one time a resident at the court of 
Richard, king of England. He was celebrated 
as the poet of love. Raynouard says, *¢ There 
remains a positive proof of the existence of 


- 


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432 


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FRENCH POETRY. 


tt ich ann pp sree seers ce nese see 


a romance by Arnaud Daniel, namely, that of | I thought my heart had known the whole 


‘Lancelot du Lac,’—a German translation of 
which was made towards the end of the thir- 
teenth century by Ulrich von Zatchitschoven, 
who names Arnaud Daniel as the original au- 
thor.” 


Wuen leaves and flowers are newly springing, 
And trees and boughs are budding all, 
In every grove when birds are singing, 
And on the balmy air is ringing 
The marsh’s speckled tenants’ call ; 
Ah! then I think how small the gain 
Love’s leaves and flowers and fruit may be, 
And all night long I mourn in vain, 
Whilst others sleep, from sorrow free. 


If I dare tell !—if sighs could move her! — 
How my heart welcomes every smile! 
My Farresr Hore! J live to love her, 
Yet she is cold or coy the while. 
Go thou, my song, and thus reprove her: 
And tell her, Arnaud breathes alone 
To call so bright a prize his own! 


pee 


BERNARD DE VENTADOUR. 


Brrnarp DE VENTADOUR was born at Ven- 
tadour, in Limosin, in the latter half of the 
twelfth century. Though belonging to an in- 
ferior station, the elegance of his figure, the 
sweetness of his voice, and the brilliancy of 
his imagination, gained him the favor of Eblis 
the Second, viscount of Ventadour, and of the 
viscountess, his beautiful wife, whom he cele- 
brated in his songs. The jealousy of the vis- 
count was at length aroused, and he caused 
his wife to be imprisoned. The Troubadour, 
learning the cause of the harsh treatment which 
his benefactress had received, withdrew to the 
court of Eleanor of Guienne, wife of Henry, 
duke of Normandy, by whom he was received 
with distinguished favor. He celebrated this 
princess in many of his songs, having, despite 
his first love, become deeply enamored of an- 
other. After her departure for England with 
the duke, Bernard lived at the court of Rai- 
mond the Fifth, count of Toulouse, until the 
death of that prince in 1194; he then entered 
the abbey of Dalon, in Limosin, where he soon 
after died. 


Wuen I behold the lark upspring 
To meet the bright sun joyfully, 
How he forgets to poise his wing, 
In his gay spirit’s revelry, — 
Alas! that mournful thoughts should spring 
K’en from that happy songster’s glee ! 
Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring 
Not joy, but pining care, to me ! 


Of love, but small its knowledge proved ; 
For still the more my longing soul 

Loves on, itself the while unloved: 
She stole my heart, myself she stole, 

And all I prized from me removed ; 
She left me but the fierce control 

Of vain desires for her I loved. 


All self-command is now gone by, 

K’er since the Juckless hour when she 
Became a mirror to my eye, 

Whereon I gazed complacently : 
Thou fatal mirror! there I spy 

Love’s image ; and my doom shall be, 
Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh, 

And thus expire, beholding thee ! 


a SS 


FOULQUES DE MARSEILLE. 


FouLqurs DE Marsritxz, the son of a mer- 
chant, lived in the latter half of the twelfth 
century. Finding himself, at the death of his 
father, possessed of a sufficient fortune, he surren- 
dered himself wholly to his passion for poetry, 
and was successively received at the courts of 
Richard the First, king of England, of Rai- 
mond the Fifth, count of Toulouse, .and of 
Barral, viscount of Marseilles. He preferred 
the last, on account of a passion he had con- 
ceived for Alazais de Roquemartia, Barral’s 
wife, who listened to his songs with pleasure, 
but finally, in a fit of jealousy, quarrelled 
with him and banished him from the court 
of Marseilles. He resided afterwards at the 
court of William the Eighth, lord of Montpel- 
lier. 

After losing most of his protectors, Foulques 
took the order of Citeaux, became abbé of Ter- 
ronet, afterwards of Toulouse, and, in 1205, 
bishop of Toulouse. He was deeply concerned 
in the bloody wars against the Albigenses. 


I wovrp not any man should hear 
The birds that sweetly sing above, 
Save he who knows the power of love: 
For naught beside can soothe or cheer 
My soul, like that sweet harmony ; 
Or like herself; who, yet more dear, 
Hath greater power my soul to move 
Than songs or lays of Brittany. 


In her I joy and hope; yet ne’er 
Too daring would my spirit prove ; 
For he who highest soars above 
Feels but his fall the more severe : 
Then what shall I a gainer be, 
If on her lips no sntile appear? 
Shall I in cold despair still love ?— 
O, yes! in patient constancy. 


l! 


BERTRAND DE BORN. 


Tis warrior and Troubadour flourished in 
the latter half of the twelfth century. He was 
viscount of Hautefort, in Périgueux. “ He first 
celebrated,’ says Mrs. Jameson,* ‘¢ Eleanor Plan- 
tagenet, the sister of his friend and brother in 
arms and song, Richard Cour-de-Lion; and 
we are expressly told that Richard was proud 
of the poetical homage rendered to the charms 
of his sister by this knightly Troubadour, and 
that the princess was far from being insensible 
to his admiration. Only one of the many songs 
addressed to Eleanor has been preserved ; from 
which we gather, that it was composed by Ber- 
trand in the field, at a time when his army was 
threatened with famine, and the poet himself 
was suffering from the pangs of hunger. Elea- 
nor married the duke of Saxony, and Bertrand 
chose for his next love the beautiful Maenz de 
Montagnac, daughter of the viscount of Turenne, 
and wife of Talleyrand de Périgord. The lady 
accepted his service, and acknowledged him 
as her knight; but evil tongues having at- 
tempted to sow dissension between the lovers, 
Bertrand addressed to her a song, in which he 
defends himself from the imputation of incon- 
stancy, inastyle altogether characteristic and 
original. The warrior poet, borrowing from 
the objects of his daily cares, ambition, and 
pleasure, phrases to illustrate and enhance the 
expression of his love, wishes ‘that he may 
lose his favorite hawk in her first flight; that 
a falcon may stoop and bear her off, as she sits 
upon his wrist, and tear her in his sight, if the 
sound of his lady’s voice be not dearer to him 
than all the gifts of love from another; — that 
he may stumble with his shield about his neck ; 
that his helmet may gall his brow; that his 
bridle may be too long, his stirrups too short; 
that he may be forced to ride a hard-trotting 
horse, and find his groom drunk when he ar- 
rives at his gate, if there be a word of truth in 
the accusations of his enemies ; —that he may 
not have a denier to stake at the gaming-table, 
and that the dice may never more be favorable 
to him, if ever he had swerved from his faith ; 
—that he may look on like a dastard, and see 
his lady wooed and won by another ; that 
the winds may fail him at sea; that in the 
battle he may be the first to fly, if he who has 
slandered him does not lie in his throat’; and 
so on through seven or eight stanzas. 

‘¢ Bertrand de Born exercised in his time a 
fatal influence on the counsels and politics of 
England. A close and ardent friendship existed 
between him and young Henry Plantagenet, 
the eldest son of our Henry the Second; and 
the family dissensions which distracted the Eng- 
lish court, and the unnatural rebellion of Henry 
and Richard against their father, were his work. 
It happened, some time after the death of Prince 


* Memoirs of the Loves of the Poets, pp. 30-32. 
BE 


LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 


(ees IE ES ee ee a ace sna es ea a ee ee a rRURR TET SUSTT IAT TH 


433 


Henry, that the king of England besieged Ber- 
trand de Born in one of his castles: the resist- 
ance was long and obstinate, but at length the 
warlike Troubadour was taken prisoner and 
brought before the king, so justly incensed 
against him, and from whom he had certainly 
no mercy to expect. The heart of Henry was 
still bleeding with the wounds inflicted by his 
ungrateful children, and he saw before him, 
and in his power, the primary cause of their 
misdeeds and his own bitter sufferings. Ber- 
trand was on the point of being led out to 
death, when-by a single word he reminded the 
king of his lost son, and the tender friendship 
which had existed between them. The chord 
was struck which never ceased to vibrate in 
the parental heart of Henry; bursting into 
tears, he turned aside, and commanded Ber- 
trand and his followers to be immediately set 
at liberty; he even restored to Bertrand his 
castle and his lands, ‘im the name of his dead 
sons” 

Bertrand de Born terminated his career in a 
monastery, where he had assumed the habit of 
the order of Citeaux. 

In the ‘“ Inferno,’’ Dante assigns to Bertrand 
de Born a horrible punishment : — 


‘Without doubt 

I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, 
A headless trunk, that even as the rest 
Of the sad flock paced onward. By the hair 
It bore the severed member, lantern-wise 
Pendent in hand, which looked at us, and said, 
‘Woe’s me!’ The spirit lighted thus himself; 
And two there were in one, and one in two, — 
How that may be, he knows who ordereth so. 

‘When at the bridge’s foot direct he stood, 
His arm aloft he reared, thrusting the head 
Full in our view, that nearer we might hear 
The words which thus it uttered: ‘ Now behold 
This grievous torment, thou who breathing goest 
To spy the dead; behold, if any else 
Be terrible as this. And that on earth 
Thou may’st hear tidings of me, know that I 
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John 
The counsel mischievous. Father and son 


T set at mutual war.’ ”’ 
INFERNO, Canto XXVIII. 


Lapy, since thou hast driven me forth, 
Since thou, unkind, hast banished me 
(Though cause of such neglect be none), 
Where shall I turn from thee ? 
Ne’er can I see 
Such joy as I have seen before, 
If, as I fear, I find no more 
Another fair; — from thee removed, 
I’ll sigh to think I e’er was loved. 


And since my eager search were vain, 
One lovely as thyself to find, — 
A heart so matchlessly endowed, 
Or manners so refined, 
So gay, so kind, | 
So courteous, gentle, debonair, — 


I’ll rove, and catch from every fair 
KK 


Ee | 


Some winning grace, and form a whole, 
To glad — till thou return — my soul. 


The roses of thy glowing cheek, 
Fair Sembelis, I ’l] steal from thee ; 
That lovely smiling look I'll take; 
Yet rich thou still shalt be, 
In whom we see 
All that can deck a lady bright : 
And your enchanting converse, light, 
Fair Elis, will I borrow too, 
That she in wit may sbine like you. 


And from the noble Chales I 
Will beg that neck of ivory white, 
And her fair hands of loveliest form 
I'll take ; and speeding, light, 
My onward flight, 
Earnest, at Roca Choart’s gate, 
Fair Agnes I will supplicate 
To grant her locks, more bright than those 
Which Tristan loved on Yseult’s brows. 


And, Audiartz, though on me thou frown, 
All that thou hast of courtesy 

I ’ll have, — thy look, thy gentle mien, 

And all the unchanged constancy 
That dwells with thee. 

And, Miels de Ben, on thee I ’Il wait 
For thy light shape, so delicate, 
That in thy fairy form of grace 
My lady’s image I may trace. 


The beauty of those snow-white teeth 
From thee, famed Faidit, I ’l1 extort, 
The welcome, affable, and kind, 
To all the numbers that resort 
Unto her court. 
And Bels Miraills shall crown the whole, 
With all her sparkling flow of soul ; 
Those mental charms that round her play, 
For ever wise, yet ever gay. 


Tur beautiful spring delights me well, 
When flowers and leaves are growing ; 
And it pleases my heart to hear the swell 
Of the, birds’ sweet chorus flowing 
In the echoing wood ; 
And { love to see, all scattered around, 
Pavilions, tents, on the martial ground ; 
And my spirit finds it good 
To see, on the level plains beyond, 
Gay knights and steeds caparisoned. 


It pleases me, when the lancers bold 
Set men and armies flying ; 
And it pleases me, too, to hear around 
The voice of the soldiers crying ; 
And joy is mine, 
When the castles strong, besieged, shake, 
And walls uprooted totter and crack ; 
And I see the foemen join, 
Un the moated shore all compassed round 
With the palisade and guarded mound. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


Lances, and swords, and stained helms, 
And shields, dismantled and broken, 
On the verge of the bloody battle-scene, 
The field of wrath betoken ; 
And the vassals are there, 
And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead ; 
And where the mingled strife is spread, 
The noblest warrior’s care 
Is to cleave the foeman’s limbs and head, — 
The conqueror less of the living than dead. 


I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer, 
Or banqueting, or reposing, 
Like the onset cry of ‘Charge them!” rung 
From each side, as in battle closing, 
Where the horses neigh, 

And the call to “ Aid!” is echoing loud ; 
And there on the earth the lowly and proud 
In the fosse together lie ; 

And yonder is piled the mangled heap 
Of the brave that scaled the trench’s steep. 


Barons, your castles in safety place, 
Your cities and villages too, 

Before ye haste to the battle-scene ! 
And, Papiol, quickly go, 
And tell the Lord of “Oc and No’”’? 

That peace already too long hath been! 


—_@——. 


ARNAUD DE MARVEIL. 


Tus Troubadour belonged to the latter 
half of the twelfth century. He was born at 
the Chateau de Marveil, in the diocese of Péri- 
gord. He was a handsome man, sang well, 
composed well, and read romances agreeably. 
These advantages secured him a favorable re- 
ception from the Comtesse de Burlas, the daugh- 
ter of Raimond the Fifth, and wife of Roger 
the Second, surnamed Taillefer, viscount of 
Béziers. Adélaide de Burlas, the object of his 
passion and the subject of his song, accepted 
his homage, and retained him as her chevalier; 
but the jealousy of Alphonso, the king of Cas- 
tile, caused his dismission, and he retired to 
the court of Guillaume, the lord of Montpellier. 


O, How sweet the breeze of April 
? 9? 
Breathing soft, as May draws near ; 
While, through nights serene and gentle 
’ g § ’ 
Songs of gladness meet the ear : 
Every bird his well known language 
Warbling in the morning’s pride, 
Revelling on in joy and gladness 


By his happy partner’s side ! 


When around me all is smiling, 
When to life the young birds spring, 
Thoughts of love I cannot hinder 
Come, my heart inspiriting : 


1 “Yes and No,” —a title designating Richard Ceeur-de- 
Lion. 


a a A a a a Se RR ENO 


Nature, habit, both incline me 
In such joys to bear my part; 

With such sounds of bliss around me, 
Who could wear a saddened heart ? 


Fairer than the far-famed Helen, 
Lovelier than the flowerets gay : 
Snow-white teeth, and lips truth-telling, 
Heart as open as the day, 
Golden hair, and fresh, bright roses ; — 
Heaven, that formed a thing so fair, 
Knows that never yet another 
Lived, who could with her compare. 


——}---— 


PIERRE VIDAL. 


Prerre Vipat belongs to the close of the 
twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth 
century. He had a fine voice and a lively 
imagination ; but his vanity sometimes passed 
into insanity. Passionately devoted to the la- 
dies, he fancied that they all fell in love with 
him at the first sight. Alazais, the wife of 
Barral, viscount of Marseilles, was for a time 
the: theme of his songs; but alittle piece of 
presumption on his part excited the lady’s ire, 
and the gallant Troubadour saw fit to withdraw 
from the court. He followed Richard to the 
Holy Land, and married a woman of the island 
of Cyprus, who pretended to be the niece of the 
emperor of the East. He assumed the ensigns of 
royalty, claiming the empire as his inheritance. 
Meantime the wrath of Alazais bad been appeas- 
ed, and on his return he was graciously received. 
He was deeply afflicted by the death of Rai- 
mond the Seventh, count of Toulouse, wore 
mourning, let his beard and hair grow, made 
his servants do the same, and cropped the ears 
and tails of his horses. 

The idea of conquering the Oriental empire 
returned to Pierre Vidal, towards the end of 
his life; he revisited the East in pursuance of 
this project, and died two years after his return, 
in 1229. 


Or all sweet birds, I love the most 
The lark and nightingale ; 
For they the first of all awake, 
The opening spring with songs to hail. 


And I, like them, when silently 
Each Troubadour sleeps on, 

Will wake me up, and sing of love 
And thee, Vierna, fairest one! 


The rose on thee its bloom bestowed, 
The lily gave its white, 

And nature, when it planned thy form, 
A model framed of fair and bright. 


For nothing, sure, that could be given, 
To thee hath been denied ; 

That there each thought of love and joy 
In bright perfection might reside. 


LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 


PIERRE D’AUVERGNE. 


Turs poet was born of humble parents, in 
the diocese of Clermont. He belonged to the 
first part of the thirteenth century. His person- 
al advantages, and his talent for poetry, gained 
him the favor of the most powerful lords and 
the most beautiful ladies of the age. His suc- 
cess turned his head; and he did not hesitate 
to call himself the first poet in the world. He 
finally retired to a cloister, where he died. 


Go, nightingale, and find the beauty I adore ; 
My heart to her outpour : 
Bid her each feeling tell, 
And bid her charge thee well 
To say that she forgets me not. 
Let her not stay thee there, 
But come and quick declare 
The tidings thou hast brought ; 
For none beside so dear have JI, 
And long for news from none so anxiously. 


Away the bird has flown; away 

Lightly he goes, inquiring round, — 

‘© Where shall that lovely one be found?” 
And, when he sees her, tunes the lay ; 

That lay which sweetly sounds afar, 

Oft heard beneath the evening star. 


‘‘ Sent by thy true love, lady fair,” he sings, 
*¢T come to sing to thee. 
And what sweet song shall be 
His glad reward, when, eager, up he springs 
To meet me as I come 
On weary pinion home ? 
Sweet lady ! let me tell 
Kind words to him who loves thee well. 
And why these cold and keen delays ? 
Love should be welcomed, while it stays ; 
It is a flower that fadeth soon ; 
O, profit, lady, by its short-lived noon !”’ 


Then that enchanting fair in accents sweet re- 
plied, — 
“Thy faithful nightingale 
Has told his pleasant tale; 
And he shall tell thee how, by absence tried, 
Here, far from thee, my love, I rest; 
For long thy stay hath been. 
Such grief had I foreseen, 
Not with my love so soon hadst thou been blest. 
Here, then, for thee I wait ; 
With thee is joy and mirth, 
And nothing here on earth 
With thee can e’er compete. 


“True love, like gold, is well refined ; 
And mine doth purify my mind: 
Go, then, sweet bird, and quickly say, 
And in thy most bewitching way, 
How well I love. —F ly! haste thee on! 
hy tarriest thou? — What! not yet gone?” 


ee ———————————— ee TT 


= 


* Eh el hig ire Str 


anes 


i, 
‘ 
ia 
si 


GIRAUD DE BORNEIL. 


Giraup DE Boryetrt belongs to the latter half 


of the thirteenth century. The Provencal au- 
thority cited by Raynouard (Vol. V. p. 166) 
says, that Giraud was born of humble parentage 
in Limosin, but that he was skilled in letters, 
and of good natural powers; that he could 
“trobaire”’ better than any of those who pre- 
ceded or followed him; for which reason he 
was called the Master of the Troubadours. 
He was held in high honor by powerful men, 
and by the ladies, on account of his poems. 
‘During the winter,’’ says the same writer, 
‘‘he went to school and learned; and all the 
summer he visited the courts, and carried with 
him two singers, who sang his songs. He would 
not marry, and all that he gained he gave to 
his poor parents and to the church of the town 
where he was born, which church bore the 
name of Saint Gervasi.’’ He died in 1278. 


Companion dear! or sleeping or awaking, 
Sleep not again! for, lo! the morn is nigh, 
And in the east that early star is breaking, 
The day’s forerunner, known unto mine eye. 
The morn, the morn is near. 


Companion dear! with carols sweet I'll call 
thee; 
Sleep not again ' I hear the birds’ blithe song 
Loud in the woodlands; evil may befall thee, 
And jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long, 
Now that the morn is near. 


Companion dear forth from the window look- 
ing, 
Attentive mark the signs of yonder heaven; 
Judge if aright I read what they betoken : 
Thine all the loss, if vain the warning given. 
The morn, the morn is near. 


Companion dear! since thou from hence wert 
straying, 
Nor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited ; 
My prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying, 
That thou in peace thy backward way might 
tread. 
The morn, the morn, is near. 


Companion dear! hence to the fields with me ! 
Me thou forbad’st to slumber through the night, 
And I have watched that livelong night for thee; 
But thou in song or me hast no delight, 
And now the morn is near. 


ANSWER. 
Companion dear! so happily sojourning, 
So blest am I, I care not forth to speed: 
Here brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorn- 
ing 
Her dwelling-place, — then wherefore should 
I heed 


. The morn or jealous eyes? 


FRENCH POETRY. 


TOMIERS. 


TomieRs is mentioned in connection with 
Palazis by the Provengal historian quoted by 
Raynouard. They were cavaliers of Tarascon, 
‘esteemed and beloved by good cavaliers, and 
by the ladies.’’ Tomiers endeavoured by his 
verse to rouse the South of France against the 
cruelty of the court in the wars of the Albigen- 
ses. 


I ix make a song shall utter forth 
My full and free complaint, 
To see the heavy hours pass on, 
And witness to the feint 
Of coward souls, whose vows were made 
In falsehood, and are yet unpaid. 
Yet, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


‘Yes! full and ample help for us 
Shall come, — so trusts my heart ; 
God fights for us, and these our foes, 
The French, must soon depart : 
For on the souls that fear not God, 
Soon, soon shall fall the vengeful rod. 
Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


And hither they believe to come, — 
The treacherous, base crusaders ! — 
But e’en as quickly as they come, 
We ’ll chase those fierce invaders: 
Without a shelter they shall fly 
Before our valiant chivalry. 
Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


And e’en if Frederic, on the throne 
Of powerful Germany, 
Submit the cruel ravages 
Of Louis’ hosts to see, 
Yet, in the breast of England’s king 
Wrath deep and vengeful shall upspring. 
Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


Not much those meek and holy men — 
The traitorous bishops — mourn, 
Though from our hands the sepulchre 

Of our dear Lord be torn: 
More tender far their anxious care 
For the rich plunder of Belcaire. 

But, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


And look at our proud cardinal, 
Whose hours in peace are passed ; 
Look at, his splendid dwelling-place 
(Pray Heaven it may not last !) — 
He heeds not, while he lives in state, 
What ills on Damietta wait. 
But, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


pits sp cal a han tt han mh el AH ARN EDA NA CS ANSE TA ARs ELAS reheA AUR E SERA A AA 


I cannot think that Avignon 
Will lose its holy zeal, — 
In this our cause so ardently 
Its citizens can feel. 
Then shame to him who will not bear 
In this our glorious cause his share ! 
And, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
Strong in the hope of succours near. 


ee 


RICHARD CUR: DE- LION. 


Tur name and exploits of this chivalrous 
monarch are so well known in history, poetry, 
and romance, that only the principal dates in 
his life need to be mentioned here. He was 
the son of Henry the Second and Eleanor of 
Guienne, and was born in 1157. He joined his 
brothers in a rebellion against his father, on 
whose death he succeeded to the throne of 
England. Soon after, he engaged in the crusade, 
having taken the cross previously to his acces- 
sion to the throne. ,He embarked at Acre, in 
October, 1192, to return to England, but was 
wrecked on the coast of Istria, near Aquileia. 
He then attempted to pass through Germany in 
disguise, but was discovered near Vienna, ar- 
rested, and, by order of Leopold, duke of Aus- 
tria, thrown into prison, and afterwards trans- 
ferred to the Emperor Henry the Sixth. He 
was, at length, liberated, on the payment of a 
large ransom, and arrived in England in March, 
1194. He died in April, 1199, in consequence 
of a wound he had received in the siege of the 
castle of Chalus. 

Richard had assembled around him the prin- 
cipal Troubadours of his age, before he ascended 
the English throne. He was himself a poet of 


no small distinction, and during the reverses of | 


eee 


FROISSART. 


437 


his life found his solace in composition. The 
romantic story of the place of his imprisonment 
being discovered by the minstrel Blondel, his 
faithful page, is well known. 


te 


No captive knight, whom chains confine, 
Can tell his fate, and not repine ; 

Yet with a song he cheers the gloom 
That hangs around his living tomb. 
Shame to his friends! —-the king remains 
Two years unransomed and in chains. 


Now let them know, my brave barons, 
English, Normans, and Gascons, 

Not a liege-man so poor have I, 

That I would not his freedom buy. 

I will not reproach their noble line, 

But chains and a dungeon still are mine. 


The dead, — nor friends nor kin have they! 
Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay! 

My wrongs afflict me,— yet far more 

For faithless friends my heart is sore. 

O, what a blot upon their name, 

If I should perish thus in shame! 


Nor is it strange I suffer pain, 

When sacred oaths are thus made vain, 
And when the king with bloody hands 
Spreads war and pillage through my lands. 
One only solace now remains, — 

1 soon shall burst these servile chains. 


Ye Troubadours, and friends of mine, 
Brave Chail, and noble Pensauvine, 

Go, tell my rivals, in your song, 

This heart hath never done them wrong. 
He infamy — not glory — gains, 

Who strikes a monarch in his chains. 


a aaa 


SECOND PERIOD.—CENTURIES XIV., XV. 


JEAN FROISSART. 


Tu1s eminent chronicler was born at Va- 
lenciennes, about the year 1337. ‘He was 
destined for the church, but his love of poe- 
try, travelling, and adventure soon withdrew 
him for a time from an ecclesiastical career. 
At the age of twenty, he began his history of 
the wars of his time. Crossing over to Eng- 
land, he was favorably received by Philippe 
de Hainault, the queen of Edward the Third. 
After revisiting France, he returned to Eng- 
land, and was appointed secretary to the queen, 
in whose service he continued five years, dur- 
ing which time he composed many poems. 
Froissart’s passion for adventure, and the desire 
to visit the scenes of his history, led him to 


undertake numerous journeys, in the course of 
which he became known to the most distin- 
guished persons of his age. The precise date 
of bis death is unknown, but it must have 
happened after the year 1400, as he mentions 
some of the events of this year. 

Though Froissart is much better known as 
a historian than as a poet, yet his poetical pro- 
ductions are numerous. They remain, how- 
ever, mostly in manuscript, in the Bibliotheque 
Royale, at Paris. 


—_ 


TRIOLET. 
Take time while yet it is in view, 
For fortune is a fickle fair : 
Days fade, and others spring anew ; 


Then take the moment still in view. 
KK 2 


438 


What boots to toil and cares pursue ? 
Each month a new moon hangs in air: 

Take, then, the moment still in view, 
For fortune is a fickle fair. 


VIRELAY. 


Too long it seems ere I shall view 
The maid so gentle, fair, and true, 
Whom loyally I love: 
Ah! for her sake, where’er I rove, 
All scenes my care renew ! 
I have not seen her, — ah, how long ! 
Nor heard the music of her tongue ; 
Though in her sweet and lovely mien 
Such grace, such witchery, is seen, 
Such precious virtues shine : 
My joy, my hope, is in her smile, 
nd I must suffer pain the while, 
Where once all bliss was mine. 
Too long it seems ! 


O tell her, love !—the truth reveal, 

Say that no lover yet could feel 
Such sad, consuming pain : 

While banished from her sight, I pine, 

And still this wretched life is mine, 
Till I return again. 

She must believe me, for I find 

So much her image haunts my mind, 
So dear her memory, 

That, wheresoe’er my steps I bend, 

The form my fondest thoughts attend 
Is present to my eye. 

Too long it seems! 


Now tears my weary hours employ, 

Regret and thoughts of sad annoy, 
When waking or in sleep ; 

For hope my former care repaid, 

In promises at parting made, 
Which happy love might keep. 

O, for one hour my truth to tell, 

To speak of feelings known too well, 
Of hopes too vainly dear ! 

But useless are my anxious sighs, 

Since fortune my return denies, 
And keeps me lingering here. 

Too long it seems ! 


RONDEL. 


Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of 
mine? 

Naught see I fixed or sure in thee ! 

do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine: 

ove, love, what wilt thou with this heart of 
mine ? , 

Naught see I fixed or-sure in thee ! 


Ce 


Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine ? 
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me: 
‘ Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of 
mine ? 
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee ! 


a 


FRENCH POETRY. 


a 


CHRISTINE DE PISAN. 


Tuts poetess was born about the year 1363, 
at Venice. Her father removed to Paris, when 
she was five years old; being summoned thither 
by Charles the Fifth, who gave him a place 
in his council. She was brought up at court, 
and at the age of fifteen married Etienne du 
Castel. Her husband died, leaving her with 


RPO Cee as se ale nites siee . Pe ts ie " 3 : a 


three children. She sought to console her grief 
by reading the books left her by her father and 
her husband, and thus was led to become an 
author herself. Lord Salisbury, pleased with 
the intellectual graces of Christine, took her 
eldest son with him to England, to educate him 
there ; and Henry of Lancaster, after his ac- 
cession to the English throne, endeavoured to 
attract her to his court, but she preferred re- 
maining in-France. She was a person of rare |} 
intellect and exquisite beauty. The date of her 
death is unknown. 


ee 


RONDEL. 


I tive in hopes of better days, 

And leave the present hour to chance, 
Although so long my wish delays, 

And still recedes as I advance : 
Although hard fortune, too severe, 

My life in mourning weeds arrays, 
Nor in gay haunts may I appear, 

I live in hopes of better days. 


Though constant care my portion prove, 
By long endurance patient grown, 

Still with the time my wishes move, 
Within my breast no murmur known: 

Whate’er my adverse lot displays, 

I live in hopes of better days. 


ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 


A mMourNinG dove, whose mate is dead, — 
A lamb, whose shepherd is no more, — 
Even such am I, since he is fled, 
Whose loss I cease not to deplore : 
Alas! since to the grave they bore 
My sire, for whom these tears are shed, 
What is there left for me to love, — 
A mourning dove? 


O, that his grave for me had room, 

Where I at length might calmly rest! 
For all to me is saddest gloom, 

All scenes to me appear unblest ; 
And all my hope is in his tomb, 

To lay my head on his cold breast, 

Who left his child naught else to love! 
A mourning dove ! 


ey ‘rae 


ALAIN CHARTIER. 


Aran Carrier belonged to a distinguished 
family of Bayeux, in Normandy. He was vorn 


fi a NS Nea By i rl 


NET Van CU a ene Coenen Soe ey “ . 4 


about 1386, and was educated at the University 
of Paris. He was well received at court, and 
became secretary successively to Charles the 
Sixth and Charles the Seventh. He enjoyed 
the highest consideration as a poet during his 
life. He is one of those to whom the French 
language is most indebted, and he has been 
called the Father of French Eloquence. His 
works are numerous, both in prose and verse. 
Among the best of them is ‘La Belle Dame 
sans Mercy,” in the old English translation of 
which, attributed to Chaucer, the poet says: 


‘¢ My charge was this, to translate by and by 
(All thing forgiue, as part of my pennance) 
A book, called ‘a Bel Dame sans Mercy,’ 
Which Maister Aleine made of remembrance, 
Cheefe secretarie with the king of France.” 


Pasquier devotes a whole chapter to the “ Mots 
Dorez et Belles Sentences de Maistre Alain 
Chartier.” Alain died at Avignon, in 1449. 


FROM LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY. 


Tuer bordes were spred in right little space, 
The ladies sat each as hem! seemed best, 

There were no deadly seruants in the place, 
But chosen men, right of the goodliest: 

And some there were, perauenture most fresh- 

est, 

That saw their judges full demure, 

Without semblaunt, either to most or lest, 
Notwithstanding they had hem vnder cure. 


Emong all other, one I gan espy, 
Which in great thought ful often came and 
went, 
As one that had been rauished vtterly : 
In his language not greatly dilligent, 
His countenance he kept with great turment, 
But his desire farre passed his reason, 
For euer his eye went after his entent, 
Full many a time, whan it was no season. 


To make chere sore himselfe he pained, 
And outwardly he fained great gladnesse, 
To sing also by force he was constrained, 
For no pleasaunce, but very shamefastnesse: 
For the complaint of his most heauinesse 
Came to his voice, alway without request, 
Like as the soune of birdes doth expresse, 
Whan they sing loud in frithe or in forrest. 


Other there were that serued in the hall, 
But none like him, as after mine aduise, ” 
For he was pale, and somwhat lean withall, 
His speech also trembled in fearfull wise, 
And euer alone, but whan he did seruise, 
All blacke he ware, and no deuise but plain: 
Me thought by him, as my wit could suffise, 
His herte was nothing in his own demain. ? 


1 Them. 2 Observation. 3 Control. 


_ See oe 


CHARTIER. 439 


To feast hem all he did his dilligence, 

And well he coud, right as it seemed me, 
But evermore, whan he was in presence, 

His chere was done, it nolde* none other be: 
His schoolemaister had such aucthorite, 

That, all the while he bode still in the place, 
Speake coud he not, but upon her beautie 

He looked still with a right pitous face. 


With that his head he tourned at the last 
For to behold the ladies euerichone, ° 
But euer in one he set his eye stedfast 
On her which his thought was most vpon, 
For of his eyen the shot ® | knew anone, | 
Which fearful was, with right humble re- 
uests : 
Than to my self I said, by God alone, 
Such one was I, or that I saw these jests. 


Out of the prease he went full easely 

To make stable his heauie countenance, 
And wote ye well, he sighed wonderly 

For his sorrowes and wofull remembrance: 
Than in himselfe he made his ordinance, 

And forthwithall came to bring in the messe, 
But for to judge his most wofull pennance, 

God wote it was a pitous entremesse.’ 


i 
t 


After dinner anon they hem auanced 
To daunce aboue the folke euerichone, 
And forthwithall, this heauy man he danced, [ 
Somtime with twain, and somtime with one: 
Unto hem all his chere was after one, | 
Now here, now there, as fell by auenture, 
But euer among he drew to her alone | 
Which he most dread ® of liuing creature. 


To mine aduise good was his purueiance,? 
Whan he her chose to his maistresse alone, | 
If that her herte were set to his pleasance, 
As much as was her beauteous person: | 
For who so euer setteth his trust vpon 
The report of the eyen, withouten more, | 
He might be dead, and grauen vnder stone, 
Or euer he should his hertes ease restore. 


In her failed nothing that I coud gesse, 
One wise nor other, priuie nor apert,'° 
A garrison she was of all goodlinesse, 
To make a frontier for a louers herte: 
Right yong and fresh, a woman full couert, 
Assured wele of port, and eke of chere, 
Wele at her ease withouten wo or smert, 
All vnderneath the standerd of dangere. 


To see the feast it wearied me full sore, 
For heauy joy doth sore the herte trauaile : 
Out of the prease I me withdrow therefore, 
And set me downe alone behind a traile,* 


8 Feared. 
9 Foresight, providence. 
10 Secret nor public. 
11 Trellis. 


4 For ne wold, would not. 

5 Every one, 

6 Glance. 

7 Entremet, a dish served 
between the courses. 


ee eo 


Ao 


RY 
+ = 
fo cay! 
ay h H 
y WG 4 
‘ae 


Full of leaues, to see a great meruaile, 
With greene wreaths ybounden wonderly, 

The leaues were so thicke withouten faile, 
That throughout no man might me espy. 


To this lady he came full courtesly, 
Whan he thought time to dance with her a 
trace, 
Set in an herber, !° made full pleasantly, 
They rested hem fro thens but a little space ; 
Nigh hem were none of a certain compace, !4 
But onely they, as farre as I coud see : 
Saue the traile, there I had chose my place, 
There was no more between hem two and 
me, 


I heard the louer sighing wonder sore, 
For aye the more the sorer it him sought, 
His inward paine he coud not keepe in store, 
Nor for to speake so hardie was he nought, 
His leech was nere, the greater was his thoght, 
He mused sore to conquer his desire: 
For no man may to more pennance be broght 
Than in his heat to bring him to the fire. 


The herte began to swell within his chest, 

So sore strained for anguish and for paine, 
That all to peeces almost it to brest, 

Whan both at ones so sore it did constraine, 
Desire was bold, but shame it gan refraine, 

That one was large, the other was full close: 
No little charge was laid on him, certaine, 

To, keepe such werre, and haue so many 

fose. ‘ 


Full oftentimes to speak himself he pained, 
But shamefastnesse and drede said euer hay, 

Yet at the last, so sore he was constrained, 
Whan he full long had put it in delay, 

To his lady right thus than gan he say, 
With dredeful voice, weeping, half in a 

rage : 

“ For me was purueyed an vnhappy day, 

Whan I first had a sight of your visage !”’ 


——$9—— 


CHARLES D'ORLEANS. 


Cuarxzs, Duke of Orléans, was born May 
26,1391. From his earliest years, he devoted 
himself to poetry and eloquence. He was 
made prisoner at the battle of Agincourt, and 
taken to England, where he remained twenty- 
five years; and during this long period of cap- 
tivity consoled himself by the study of poetry 
and letters. He returned to France in 1440, 
and married Marie de Claves, niece of Philip 
the Good, duke of Burgundy. He died, greatly 
regretted, January 8, 1467. His poems are 
distinguished by delicacy of’ sentiment and 
graceful simplicity of style; and his versifica- 
tion is free and flowing. 

De ete Stet ea rd 


14 Compass, circle, distance. 


12 Turn, or measure. 
13 Arbour. 


eos ee 2 pre RS SF Sos Le ch . shia : w a eat 
FRENCH POETRY. | 


RONDEL. 


Herncr away, begone, begone, 
Carking care and melancholy ! 
Think ye thus to govern me 

All my life long, as ye have done? 
That shall ye not, I promise ye: 
Reason shall have the mastery. 

So hence away, begone, begone, 
Carking care and melancholy ! 


If ever ye return this way, 

With your mournful company, 
A curse be on ye, and the day 

That brings ye moping back to me! 
Hence away, begone, I say, 

Carking care and melancholy ! 


RENOUVEAU. 


Now Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain, 
And clothes him in the embroidery 
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
With beast and bird the forest rings, 
Each in his jargon cries or sings; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. 


Wear in their dainty livery 
Drops of silver jewelry ; 
In new-made suit they merry look ; 


River, and fount, and tinkling brook | 
| 


And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. 


RENOUVEAU, 


GunTLE Spring, in sunshine clad, 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For Winter maketh the light heart sad, 

And thou — thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the 

rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 


Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, 
Their beards of icicles and snow; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 
We must cower over the embers low, 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 


Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; 

But, Heaven be praised! thy step is nigh; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 

And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, 

Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 

Is banished afar by the new-born year, 

When thy merry step draws near. 


| 
| 
fete = eelgrass at 


i a) Oe A ae 
CHARLES D’ORLEANS.—SURVILLE. 441 
a 
SONG. ’T is but an idle dream to say 
I sroop upon the wild seashore, With her may aught compare : 
And marked the wide expanse 5 The world no treasure can display 
| My straining eyes were turned once more So precious and so fair. 


To long loved, distant France : 
I saw the sea-bird hurry by 
Along the waters blue ; 
I saw her wheel amid the sky, 
And mock my tearful, eager eye, ; 
That would her flight pursue. Marcuerite-ELEonore-CLoTiLpDE DE VAL- 
Lon Cuatys, afterwards Madame de Surville, 
Onward she darts, secure and free, was born at the Chiteau de Vallon, in Langue- 
And wings her rapid course to thee ! doc, in the year 1405. She inherited from her 
O, that her wing were mine, to soar, mother a taste for poetry and letters, which 
And reach thy lovely land once more ! manifested itself at a very early age. When 
O Heaven ! it were enough, to die eleven years old, she translated an ode of 
In my own, my native home, — Petrarch with so much skill and grace, that 
One hour of blessed liberty Christine de Pisan, after having read it, ex- 
Were worth whole years to come ' claimed, ‘I must yield to this child all my 


—_9— 


CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE. 


rights to the sceptre of Parnassus.” In 1421, 
SONG she married Bérenger de Surville, a young and 

gallant knight, with whom she was passionately || 

Witt thou be mine? dear love, reply, — | in love. Seven years after the marriage, her | 
Sweetly consent, or else deny : husband fell at the siege of Orléans; after this, 
Whisper softly, none shall know, — she occupied herself with the education of 
Wilt thou be mine, love? —ay or ho? young females who possessed poetical talents. 
Among them are mentioned Sophie de Lyonna 


Spite of fortune, we may be 

Happy by one word from thee : 

Life flies swiftly ; ere it go, 

Wilt thou be mine, love ? —ay or no? 


and Juliette de Vivarez. The poems of Clo- 
tilde excited the admiration of Charles of Or- 
léans, who made them known to Margaret of 
Scotland, the wife of Louis the dauphin. This 
princess, unable to draw Clotilde from the re- 
tirement in which she had lived since her hus- 


SONG. ee 
band’s death, sent her a crown of artificial lau- 
O, rer me, let me think in peace! rel, surmounted by twelve pearls with golden 
Alas! the boon I ask is time! studs and silver leaves, and the device, “* Mar- 
My sorrows seem awhile to cease, garet * of Scotland, to the Margaret of Helicon.” 
When I may breathe the tuneful rhyme. The date of Clotilde’s death is uncertain. She 
Unwelcome thoughts and vain regret must have lived beyond the age of ninety, as 
Amidst the busy crowd increase ; she celebrated the victory gained by Charles 
« The boon I ask is to forget ; — the Eighth over the Italian princes at Fornovo. 
O, let me, let me think in peace * The genuineness of the poems which pass 
: under the name of Clotilde has been impugned 
For sometimes in a lonely hour on very strong grounds. The statement is, that |! 
Past happiness my dream recalls ; they remained unknown until 1782, when one || 
And, like sweet dews, the freshening shower | of her descendants, Joseph-Etienne de Surville, 
Upon my heart’s sad desert falls. discovered them while searching the archives | 
Forgive me, then, — the contest cease, — of his family; that he studied the language and 
O, let me, let me think in peace! deciphered the handwriting ; that on his emi- 
gration, in 1791, he left the original manuscript || 
| B behind him, and that it perished, with many 
| SONG. kK ; 
other family documents, in the flames; that 
Heaven! ’tis delight to see how fair after his death (he was shot as a returned emi- 
Is she, my gentle love! grant in 1798), copies of several of the pieces 
To serve her is my only care, passed from the hands of his widow to the 
For all her bondage prove. publisher, Vanderbourg. 
Who could be weary of her sight? 
Each day new beauties spring: 
Just Heaven, who made her fair and bright, THE CHILD ASLEEP. 
Inspires me while I sing. Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father’s face ! 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed! 


In any land where’er the sea Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 


Bathes some delicious shore, Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s breast ! 
Where’er the sweetest clime may be i 
The south wind wanders o’er, + Marguerite, i. e. the Pearl. 
56 


——————————————————_—__ an 


Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to 


me! 

| I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — 

"I is sweet to watch for thee,—alone for 
thee ! 


His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; 
His eye is closed ; 
harm : 
Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow, 
Would you not say he slept on Death’s cold 
arm ? 


he sleeps, nor dreams of 


Awake, my boy! —I tremble with affright-! — 
Awake, and chase this fatal thought !— Un- 
close 
Thine eye, but for one moment, on the light ! 
Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 


Sweet error !—he but slept, —I breathe again ;— 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep be- 
guile! 
O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 


—— 4. 


FRANCOIS CORBUEIL, DIT VILLON. 


Tuts distinguished poet and rogue was born 
at Paris, in 1431. His parents were poor, but 
found the means of sending him to school. His 
dissipation and profligacy, however, hindered 
him from deriving much benefit from his stud- 
ies. On entering the world, he connected him- 
self with the most abandoned young men of the 
capital, and though he often repented of his 
graceless way of life, he soon returned to his 
ancient practices, alleging that fortune had giv- 
en him no other means of satisfying his wants ; 


“For hunger makes the wolf desert the wood.” 


He was at length brought to trial for a grave 
offence, and condemned to be hanged, with five 


of his associates. His gayety did not desert him 
in this awkward situation. He wrote his own 
epitaph, and composed a ballad for himself and 
his companions in misfortune, in anticipation of 
their being carried, after execution, to Montfau- 
con. He acknowledged, howeyer, that “the 
play did not please him”; and, upon an appeal 
to the parliament, the sentence of condemna- 
tion was set aside, and his punishment com- 
muted to banishment. He took great credit to 
himself for having had the presence of mind to 
utter the words, ‘I appeal’; it was, in his 
opinion, the finest thing he had ever said. 
After having escaped this danger, he retired 
to Saint-Genou, but the warning failed to make 
him change his course of life. He was again 
arrested for some new offence, and thrown into 
prison, where he remained three months, until 
the intervention of Louis the Eleventh procured 
his liberation. After this, according to Rabelais, 


FRENCH POETRY. 


he retired to England, where he enjoyed the 
protection of Edward the Fourth. He probably 
died in Paris about the end of the fifteenth, or 
the beginning of the sixteenth century. 


THE LADIES OF LONG AGO. 


TELL me to what region flown 

Is Flora, the fair Roman, gone ? 
Where lovely Thais’ hiding-place, 
Her sister in each charm and grace? 
Echo, let thy voice awake, 

Over river, stream, and lake: 
Answer, where does beauty go ?— 
Where is fled the south wind’s snow ? 


Where is Eloise the wise, 

For whose two bewitching eyes 
Hapless Abeillard was doomed 

In his cell to live entombed ? 

Where the queen, her love who gave, 
Cast in Seine, a watery grave?! 
Where each lovely cause of woe ?—~ ! 
Where is fled the south wind’s snow ? 


Where thy voice, O regal fair, 

Sweet as is the lark’s in air? 

Where is Bertha? Alix? she 

Who Le Mayne held gallantly ? 
Where is Joan, whom English flame 
Gave, at Rouen, death and fame ? 
Where are all ? — does any know ?— 
Where is fled the south wind’s snow ? 


—4——. 


MARTIAL DE PARIS, DIT D’AU- 
VERGNE. 


Tus author, who takes rank among the best 
writers of his age, was born at Paris, about the 
year 1440. For the long period of forty years, 
he held the office of Procureur to the parlia- 
ment. As an author, he was chiefly known by 
fifty-one “ Arréts d’Amours,”’ the idea of which 
was suggested by the poems of the Troubadours. 
These were written in prose, but preceded and 
followed by verses. But the work which 
gained him the most reputation was a_histor- 
ical poem on Charles the Seventh, extending 
to between six and seven thousand verses in 
various measures. Other pieces also have been 
attributed to him. He died May 13th, 1508. 


THE ADVANTAGES OF ADVERSITY. 


Tue prince, who fortune’s falsehood knows, 
With pity hears his subjects’ woes, 

And seeks to comfort and to heal 

Those griefs the prosperous cannot feel. 


nee eeeeere eer ee eee eS eee 


1 See the reign of Louis the Tenth for an account of 
Marguerite of Burgundy and her proceedings. 


[ 


Warned by the dangers he has run, 

He strives the ills of war to shun, 

Seeks peace, and with a steady hand 
Spreads truth and justice through the land. 


When. poverty the Romans knew, 

Each honest heart was pure and true ; 
But soon as wealth assumed her reign, 
Pride and ambition swelled her train. 


When hardship is a monarch’s share, 

And his career begins in care, 

eee : 

T is sign that good will come, though late, 
And blessings on the future wait. 


SONG. 


Dear the felicity, 
Gentle, and fair, and sweet, 
Love and simplicity, 
When tender shepherds meet: 
Better than store of gold, 
Silver and gems untold, 
Manners refined and cold, 
Which to our lords belong. 
We, when our toil is ‘past, 
Softest delight can taste, 
While summer’s beauties last, 
Dance, feast, and jocund song ; 
And in our hearts a joy 
No envy can destroy. 


—¢——— 


GUILLAUME CRETIN. 


————— 


Guiitaume Dvusors, surnamed Cretin, flour- 
ished in the latter half of the fifteenth century, 
and the beginning of the sixteenth. He was 
born at Nanterre, near Paris, and lived under 
Charles the Eighth, Louis the Twelfth, and 
Francis the First, the last of whom employed 
him to write the history of France. The work, 
embracing five folio volumes of French verse, 
is among the manuscripts of the Bibliotheque 
du Roi. The history commences with the tak- 
ing of Troy, and extends to the end of the 
second race. He wrote a vast number of other 
works; among them are songs, ballads, ron- 
deaux, laments, quatrains, &c., a collection of 
which was published in 1527. His death took 
place about 1525. 


—=> 


SONG. . 


Love is like a fairy’s favor, 
Bright to-day, but faded soon ; 
If thou lov’st and fain wouldst have her, 
Think what course will speed thee on. 
For her faults if thou reprove her, 
Frowns are ready, words as bad ; 
If thou sigh, her smiles recover, — 
But be gay, and she is sad. 


MARTIAL DE PARIS.—CRETIN.—ISAURE. 443 | 


ER A aes PNT OAR ae 


If with stratagems thou try her, 
All thy wiles she soon will find ; 

The only art, unless thou fly her, 
Is to seem as thou wert blind. 


eo 


CLEMENCE ISAURE. 


Tu1s poetess was born in 1464, near Tou- 
louse. She was endowed by nature with beau- 
ty and genius. Having lost her father when 
she was only five years old, she was educated 
in seclusion; but near her garden, there lived 
a young Troubadour, Raoul, who fell in love 
with her, and made his passion known in songs. 
She replied with flowers, according to her lov- 
er’s petition : — 

‘© Vous avez inspiré mes vers, 
Qu’une fleur soit ma récompense.”’ 

Her lover having fallen in battle, Isaure re- 
solved to take the veil; but first renewed the 
Floral Games, Jeux Florauz, which had been 
established by the Troubadours, but had long 
been forgotten. To this institution she devoted 
her whole fortune. Having fixed on the first of || 
May for the distribution of the prizes, she wrote 
an ode on Spring, which acquired for her the 
surname of the Sappho of Toulouse. 


SONG, 


Tux tender dove amidst the woods all day 
Murmurs in peace her long continued strain, 
The linnet warbles his melodious lay, 
To hail bright Spring and all her flowers again. 


Alas! and I, thus plaintive and alone, 
Who have no lore but love and misery, — 
My only task, — to joy, to hope unknown,— 
Is to lament my sorrows and to die ! 


SONG. 


Farr season! childhood of the year! 
Verse and mirth to thee are dear ; 
Wreaths thou hast, of old renown, 
The faithful Troubadour to crown. 


Let us sing the Virgin’s praise, 

Let her name inspire our lays ; 

She, whose heart with woe was riven, 
Mourning for the Prince of Heaven! 


Bards may deem — alas! how wrong — 
That they yet may live in song: 

Well I know the hour will come, 

When, within the dreary tomb, 

Poets will forget my fame, 

And Clémence shall be but a name ! 


Thus may early roses blow, 
When the sun of spring is bright ; 
But even the buds that fairest glow 
Wither in the blast of night. 


hee 


ae 
re 
wiht ee ie 


RTS 
me 


iad 


5 lea 
Py ; 


centers 


— 


+ Peo | By 


a 


~~ 


MELLIN DE SAINT-GELAIS. 


Me.iin pe Saint-Gexars, son of the poet 
Octavien de Saint-Gelais, was born in 1491. 
He received a careful education, being destined 
to the ecclesiastical profession. Francis the 
First granted him the abbey of Notre-Dame-des- 
Reclus, and appointed him Almoner to Henry 
the, Second, then dauphin; and when this 
prince mounted the throne, Mellin became his 
librarian. He died in 1558. 

The works of this poet consist of epistles, 
-rondeaux, ballads, sonnets, quatrains, epitaphs, 
elegies, &c. He translated parts of Ovid, and 
wrote imitations of Bion and Ariosto. 


HUITAIN. 


Go, glowing sighs, my soul’s expiring breath, 
Ye who alone can tell my cause of care ; 
If she I love behold unmoved my death, 
Fly up to heaven, and wait my coming there ! 
But if her eye, as ye believe so fain, 
Deign with some hope our sorrow to supply, 
Return to me, and bring my soul again, — 
For I no more shall have a wish to die. 


ae 


MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, REINE DE 
NAVARRE. 


Marearet, or Marguerite, the famous queen 
of Navarre, was born at Angouléme, in 1492. 
She was married to the duke of Alencon, in 
1509, and, being left a widow in 1525, was 
again married to Henri d’Abret, king of Na- 
varre. She was fond of study, prepared Mys- 
teries for representation from the Scriptures, 
and wrote a work called “The Mirror of the 
Sinful Soul’’; but she is best known in litera- 
ture by a collection of stories, called ‘“« Hepta- 
meron, ou Sept Journées de la Reyne de Na- 
varre.”’ She died in 1549. A collection of 
her poems and other pieces appeared in 1547, 
under the title of ‘* Marguerites de la Margue- 
rite des Princesses.” Several editions have 
since been published. 


— 


ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS 
THE FIRST. 


’'T 1s done! a father, mother, gone, 

A sister, brother, torn away, 
My hope is now in God alone, 

Whom heaven and earth alike obey. 
Above, beneath, to him is known, — 
The world’s wide compass is his own. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


THIRD PERIOD.—FROM 1500 TO 1650. 


I love, — but in the world no more, 
Nor in gay hall, or festal bower; 

Not the fair forms I prized before, — 
But Him, all beauty, wisdom, power, 

My Saviour, who has cast a chain 

On sin and ill, and woe and pain ! 


I from my memory have effaced 

All former joys, all kindred, friends ; 
All honors that my station graced 

{ hold but snares that fortune sends: 
Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast, 
That we may be his own at last! 


—>—- 


FRANCOIS I. 


Francois J., king of France, whose love 
and support of learning procured him the ap- 
pellation of the Father of Literature, was born 
at Cognac, in 1494. He ascended the throne 
in 1515. The political and military events of 
his reign, which occupy a large space in the 
history of France, are foreign to the purpose 
of this work. He established the Royal College, 
and laid the foundation of the Library at Paris. 
He introduced into France the remains of an- 
cient literature, which the revival of learning 
was just recalling to the notice of the world, 
He was also a powerful protector of the arts and 
sciences. 


EPITAPH ON FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 


Beneatu this tomb De Foix’s fair Frances lies, 
On whose rare worth each tongue delights to 
dwell ; 
And none, while fame her virtue deifies, 
Can with harsh voice the meed of praise re- 
pel. 
In beauty peerless, in attractive grace, 
Of mind enlightened, and of wit refined ; 
With honor, more than this weak tongue can 
trace, 
The Eternal Father stored her spotless mind. 
Alas! the sum of human gifts how small! 
Here nothing lies, that once commanded all ! 


EPITAPH ON AGNES SOREL. 


Here lies entombed the fairest of the fair: 

To her rare beauty greater praise be given, 
Than holy maids in cloistered cells may share, 
Or hermits that in deserts live for heaven! 

For by her charms recovered France arose, 
Shook off her chains, and triumphed o’er her 
foes. 


MAROT.—HENRI II. 


i EEE 
—— | 


CLEMENT MAROT. 


Turs celebrated epigrammatist and lyrical 
poet was born at Cahors, in 1505. He-was a 
page of Margaret of France, and afterwards ac- 
companied Francis the First to the Netherlands. 
He was present in the battle of Pavia, where 
he was wounded and taken prisoner. Being 
thrown into prison on his return to Paris, on a 
suspicion of favoring Calvinism, he employed 
his time in recasting the ‘‘ Romance of the Rose.” 
After his liberation from prison, he fled to Italy, 
and thence to Geneva, where he became a dis- 
ciple of Calvin; but soon recanting his profes- 
sion of faith, returned to Paris. He left France 
once more and visited Turin, where he died in 
1544. One of his chief works is his translation 
of the Psalms, made in connection with Beza. 
He had a lively fancy, much wit, and wrote 
in a simple but epigrammatic style, which the 
French have called the Style Marotique. 


FRIAR LUBIN. 


To gallop off to town post-haste, 
So oft, the times I cannot tell ; 
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced, — 
Friar Lubin will do it well. 
But a sober life to lead, 
To honor virtue, and pursue it, 
That ’s a pious, Christian deed, — 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


To mingle, with a knowing smile, 
The goods of others with his own, 
And leave you without cross or pile, 
Friar Lubin stands alone. 
To say ’t is yours is all in vain, 
If once he lays his finger to it ; 
For as to giving back again, 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


With flattering words and gentle tone, 
To woo and win some guileless maid, 
Cunning pander need you none, — 
Friar Lubin knows the trade. 
Loud preacheth he sobriety, 
But as for water, doth eschew it ; 
Your dog may drink it, —but not he ; 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


ENVOY. 
When an evil deed ’s to do, 
Friar Lubin is stout and true ; 
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


— 


TO ANNE. 


WueEn thou art near to me, it seems 
As if the sun along the sky, 

Though he awhile withheld his beams, 
Burst forth in glowing majesty : 


But like a storm that lowers on high, 
Thy absence clouds the scene again ; — 
Alas! that from so sweet a joy 
Should spring regret so full of pain! 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Tuis dear resemblance of thy lovely face, 
’'T is true, is painted with a master’s care ; 
But one far better ‘still my heart can trace, 
For Love himself engraved the image there. 
Thy gift can make my soul blest visions share ; 
But brighter still, dear love, my joys would 
shine, 
Were I within thy heart impressed as fair, 
As true, as vividly, as thou in mine ! 


es 


HUITAIN. 


I am no more what I have been, 
Nor can regret restore my prime ; 
My summer years and beauty’s sheen ° 
Are in the envious clutch of Time. 
Above all gods I owned thy reign, 
O Love! and served thee to the letter ; 
But, if my life were given again, 
Methinks I yet could serve thee better. 


TO DIANE DE POITIERS. 


FAREWELL! since vain is all my care, 
Far, in some desert rude, 

I ‘ll hide my weaknéss, my despair ; 
And, ’midst my solitude, 

I ’ll pray, that, should another move thee, 

He may, as fondly, truly love thee. 


Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven! 
Adieu, soft cheek, where suinmer blooms ! 

Adieu, fair form, earth’s pattern given, 
Which Love inhabits and illumes ! 

Your rays have fallen but coldly on me: 

One far less fond, perchance, had won ye! 


—o—— 


HENRI II. 


Tuis able and energetic prince was born at 
St. Germain-en-Laye, March 31st, 1518. He 
ascended the throne at the age of twenty-nine, 
made many changes in the government, re- 
formed abuses, and developed the resources of 
the kingdom. He was a lover of poetry, and, 
under the inspiration of his passion for the beau- 
tiful Diane de Poitiers, wrote pieces of consid- 
erable merit. After an active and important 
reign of twelve years, Henri died of a wound 
he had received in a tournament, from the 
Comte de Montgomery, captain of the Scot- 
tish guard. 

LL 


and his poetry. 


TO DIANE DE POITIERS. 


More constant faith none ever swore 
To a new prince, O fairest fair, 

Than mine to thee, whom I adore, 
Which time nor death can e’er impair ! 


The steady fortress of my heart 
Seeks not with towers secured to be, 
The lady of the hold thou art, 
For ’t is of firmness worthy thee : 
No bribes o’er thee can victory obtain, 
A heart so noble treason cannot stain ! 


—-—-o-——- 


PIERRE DE RONSARD. 


Tuis person, whose name is one of the most 
celebrated in the early literature of France, was 
born, in 1524, at the Chateau de la Poissoniére, 
in the province of Vendéme. He was sent to 
Paris, at the age of nine years, to the Collége 
de Navarre, but soon afterwards entered the 
service of the duke of Orléans, as page. James 
Stuart, king of Scotland, who had arrived 
in France to marry Marie de Lorraine, took 
Ronsard with him, on his return to Scotland. 
He remained three years in Great Britain, after 
which he returned to France and was employ- 
ed by the duke of Orléans. Having become 
deaf, he withdrew from public life, and devoted 
himself to literary pursuits at the College de 
Coqueret. His early poetical pleces had an 
astonishing success. He was crowned at the 
Floral Games, and declared by a decree of the 
magistrates of Toulouse to be the French poet. 
These honors excited the ire of Mellin de Saint- 
Gellais, and the court was divided between 
the two literary factions. The dispute was de- 
cided by Francis the First in favor of Ronsard. 

Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm which 
the pedantic and affected style of this writer ex- 
cited. Men of the highest rank, scholars of the 
most distinguished learning, vied with each 
other in heaping encomiums upon his genius 
His works consoled the un- 
happy Mary Stuart in her imprisonment, and 
she presented to him a silver Parnassus, in 
scribed with the words, — 


ob A Ronsard, l’ Apollon de la source des Muses”? : 
To Ronsard, the Apollo of the Muses’ spring ; 

and Chastelard, her unfortunate lover, when he 
lost his head, desired no other viaticum than the 
verses of Ronsard. De Thou compared him to 
the greatest writers of antiquity, and pronoun- 
ced him the most accomplished poet that had 
appeared since Horace and Tibullus. Old Pas- 
quier says of him, in the eighth book of his 
“ Recherches,” “I do not think that Rome ever 
produced a greater poet than Ronsard.”’ 

But the affectations of his style made it im- 
possible that his popularity should long continue. 
‘“‘ His Muse,’’ says Boileau, “in French spoke 
Greek and Latin”; in fact, his language was 


FRENCH POETRY. 
Orlane ieee oon NY ok | Lane | 


rier es at int opt mdioes ine Sapa ete. 


an absurd and unintelligible jargor, the ele- 
ments of which were drawn from every quarter. 
He says of himself, — 
“Je fis de nouveaux mots, 
J’en condamnay de vieux.’? 

The writer of his life in the ‘ Biographie 
Universelle’ says: “He affected so much eru- 
dition in his verses, and even in his books of 
‘ Loves,’ that his mistresses found it necessary, 

-in order to understand him, to resort to the dan- 
gerous aid of foreign commentators.” His nu- 
merous works, embracing almost every species 
of composition, have been several times pub- 
lished. He was the originator of the French 
Pleiades ; the satellites, chosen by himself, were 
Joachim du Bellay, Antoine de Baif, Pontus de 
Thyard, Remi Belleau, Jean Dorat, and Etienne 
Jodelle. He fell into a premature decrepitude, 
brought on by excesses, and died at his priory 
of Saint-Come, near Tours, in 1585. 


TO HIS LYRE. 


O GotpEn lyre, whom all the Muses claim, 
And Phebus crowns with uncontested fame, 
My solace in all woes that Fate has sent! 
At thy soft voice all nature smiles content, 
The dance springs gayly at thy jocund call, 
And with thy music echo bower and hall. 


When thou art heard, the lightnings cease to 
play, 

And Jove’s dread thunder faintly dies away ; 

Low on the triple-pointed bolt reclined, 

His eagle droops his wing, and sleeps resigned, 

As, at thy power, his all-pervading eye 

Yields gently to the spell of minstrelsy. 


To him may ne’er Elysian joys belong, 

Who prizes not, melodious lyre, thy song! 

Pride of my youth, I first in France made 
known 

All the wild wonders of thy godlike tone; 

I tuned thee first, —for harsh thy chords I found, 

And all thy sweetness in oblivion bound : 

But scarce my eager fingers touch thy strings, 

When each rich strain to deathless being springs. 


Time’s withering grasp was cold upon thee 
then, 

And my heart bled to see thee scorned of men; 

Who once at monarchs’ feasts, so gayly dight, 

Filled all their courts with glory and delight. 


To give thee back thy former magic tone, 

The force, the grace, the beauty all thine own, 
Through Thebes I sought, Apulia’s realm ex- 
plored, . 
And hung their spoils upon each drooping chord. 


Then forth, through lovely France, we took our 
way, 

And Loire resounded many an early lay: 

I sang the mighty deeds of princes high, 

And poured the exulting song of victory. 


| 


RONSARD.—BELLAY. 


447 


He, who would rouse thy eloquence divine, 
In camps or tourneys may not hope to shine, 
Nor on the seas behold his prosperous sail, 
Nor in the fields of warlike strife prevail. 


But thou, my forest, and each pleasant wood 

Which shades my own Vendéme’s majestic 
flood, 

Where Pan and all the laughing nymphs repose ; 

Ye sacred choir, whom Bray’s fair walls in- 
close, 

Ye shall bestow upon your bard a name 

That through the universe shall spread his fame, 

His notes shall grace, and love, and joy inspire, 

And all be subject to his sounding lyre ! 

Even now, my lute, the world has heard thy 
praise, 

Even now the sons of France applaud my lays: 

Me, as their bard, above the rest they choose. 

To you be thanks, O each propitious Muse, 

That, taught by you, my voice can fitly sing, 

To celebrate my country and my king ! 


O, if I please, O, if my songs awake 

Some gentle memories for Ronsard’s sake, 

If I the harper of fair France may be, 

If men shall point and say, ‘¢ Lo! that is he!” 
If mine may prove a destiny so proud 

That France herself proclaims my praise aloud, 
If on my head I place a starry crown, 

To thee, to thee, my lute, be the renown ! 


LOVES. 


My sorrowing Muse, no more complain ! 
’T was not ordained for thee, 
While yet the bard in life remain, 
The meed of fame to see. 
The poet, till the dismal gulf be past, 
Knows not what honors crown his name at last. 
Perchance, when years have rolled away, 
My Loire shall be a sacred stream, 
My name a dear and cherished theme, 
And those who in that region stray 
Shall marvel such a spot of earth 
* Could give so great a poet birth. 
Revive, my Muse! for virtue’s ore 
In this vain world is counted air, 
But held a gem beyond compare 
When ’tis beheld on earth no more: 
Rancor the living seeks, — the dead alone 
Enjoy their fame, to envy’s blights unknown. 


TO MARY STUART. 


Aut beauty, granted as a boon to earth, 
That is, has been, or ever can*have birth, 
Compared to hers, is void, and Nature’s care 
Ne’er formed a creature so divinely fair. 


In spring amidst the lilies she was born, 

And purer tints her peerless face adorn ; 

And though Adonis’ blood the rose may paint, 
Beside her bloom the rose’s hues are faint: 


| O France! where are thy ancient champions 


With all his richest store Love decked her eyes: 

The Graces each, those daughters of the skies, 

Strove which should make her to the world 
most dear, 

And, to attend her, left their native sphere. | 


The day that was to bear her far away, — 
Why was I mortal to behold that day ? 
O, had I senseless grown, nor heard, nor seen ! 
Or that my eyes a ceaseless fount had been, 
That I might weep, as weep amidst their bowers 
The nymphs, when winter winds have cropped 
their flowers, 
Or when rude torrents the clear streams deform, 
Or when the trees are riven by the storm! 
Or rather, would that I some bird had been, 
Still to be near her in each changing scene, 
Still on the highest mast to watch all day, 
And like a star to mark her vessel’s way : 1] 
The dangerous billows past, on shore, on sea, | 
Near that dear face it still were mine to be! | 


gone, — } 
Roland, Rinaldo ? — is there living none | 
Her steps to follow and her safety guard, 
And deem her lovely looks their best reward, — 
Which might subdue the pride of mighty Jove 
To leave his heaven, and languish for her love? |) 
No fault is hers, but in her royal state, — | 
For simple Love dreads to approach the great ; 
He flies from regal pomp, that treacherous snare, 
Where truth unmarked may wither in despair. 


Wherever destiny her path may lead, 
Fresh-springing flowers will bloom beneath her 

tread, 
All nature will rejoice, the waves be bright, 
The tempest check its fury at her sight, 
The sea be calm: her beauty to behold, | 
The sun shall crown her with his rays of gold,— |) 
Unless he fears, should he approach her throne, 
Her majesty should quite eclipse his own. 


6 


JOACHIM DU BELLAY. | 


Tis writer was born about the year 1525. 
He early enjoyed high consideration at court, || 
partly through the influence of his kinsman, the | 
Cardinal du Bellay. His contemporaries called | 
him the French Ovid; for he composed Latin |; 
poems in the style of Ovid, and in his French | 
verses endeavoured to catch the lightness and || 
grace of the Ovidian manner. Bellay was one 
of the Pleiades. He died in 1560. 


FROM THE VISIONS. 
I. 
Ir was the time, when rest, soft sliding downe 
From heavens hight into mens heavy eyes, 
In the forgetfulnes of sleepe doth drowne 
The carefull thoughts of mortall miseries ; 


EEE SN NESE ES | 


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es 


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448 


Then did a ghost before mine eyes appeare, 
On that great rivers banck, that runnes by 
Rome; 
Which, calling me by name, bad me to reare 
My lookes to heaven, whence all good gifts 
do come, 
And crying lowd, “Lo! now beholde,”’ quoth 
hee, 
‘What under this great temple placed is : 
Lo, all is nought but flying vanitee !”’ 
So I, that know this worlds inconstancies, 
Sith onely God surmounts all times decay, 
In God alone my confidence do stay. 


Il. 


On high hills top I saw a stately frame, 

An hundred cubits high by iust assize,} 
With hundreth pillours fronting faire the same, 

All wrought with diamond after Dorick wize : 
Nor brick nor marble was the wall in view, 

But shining christall, which from top to base 
Out of her womb a thousand rayons2 threw, 

One hundred steps of Afrike golds enchase : 
Golde was the parget®; and the seeling bright 

Did shine all scaly with great plates of golde ; 
The floore of iasp and emeraude was dight. 

O, worlds vainesse ! Whiles thus I did behold, 
An earthquake shooke the hill from lowest seat, 
And overthrew this frame with ruine great. 


III. 


Then did a sharped spyre of diamond bright, 
Ten feete each way in square, appeare to mee, 
Iustly proportion’d up unto his hight, 
So far as archer might his level see: 
The top thereof a pot did seeme to beare, 
Made of the mettall which we most do hon- 
our ; 
And in this golden vessel couched weare 
The ashes of a mightie emperour : 
Upon foure corners of the base were pight,# 
To beare the frame, foure great lyons of gold; 
A worthy tombe for such a worthy wight. 
Alas! this world doth nought but grievance 
hold! 
I saw a tempest from the heaven descend, 
Which this brave monument with flash did rend. 


Iv. 


I saw raysde up on yvorie pillowes tall, 
Whose bases were of richest mettalls warke, 
The chapters alabaster, the fryses christall, 
The double front of a triumphall arke: 
On each side purtraid was a Victorie, 
Clad like a nimph, that winges of silver weares, 
And in triumphant chayre was set on hie 
The auncient glory of the Romaine peares, 
No worke it seem’d of earthly craftsmans wit, 
But rather wrought by his owne industry, 
That thunder-dartes for Iove his syre doth fit. 
Let me no more see faire thing under sky, 
Sith that mine eyes have seene so faire a sight 
With sodain fall to dust consumed quight. 


wren Saber 
1 Measure. 3 Varnish, plaster, 
2 Beams, rays. 4 Placed. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


Vi 


Then was the faire Dodonian tree far seene 
Upon seaven hills to spread his gladsome 
gleame, ‘ 
And conquerours bedecked with his greene, 
Along the bancks of the Ausonian streame : 
There many an auncient trophee was addrest, 
And many a spoyle, and many a goodly show, 
Which that brave races greatnes did attest, 
That whilome from the Troyan blood did flow. 
Ravisht I was so rare a thing to vew ; 
When, lo! a barbarous troupe of clownish 
fone > 
The honour of these noble boughs down threw: 
Under the wedge I heard the tronck to grone ; 
And, since, I saw the roote in great disdaine 
A twinne of forked trees send forth againe. 


Wits 


I saw a wolfe under a rockie cave 
Noursing two whelpes; I saw her litle ones 
In wanton dalliance the teate to crave, 
While she her neck wreath’d from them for 
the nones §; 
I saw her raunge abroad to seeke her foodjin, 
And, roming through the field with greedie 
rage, 
T’ embrew her teeth and clawes with lukewarm 
blood 
Of the small heards, her thirst for to asswage : 
I saw a thousand huntsmen, which descended 
Downe from the mountaines bordring Lom- 
bardie, 
That with an hundred speares her flank wide 
rended : . 
I saw her on the plaine outstretched lie, 
Throwing out thousand throbs in her owne 
soyle ; 
Soone on a tree uphang’d I saw her spoyle. 


Se 


JEAN DORAT. 


Jean Dorat was born early in the sixteenth 
century, in Limosin. He belonged to, an 
ancient family, whose name, Dinemandy, he 
changed, euphonie causa, into Dorat. After 
having completed his studies in the college of 
Limoges, he went to Paris, where he soon found 
protectors. Francis the First made him pre- 
ceptor of his pages; but after this, he served 
three years in the army of the dauphin. In 
1560, he was appointed Professor of Greek in 
the Collége Royal. He was one of the Plei- 
ades. In the decline of life, he exposed him- 
self to the pleasantries of his friends by a second 
marriage. The dbject of his choice was a very 
young woman, the daughter of a pastry-cook; 
and it was said that her whole dowry was a 
pigeon-pie, which the bridegroom and his friends 
ate on the wedding-day. Dorat died at Paris, 
in 1588. 


ED A'S 
5 Foes. 6 For the nonce, for the occasion. 


| 


Fd 


TO CATHERINE DE MEDICIS, REGENT. 


Ir faithful to five kings I ’ve been, 

And forty years have filled the scene, 
Till learning’s stream a torrent grows, 
And France with knowledge overflows, 
While fame is ours from shore to shore, 
For ancient and for modern lore ; 
Methinks, if I deserve such fame, 

And nations thus applaud my name, 

’'T will sound but ill that men should say, 
«« Beneath the Regent Catherine’s sway, — 
Patron of arts, of wits the pride, — 

Of want and famine Dorat died!” 


pb ERE 


LOUISE LABE. 


Lovisr Las#, la belle cordiére, was born at 
Lyons, in 1526. She was well educated in 
music and the languages, and was trained to rid- 
ing and other bodily exercises. She formed the 
singular design of serving in the army, and 
was actually present, under the name of Cap- 
tain Lois, at the siege of Perpignan. She af- 
terwards devoted herself to literature and po- 
etry, and, having married a rich rope-maker, 
Ennemond Perrin, was enabled to gratify her 
literary tastes. Her many accomplishments, and 
the charms of her conversation, attracted to her 
house the most cultivated and agreeable society 
of Lyons; and the street where she resided bore 
her name. Her works, consisting of a dialogue 
in prose, entitled ‘Dispute between Love and 
Folly,” three elegies, and twenty-four sonnets, 


first appeared in 1556. 


Wuite yet these tears have power to flow 
For hours for ever past away ; 
While yet these swelling sighs allow 
My faltering voice to'breathe a lay ; 
While yet my hand can touch the chords, 
My tender lute, to wake thy tone ; 
While yet my mind no thought affords, 
But one remembered dream alone, 
I ask not death, whate’er my state : 
But when my eyes can weep no more, 
My voice is lost, my hand untrue, 
And when my spirit’s fire is o’er, 
Nor can express the love it knew, 
Come, Death, and cast thy shadow o’er my fate! 


_—_ 


ELEGY. 


Tne captive deer pants not for freedom more, 
Nor storm-beat vessel striving for the shore, 
Than I thy blest return from day to day, 
Counting each moment of thy long delay ; 
Alas! I fondly fixed my term of pain, 

The day, the hour, when we should meet again: 
But, O, this long, this dismal hope deferred 


Has shown my trusting heart how much it erred! 
57 


| 
| 
| 
O thou unkind, whom [I too much adore, | 
W hat meant thy promise, dwelt on o’er and o’er? 
Could all thy tenderness so quickly fade ? 
So soon is my devotion thus repaid ? 
Dar’st thou so soon to her be faithless grown, | 
Whose thoughts, whose words, whose soul, are || 
all thine own? 
Amidst the heights of rocky Pau thy way 
Perchance has been by fortune led astray, | 
Some fairy form thy wandering path has crossed, || 
And I thy wavering, careless heart have lost; || 
And in that beautiful and distant spot, 
My hopes, my love, my sorrow, are forgot ! | 
| 
| 
| 
| 


If it be so, —if I no more am prized, 

Cast from thy memory like a toy despised, 
I marvel not with love that pity fled, | 
And all that told of me and truth is dead. r 
O, how I loved thee !— how my thoughts and || 


fears 
Have dwelt on thee, and made my moments |; 
years ! i 


Yet, let me pause, — have I not loved too well, 
Far more than even this breaking heart can tell? || 
Have we not loved so fondly, that to change | 
Were most impossible, mest wild, most strange ? | 
No: all my fond reliance I renew, \ 
And will believe thee more than mortal true. 
Thou ’rt sick !—-thou ’rt suffering !— Heaven || 
and I away! 
Thou ’rt in some hostile clime condemned to 
stay ! 
Ab,no! ah,no! Heaven knows too well my care, 
And how I weary every saint with prayer ; 
And it were hard, if constancy hke mine 
Gained not protection from the hosts divine. 
It cannot be! thy mind, too lightly moved, 
Forgets in change and absence how we loved ; 
While I, in whose sad heart no change can be, | 
Contented suffer, and implore for thee ! | 
O, when [ ask kind Heaven to make thee blest, 
No crime, methinks, is lurking in my breast ; 
Save, when my soul should all be given to prayer, 
I fondly pause, and find thy image there! 


Twice has the moon her new-born light received 
Since thy return was promised and believed : 
Yet silence and oblivion shroud thee still, 

Nor know I of thy fortune, good or ill. 
Though for another I am dead to thee, 

She scarce, methinks, can boast of fame like 

me, — 
f in my form those charms and graces shine, 
Which, some have said, the world esteems as |, 
mine. 

Alas! with idle praise they crowned my name: 
Who can depend upon the breath of fame ? 
Yet not in France alone the trump is blown : 
Even to the Pyrenees and Calpe flown, 

Where the loud sea washes that frowning shore, 
Its echo wakes above the billows’ roar ; 

Where the broad Rhine’s majestic waters flow, 
In the fair land where thou art roaming now ; 
And thou hast told to my too willing ear, 

That gifted spirits held my glory dear. 


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gain, 
Stay thou where others plead to stay in vain, 
And, O, believe none may with me compare ! 
I say not she, my rival, is less fair, 
But that so firm her passion cannot prove ; 
Nor ‘thou derive such honor from her love. 
For me are feasts and tourneys without end, 
The noble, rich, and brave for me contend ; 
Yet I, regardless, turn my careless eye, 
And scarce for them have words of courtesy. 
In thee my good and ill alike reside, 
In thee.is all, — without thee, all is void ; 
And, having thee alone, when thou art fled, 
All pleasure, all delight, all hope, is dead! 
And still to dream of happiness gone by, 
And weep its loss, is now my sad employ! 
Gloomy despair so triumphs o’er my mind, 
Death seems the sole relief my woes can find, 
And thou the cause !—thy absence, mourned 
in vain, 
Thus keeps me lingering in unpitied pain: 
Not living, — for this is not life, condemned 
To the sharp torment of a love contemned ! 


Return! return! if still one wish remain 

To see this fading form yet once again: 

But if stern Death, before thee, come to claim 
This broken heart and this exhausted frame, 
At least in robes of sorrow’s hue appear, 
And follow to the grave my mournful bier ; 
There, on the marble, pallid as my cheek, 
These graven words my epitaph shall speak : 
“ By thee love’s early flame was taught to glow, 
And love consumed her heart who sleeps below: 
The secret fire her silent ashes keep, 

Till by thy tears the flame is charmed to sleep!” 


ro) qed 


REMI BELLEAU. 


THIS writer was born at Nogent-le-Rotrou, 
in 1528. The Marquis d’Elbeuf took him early 
under his protection, and intrusted to him the 
education of his son. Ronsard called him the 
Painter of Nature. Besides various original 
works, he translated portions of the Old Testa- 
ment, the Odes of Anacreon, and the ‘+ Phe- 
nomena”’ of Aratus; but his most singular pro- 
duction is a macaronic poem, entitled “ Dicta- 
men Metrificum de Bello Huguenotico.” Belleau 
was one of the Pleiades. He died at Paris, in 


1577. 


THE PEARL. 
FROM THE LOVES OF THE GEMS. — DEDICATED TO THE 
QUEEN OF NAVARRE. 
‘ I seex a pearl of rarest worth, 
By the shore of some bright wave, — 
Such a gem, whose wondrous birth 
Radiance to all nature gave : 
Which no change of tint can know, 
Spotless ever, pure and white, 
Midst the rudest winds that blow 
Sparkling in its silver light. 


FRENGCHAPOUE TRY, 


Take thou the prize which all have sought to 


Thou, bright pearl, excell’st each gem 
In proud Nature’s diadem, — 
Yet a captive lov’st to dwell, 
Hid within thy cavern shell, 
Where the sands of India lie 
Basking in the sunny sky. 
| 


Thou, fair gem, art so divine, 
That thy birthplace must be heaven, 
Where the stars, thy neighbours, shine ; 
And thy lucid hue was given 
By Aurora’s rosy fingers, 
When she colors herb and flower, 
And with breath of perfume lingers 
Over meadow, dell, and bower. 


Lustrous shell, from whose bright womb 

Does this fairy treasure come? 

If thou art the ocean’s child, 
Though thy kindred crowd the deep, 

Thou disdain’st the moaning wild 
Which thy foamy lovers keep, 

And in vain their vows they pout 

Round thy closed and guarded door. 


Thou, proud beauty, bidd’st them learn 
But a sojourner art thou ; 

And their idle hopes canst spurn, 
Nor may choose a mate below. 


But when Spring, with treasures rife, 
Calls all nature forth to life, 

Then upon the waves descending, 
Transient rays of brightness lending, 
Falls the dew upon thy breast, 

And, thy heavenly spouse confessed, 
Thou admitt’st within thy cave 
That bright stranger of the wave: 
There be dwells, and hardens there 
To the gem so pure and fair, 

Which above all else is famed, 

And the Marguerite! is named. 


APRIL. 


FROM LA BERGERIE. 


APRIL, season blest and dear, 
Hope of the reviving year, 
Promise of bright fruits that lie 

In their downy canopy, 

Till the nipping winds are past, 
And their veils aside are cast ! 
April, who delight’st to spread 
O’er the emerald, laughing mead 
Flowers of fresh and brilliant dyes, 
Rich in wild embroideries ! 

April, who each zephyr’s sigh 
Dost with perfumed breath supply, 
When they through the forest rove, 
Spreading wily nets of love, 

That, for lovely Flora made, 

May detain her in the shade ! 


1. The French word Marguerite, meaning both pearl and 
daisy, is a constant theme for the poets of every age, and 
furnishes a compliment to the many princesses of that 
name, 


BELLEAU.—DE BAiF.—JODELLE. 


April, by thy hand caressed, 
Nature from her genial breast 
Loves her richest gifts to shower, 
And awakes her magic power: 
Till all earth and air are rife 
With delight, and hope, and life! 


April, nymph for ever fair, 

On my mistress’s sunny hair 
Scattering wreaths of odors sweet, 
For her snowy bosom meet! 

April, full of smiles and grace 
Drawn from Venus’ dwelling-place ; 
Thou, from earth’s enamelled plain, 
Yield’st the gods their breath again ! 


’'T is thy courteous hand doth bring 
Back the messenger of spring ; 

And, his tedious exile o’er, 

Hail’st the swallow’s wing once more. 


The eglantine and hawthorn bright, 

The thyme, and pink, and jasmine white, 
Don their purest robes, to be 

Guests, fair April, worthy thee. 


The nightingale — sweet, hidden sound !— 
’Midst the clustering boughs around, 
Charms to silence notes that wake 
Soft discourse from bush and brake, 
And bids every listening thing 
Pause awhile to hear her sing. 


'T is to thy return we owe 

Love’s fond sighs, that learn to glow 
After Winter’s chilling reign 

Long has bound them in her chain. 
’T is thy smile to being warms 

All the busy, shining swarms, 
Which, on perfumed pillage bent, 
Fly from flower to flower, intent ; 
Till they load their golden thighs 
With the treasure each supplies. 


May may boast her ripened hues, 
Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews, 
And those glowing charms that well 
All the happy world can tell ; 
But, sweet April, thou shalt be 
Still a chosen month for me,— 
For thy birth to her is due,’ 
Who all grace and beauty gave, 
When the gaze of Heaven she drew, 
Fresh from ocean’s foamy wave. 


ip 


JEAN ANTOINE DE BAIF. 


Jean Antoine pe Bair was born at Ven- 
ice, in 1531, while his father was ambassador 
there. He was carefully educated, under Dorat. 
He was the most voluminous poet of his day; 
and his writings embrace nearly every kind of 
composition, — from the sonorous ode, to the 
sprightly epigram. He translated the ** Antigo- 


Se 


1 Venus. 


451 


ne”’ of Sophocles, and adapted several pieces of 
Plautus and Terence. 
artificial. 


He died in 1592. 


His style is hard and 
De Baif was one of the Pleiades. 


—> 


THE CALCULATION OF LIFE. 


Tuov art aged; but recount, 

Since thy early life began, 
What may be the just amount 

Thou shouldst number of thy span : 
How much to thy debts belong, 

How much when vain fancy caught thee, 
How much to the giddy throng, 

How much to the poor who sought thee, 
How much to thy lawyer’s wiles, 

How much to thy menial crew, 
How much to thy lady’s smiles, 

How much to thy sick-bed due, 
How much for thy hours of leisure, 

For thy hurrying to and fro, 
How much for each idle pleasure, — 

If the list thy memory know. 
Every wasted, misspent day, 

Which regret can ne’er recall, — 
If all these thou tak’st away, 

Thou wilt find thy age but small: 
That thy years were falsely told, 
And, even now, thou art not old. 


EPITAPH ON RABELAIS. 


Pruro, bid Rabelais welcome to thy shore, 
That thou, who art the king of woe and pain, 
Whose subjects never learned to laugh before, 
May boast a laugher in thy grim domain. 


eget 


/ 
ETIENNE JODELLE. 
JopexLe, noted for having written the first 
regular tragedy and comedy for the French stage, 
was born at Paris, in 1532. Says Ronsard, — 
‘¢ Aprés Amour la France abandonna, 

Et lors Jodelle heureusement sonna 

D’une voix humble et d’une voix hardie 

La comédie avec la tragédie, 

Et dun ton double, ore bas, ore haut, 

Remplit premier le Francois eschafaut.”’ 
Jodelle was one of the Pleiades. He died in 
poverty, in 1573. D’ Aubigné wrote these vers- 
es on his death : — 

‘« Jodelle est mort de pauvreté, 
La pauvreté a eu puissance 
Sur la richesse de la France. 
O dieux! quels traits de cruauté! 
Le ciel avait mis en Jodelle 
Un esprit tout autre qu’humain ; 
La France lui nia le pain, 
Tant elle fut mére cruelle.”’ 


—_—— 


TO MADAME DE PRIMADIS. 


I saw thee weave a web with care, 
Where, at thy touch, fresh roses grew, 

And marvelled they were formed so fair, 
And that thy heart such nature knew: 


Seibel A ih i i htt EN nt eit Na =t 


| 
| 


Alas! how idle my surprise ! 
Since naught so plain can be: 
Thy cheek their richest hue supplies, 
And in thy breath their perfume lies, — 
Their grace, their beauty, all are drawn from thee! 


-_—_—t-— 


AMADIS JAMYN. 


Amapis Jamyn was born about the year 
1540, at Chaource, in Champagne. Early in 
life he acquired a taste for literature and science, 
under the instructions of such teachers as Dorat 
and Turnebus. Ronsard, the French Apollo. of 
the age, was so delighted with the verses of 
Jamyn, that he invited him to his house, treat- 
ed him as his own son, and procured him the 
place of Secretary and Reader to the King. 
After the death of his benefactor, Jamyn re- 
tired from the court to his native town, where 
he died in 1585. His poetical works, first pub- 
lished by Robert Etienne in 1575, have been 
repeatedly republished since. 


CALLIREE. 


AttHovuen, when I depart, 
My soul that moment flies, 
And in death’s chill my heart 
Without sensation lies, — 
Yet still content am I 
Once more to tempt my pain: 
So pleasant ’t is to die, 
To have my life again ! 
Even thus I seek my woe, 
My happiness to learn : 
It is so blest to go, 
So happy to return ! 


oe 
MARIE STUART. 


Tue life and tragical death of this celebrated 
princess have been so often the subjects of 
poetry, biography, history, and romance, that 
it is quite unnecessary, and aside from the pur- 
pose of this work, to repeat their details here. 
She was born December 8, 1542. At the age 
of six she was sent to France to be educated, 
and in 1558 was married to the dauphin, after- 
wards Francis the Second, at whose death she 
returned to Scotland. After a series of impru- 
dences, sufferings, and misfortunes, in the tur- 
bulent times which followed, she threw herself 
upon the protection of Queen Elizabeth, by 
whom she was detained in captivity eighteen 
years, and then put to death, February 8, 1587. 
This unfortunate queen wrote Latin and French 
with elegance, and was an ardent lover of poetry. 


ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND, FRANCIS 
THE SECOND. 
In accents sad and low, 
And tones of soft lament, 
I breathe the bitterness of woe 
O’er this sad chastisement : 


. = « = . a 


452 FRENCH POETRY. 


ate 


With many a mournful sigh 
The days of youth steal by. 


Was e’er such stern decree 
Of unrelenting fate ? 
Did merciless adversity 
E’er blight so fair a state 
As mine, whose heart and eye 
In bier and coffin lie, ~ 


Who, in the gentle spring 
And blossom of my years, 
Must bear misfortune’s piercing sting, 
Sadness, and grief, and tears, — 
Thoughts, that alone inspire 
Regret and soft desire ? 


What once was blithe and gay, 
Changed into grief I see; 

The glad and glorious light of day 
Js darkness unto me: 

The world—the world has naught 

That claims a passing thought. 


Deep in my heart and eye, 

A form and image shine, 
Which shadow forth wan rhisery 
On this pale cheek of mine 
Tinged with the violet’s blue, 
Which is love’s favorite hue. 


Where’er my footsteps stray, 
In mead or wooded vale, 
Whether beneath the dawn of day, 
Or evening twilight pale, — 
Still, still my thoughts ascend 
To my departed friend. 


If towards his home above 
I raise my mournful sight, 
I meet his gentle look of love 
In every cloud of white ; 
But straight the watery cloud 
Changes to tomb and shroud. 


When midnight hovers near, 
And slumber seals mine eyes, 

His voice still whispers in mine ear, 
His form beside me lies: 

In labor, in repose, 

My heart his presence knows. 


oe 


FAREWELL TO FRANCE. 


FarrweELL, beloved France, to thee, 
Best native land! 
The cherished strand 

That nursed my tender infancy ! 


Farewell, my childhood’s happy day ! 

The bark that bears me thus away 
Bears but the poorer moiety hence; 

The nobler half remains with thee, — 
I leave it to thy confidence, 

But to remind thee still of me! 


PHILIPPE DESPORTES. 


Purtiere Desportes was born at Chartres, 
in 1546. An early residence in Italy gave him 
an opportunity to learn the Italian language. 
He followed the duke of Anjou to Poland, but 
soon returned to Paris in disgust. When this 
prince became king of France, he bestowed 
ample ecclesiastical revenues upon Desportes, 
which the poet used nobly for the benefit of 
men of letters. He died at the abbey of Bon- 
port, in 1606. His great merit consisted in 
freeing French poetry from the affectation and 
pedantry with which it had been overloaded by 
Ronsard. He was called the French Tibullus. 


DIANE. 


Ir stainless faith and fondness tried, 
If hopes, and looks that softness tell, 
If sighs whose tender whispers hide 
Deep feelings that I would not quell, 
Swift blushes that like clouds appear, 
A trembling voice, a mournful gaze, 
The timid step, the sudden fear, 
The pallid hue that grief betrays, 
If self-neglect, to live for one, 
If countless tears, and sighs untold, 
If sorrow, to a habit grown, 
When absent warm, when present cold,— 
If these can speak, and thou unmoved canst see, 
The blame be thine, the ruin falls on me! 


——) 


JEAN BERTAUT. 


Tuis person, distinguished in the church 
and in public affairs, was born at Caen, in 
1552. He held in succession the offices of 
Secretary and Reader to the King, First Almo- 
ner to the Queen, Marie de Medicis, Counsellor 
to the Parliament of Grenoble, Abbé of Aunay, 
and Bishop of Séez; and all this good fortune 
he owed originally to his amorous poems, of 
which Mademoiselle de Scudéri says,— “* They 
give a high and beautiful idea of the ladies he 
loved.’ He died at Séez, in 1611. 


LONELINESS. 


Fortune, to me unkind, 
So scoffs at my distress, 
Each wretch his lot would find, 
Compared to mine, a life of happiness. 


My pillow every night 
Is watered by my tears; 
Slumber yields no delight, 
Nor with her gentle hand my sorrow cheers. 


For every fleeting dream 
But fills me with alarm ; 
And still my visions seem 
Too like the waking truth, pregnant with harm. 


DESPORTES.—BERTAUT.—HENRI IV. 


Justice and mercy’s grace, 
With faith and constancy, 
To guile and wrong give place, 
And every virtue seems from me to fly. 


Amidst a stormy sea 
I perish in despair ; 
Men come the wreck to see, 


And talk of pity while I perish there. 


Ye joys, too dearly bought, 
Which time can ne’er renew, 
Dear torments of my thought, 
Why, when ye fled, fled not your memory too? 


Alas! of hopes bereft, 
The dreams, that once they were, 
Are all that now is left, 
And memory thus but turns them all ta, care! 


—-—-— 


HENRI IV. 


Tuis illustrious prince, whose name fills so 
large a space in the political and religious his- 
tory of France, was born at Pau, December 13th, 
1553. With all his noble qualities, as a prince 
and ruler, he possessed a just appreciation of lit- 
erature, and did much for the intellectual cul- 
ture of the nation. 'The monarch who had re- 
stored peace and happiness to the French, after 
years of civil war, fell by the hand of an assassin, 
named Ravaillac. His death took place May 
14th, 1610. He was an eloquent speaker, and 
the harangues which he delivered on various 
occasions “ produced,’ says a French writer, 
‘¢as great an effect as his most brilliant exploits. 
Every good Frenchman ought to know by heart 
that which he pronounced in the Assembly, of 
Notables at Rouen.’’ Henri IV. was fond of 
the society of scholars, and treated them more 
as a friend and equal than as a superior. His 
verses to Gabrielle have always excited the en- 
thusiasm of his countrymen. 


CHARMING GABRIELLE. 


My charming Gabrielle ! 
My heart is pierced with woe, 
When glory sounds her knell, 
And forth to war I go: 
Parting, perchance our last! 
Day, marked unblest to prove! 
O, that my life were past, 
Or else my hapless love! 


Bright star, whose light I lose, — 
O, fatal memory ! 
My grief each thought renews ! — 
We meet again, or die! 
Parting, &c. 


O, share and bless the crown 
By valor given to me! 
War made the prize my own, 
My love awards it thee! 
Parting, &c. 


— 


oR eee 


: Let all my trumpets swell, 

| And every echo round 

The words of my farewell 
Repeat with mournful sound! 
Parting, &c. 


—_—$— 


| D’HUXATIME. 


\| Tus poet probably lived in the latter half of 
the sixteenth century. He was a native of 
Dauphine, His name is not mentioned in any 
of the common literary histories of France; it 
is omitted by the Abbé Goujet; it is not allud- 
ed to by Girardin; it is not included in the 
“ Biographie Universelle’’; and is unnoticed by 
Bouterwek. It is mentioned in a list of French 
poets appended to a collection of pieces, from 
the twelfth century to Malherbe, in six volumes. 
Costello refers to a work, called the “ Parnasse 
des Muses Frangoises,” published in 1607, as 
containing some pieces by this poet. Others 
may be found in “ Le Temple d’Apollon,” and 
in the “ Délices de la Poésie Francoise.” 


REPENTANCE. 


Rerourn again, return! look towards thy polar 
star ! 
Too oft thou ’rt lost, my soul ! 
Like to the fiery steed, whdse speed is urged 
too far, 
And dies without a goal. 


As yet ungathered all by any friendly hand, 
Thy tender blossoms die, 
Like bending, fruitful trees that on the way- 
side stand, 
But for the passer by. 


The lively flame that once within me burned 
so high 
Is now extinct and fled; 
I feel another fire its former place supply, 
More holy and more dread. 


My heart with other love has taught its pulse 
to glow; 
My prison-gates unclose ; 
My laws I frame myself; no lord but reason now 
My rescued bosom knows. 


Upon a sea of love the raging storms I braved, 
And ’scaped the vengeful main ; 
Wretched, alas! is he, who, from the wreck once 

saved, 
Trusts to the winds again. 


If I should ever love, my flame shall flourish 
well, 
More secret than confessed, 
And in my thought alone shall be content to 
dwell, 
More soul than body’s guest. 


ee 


FRENCH POETRY. 
i 


ET 


If I should ever love, an angel’s love be mine, 
And in the mind endure: 

Love is a son of heaven, nor will he e’er combine 
With elements less pure. 


If I should ever love, ’t will be in paths un- 
known, 
Where virtue may be tried: 
Task no beaten way, too wide, too common 
grown 
To every foot beside. 


If I should ever love, ’t will be a heart unstained, 
Which boldly struggles still, 
And with a hermit’s strength has, unsubdued, 
maintained 
A ceaseless war with ill. 


If I should ever love, a pure, chaste heart ’t will 
be, 
And not a winged thing, 
Which like the swallow liyes, and flits from 
tree to tree, 
And can but love in spring. 


It shall be you, bright eyes, blest stars that gild 
my night, 
Centre of all desire, 
In the immortal blaze and splendor of whose light 
Fain would my life expire ! 


Eyes which shine purely thus in love and ma- 
jesty ! 
Who ever saw ye glow, 
Nor worshipped at your shrine, an infidel must 
be, 


Or can no transport know. 


Bright eyes! which well can teach what force 
is in a ray, 
What dread in looks so dear; 
Alas! I languish near, I perish when away, 
And while I hope I fear! 


Bright eyes! round whom the stars in jealous 
crowds appear, 
In envy of your light, — 
Rather than see no more your splendor, soft and 
clear, 
I ‘d sleep in endless night. 


Blest eyes! who gazes rapt sees all the bound- 
less store 
Of love and fond desire, i 
Where vanquished Love himself has graven all 
his lore 
In characters of fire ! 


Bright eyes! ah! is ’t not true your promises 
are fair ? 
Without a voice ye sigh: 
Love asks from ye no sound, for words are only 
air 


That idly wanders by. 


Ha! thus, my soul, at once all thy sage visions fly, 
Thou tempt’st again the flood: 

Thou canst not fix but to inconstancy, 
And but repent’st of good! 


FOURTH PERIOD.—FROM 1650 TO 1700. 


PIERRE CORNEILLE. 


Tus distinguished poet, the first great writer 
of the age of Louis the Fourteenth, was born 
at Rouen, June 6th, 1606. He studied under 
the Jesuits of that place, for whom he ever 
after retained a high regard. His early purpose 
was to devote himself to the bar; but a slight 
and accidental occasion changed the current of 
his pursuits, by disclosing the secret of his poet- 
ical powers. A young friend of his introduced 
him to his mistress, and Corneille rendered 
himself more agreeable to the lady than her 
lover. This little adventure he made the sub- 
ject of the comedy of “ Meélite,” which appeared 
in 1625. The success of this was so decided 
that he persevered in this career, and the con- 
fidence he had inspired enabled him to form a 
new company. He produced in rapid succes- 
sion a series of pieces, which confirmed the im- 
pression made by the first, and some of them 
retain their place on the stage to the present 
day. His “ Médée,” written in the declamatory 
style of Seneca, appeared in 1635. Cardinal 
Richelieu at this time had several poets in his 
pay, who were required to write comedies on 
plots furnished by him. Corneille was on the 
point of placing himself in this situation, but, 
having offended the cardinal by making some 
alterations in one of his plots, withdrew to 
Rouen, where, by the advice of Chalon, he 
studied the Spanish language, with the view of 
writing tragedies on the Spanish model. In 
1636, he produced “ The Cid,” which received 
the applause of all the world, except the car- 
dinal and the Academy. The great minister 
and his sycophantic literati did their best to 
decry the poet’s genius, but in vain. A series 
of noble tragedies, ‘* The Horaces,” “ Cinna,” 
‘“¢ Polyeucte,” the ‘Mort de Pompée,” and 
others, were a complete answer to his detrac- 
tors, and gave him a rank in the French drama 
which he has never lost. Several pieces, how- 
ever, which followed these, such as ‘“ Rodo- 
gune,” “ Héraclius,” and “ Androméde,” had 
less success, and seemed to indicate that the 
genius of Corneille was already exhausted. 
The ‘Nicoméde,” which appeared in 1652, 
still retains its place on the stage. Corneille 
now wished to abandon dramatic composition, 
and applied himself for six years to the trans- 
lation of the *“* De Imitatione Jesu Christi,’’ but 
was induced by the entreaties of Fouquet once 
more to devote himself to the drama. His 
“¢ idipe,” produced in 1659, and his ‘¢ Sertori- 
us,” in 1662, were well received; but his sub- 
sequent pieces show the poet’s failing powers. 
Of the thirty-three pieces which he left, only 
eight retain their place upon the stage. He 


CORNEILLE. 


eters AEST 


died October Ist, 1684, having been for thirty- 
seven years a member of the Academy, despite 
the early disfavor with which that learned body 
regarded him. «¢ Although only six or seven of 
the thirty-three pieces which he wrote are still 
represented,’’ says Voltaire, “he will always be 
the father of the theatre. He is the first who 
elevated the genius of the nation.’ Augustus 


William Schlegel, in his ‘ Lectures on Dramatic & 


Literature,’ has some excellent criticism, though 
perhaps rather too unfavorable, on Corneille. 
His principal pieces are also analyzed gt con- 
siderable length, and with great ability, by La 
Harpe, in the “ Cours de Littérature,”’ Vol, LY. 
Many of his dramas have been translated into 
English ; — ‘t The Horaces,” by Sir William 
Lower, London, 1656; again by Charles Cot- 
ton, 1671; ‘ Pompey,” by Mrs. Catharine Phil- 
ips, 1663; again by Edmund Waller, 1664; 
“‘ Héraclius,”’ by Lodowick Carlell, 1664; “ Ni- 
coméde,” by John Dancer, 1671, “ Rodogune,”’ 
by Aspinwall, 1765; ‘The Cid,” by Joseph 
Rutter, Part I., 1637, Part II., 1640; again by 
John Ozell, 1714; again by “a gentleman for- 
merly a captain in the army,” 1802. The best 
edition of his works is that published by Re- 
nouard, Paris, 1817, intwelve volumes. 

The following description of Corneille, at 
the famous Hétel de Rambouillet, is from the 
‘Foreign Quarterly Review,” Vol. XXXII., 
pp. 139, 140. 

“‘ The time stated is the autumn of the year 
1644, and the object for which the society 
meets is to hear a tragedy read by the great 
Corneille. There are present the élite of the 
town and of the court: the princess of Condé, 
and her daughter, afterwards the femous duchess 
de Longueville ; and a host of names, then bril- 
liant, but since forgotten, which we pass for 
those whom fame has deemed worthy of preservy- 
ing. There were the duchess of Chevreuse, 
one of that three whom Mazarin declared 
ble of saving or overthrowing a kingdom ; Ma- 
demoiselle de Scudéri,then in the zenith of her 
fame ; and Mademoiselle de la Vergne, destined, 
under the name of Lafayette, to eclipse her. 
There were also. present Madame de Rambou- 
illet’s three daughters: the celebrated Julie, 
destined to continue the literary glory of the 
house of Rambouillet; and her two sisters, both 
religieuses, yet seeing no profanity in a play. 
At the feet of the noble dames reclined young 
seigneurs, their rich mantles of silk and gold 
and silver spread loosely upon the floor, while, 
to give more grace and vivacity to their action 
and emphasis to their discourse, they waved 
from time to time their little hats surcharged 
with plumes. And there, in more modest at- 
tire, were the men of letters : Balzac, Ménage, 


capa- 


—— 


Fe aaa et 


Se 


abren el 


a 


Scent hs b> 
ie ~ 


Se 


ents 


456 


Scudéri, Chapelain, Costart (the most gallant 
of pedants and pedantic of gallants), and Con- 
rart, and La Mesnardiére, and Bossuet, then the 
Abbé Bossuet, and others of less note. By a 
stroke of politeness worthy of preservation, 
Madame de Rambouillet has framed her invita- 
tion in such wise that all her guests shall have 
arrived a good half-hour before the poet; so 
that he may not be interrupted, while reading, 
by a door opening, and a head bobbing in, and 
all eyes turning that way, and a dozen signs to 
take a place here or there, and moving up and 
moving down, and then an awkward trip, and 
a whispered apology, —the attention of all sus- 
pended, the illusion broken, and the poor poet 
chilled ! 

“The audience is tolerably punctual. All 
are arrived but one: and who is he that shows 
so much indifference to the feelings of such a 
hostess? . Why, who should he be, but an ec- 
centric, whimsical, impracticable, spoiled pet of 
a poet? who but Monsieur Voiture, the life, the 
soul, the charm of all? He at last comes, and 
Corneille may enter. But a tragic poet moves 
slowly ; Corneille himself has not arrived ; and 
a gay French company cannot endure the ennui 
of waiting. ‘Time must pass agreeably ; some- 
thing must be set in motion; and what that is 
to be is suddenly settled by the Marquis de 
Vardes, who proposes to bind the eyes of Ma- 
dame de Sévigné for a game of Colin Maillard, 
“inglice, blind-man’s buff. Madame de Ram- 
bouillet implores: but the game is so tempting, 
the prospect of fun so exhilarating, that she her- 
self is drawn into the vortex of animal spirits, 
and yields assent. The ribbon intended for 
Madame de Sévigné is by the latter placed up- 
on the eyes of the fair young De Vergne, then 
only twelve years of age; and she is alone in 
the midst of the salon, her pretty arms out- 
stretched, her feet cautiously advancing,—-when 
the brothers Thomas and Pierre Corneille enter, 
conducted by Benserade, a poet also, and one of 
extensive reputation. Now, without abating one 
tittle of our reverence for the great Pierre Cor- 
neille, we can sympathize with those light 
hearts, whose game with thé then young Ma- 
dame de Sévigné and her younger friend was 
interrupted for a graver though more elevating 
entertainment. Corneille, like many other po- 
ets, was a bad reader of his own productions ; 
fortunately for him, upon this occasion, the young 
Abbé Bossuet was called upon to repeat some 
of the most striking passages of the play, enti- 
tled ‘Théodore Vierge et Martyre,’ a Christian 
tragedy, which he did with that declamatory 
power for which he was afterwards so remarka- 
ble. Then, of that distinguished company, the 
most alive to the charms of poetical expression 
had, each, as a matter of course, some verse to 
repeat ; and repeated it with the just emphasis 
of the feeling it had awakened, and with which 
it harmonized, and thus offered, by the simple 
tone of the voice, the best homage to genius. 
And so the morning ended with triumph for 


FRENCH POETRY. 
a 


the bard, and to the perfect gratification of his 
auditors.” 

The reader will perceive, that, in the follow- 
ing extract, the names have been changed by 
the translator, and that of Carlos substituted for 
the Cid. 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE CID. 


SANCHEZ. 
Reentiess Fortune! thou hast done thy part, 
Neglected nothing to oppose my love ; 
But thou shalt find, in thy despite, I ‘Il on. 
Wert thou not blind, indeed, thou hadst foreseen 
The honor done this hour to old Alvarez. 
His being named the prince’s governor 
(Which I well knew the ambitious Gormaz 
aimed at) 
Must, like a wildfire’s rage, embroil their union, 
Rekindle jealousies in Gormaz’ heart, 
Whose fatal flame must bury all in ashes. 
But see, he comes, and seems to ruminate 
With pensive grudge the king’s too partial favor. 
[Gormaz enters. 


GORMAZ. | 
. . . . . . | 
The king, methinks, is sudden in his choice. f 


'T is true, I never sought (but therefore is 

Not less the merit) nor obliquely hinted 

That I desired the office. He has heard 

Me say, the prince, his son, I thought was now 

Of age to change his prattling female court, 

And claimed a governor’s instructive guidance. 

The advice, it seems, was fit, —but not the ad- 
viser. 

Be ’t so, —why is Alvarez, then, the man ? 

He may be qualified, I ’ll not dispute ; 

But was not Gormaz, too, of equal merit? 

Let me not think Alvarez plays me foul. 

That cannot be,— he knew I would not bear it. 

And yet, why he’s so suddenly preferred 

I'll think no more on ’t,—Time will soon re- 
solve me. 


SANCHEZ. 
Not to disturb, my Lord, your graver thoughts, 
May I presume 


GORMAZ, 

Don Sanchez may command me. — 

This youthful lord is sworn our house’s friend ; 

If there’s a cause for jealous thought, he’ll find it. 

\ [ Aside. 

SANCHEZ, 

I hear the king has fresh advice received 

Of a designed invasion from the Moors. 

Holds it confirmed, or is it only rumor ? 


GORMAZ,. 
Such new alarms, indeed, his letters bring, 
But yet their grounds seemed doubtful at the 
council. 


SANCHEZ, 
May it not prove some policy of state, 
Some bugbear danger of our own creating ? 
The king, I have observed, is skilled in rule, 
Perfect in all the arts of tempering minds, 


And — for the public good —can give alarms 
Where fears are not, and hush them where they 


are. 
GORMAZ, 
’'T is so! he hints already at my wrongs. 
[Aside. 
SANCHEZ. 


Not but such prudence well becomes a prince ; 
For peace at home is worth his dearest purchase ; 
Yet he that gives his just resentments up, 
Though honored by the royal mediation, 
And sees his enemy enjoy the fruits, 
Must have more virtues than his king, to bear it. 
Perhaps, my Lord, I am not understood ; 
Nay, hope my jealous fears have no foundation ; 
But when the ties of friendship shall demand it, 
Don Sanchez wears a sword that will revenge 
you. 
[Going. 
GORMAZ, 
Don Sanchez, stay, —I think thou art my friend. 
Thy noble father oft has served me in 
The cause of honor, and his cause was mine: 
What thou hast said speaks thee Balthazar’s 
son, — 
I need not praise thee more. If I deserve 
Thy love, refuse not what my heart ’s concerned 
To ask: speak freely of the king, of me, 
Of old Alvarez, of our late alliance, 
And what has followed since; then sum the 
whole, 
And tell me truly where the account ’s unequal. 


SANCHEZ. 

My Lord, you honor with too great a trust 

The judgment of my inexperienced years ; 

Yet, for the time I have observed on men, 

I ve always found the generous, open heart 

Betrayed, and made the prey of minds below it. 

O, ’t is the curse of manly virtue, that 

Cowards, with cunning, are too strong for heroes! 

And, since you press me to unfold my thoughts, 

I grieve to see your spirit so defeated, — 

Your just reséntments, by vile arts of court, 

Beguiled, and melted to resign their terror, — 

Your honest hate, that had for ages stood 

Unmoved, and firmer from your foe’s defiance, 

Now sapped and undermined by his submission. 

Alvarez knew you were impregnable 

To force, and changed the soldier for the states- 
man ; 

While you were yet his foe professed, 

He durst not take these honors o’er your head ; 

Had you still held him at his distance due, 

He would have trembled to have sought this 
office. 

When once the king inclined to make his peace, 

I saw too well the secret on the anvil, 

And soon foretold the favor that succeeded. 

Alas! this project has been long concerted, 

Resolved in private ’twixt the king.and him, 

Laid out and managed here by secret agents, — 

While he, good man, knew nothing of the honor, 

But from his sweet repose was dragged to accept 
it! 


a be: ie 


CORNEILLE. 


O, it inflames my blood to think this fear 
Should get the start of your unguarded spirit, 
And proudly vaunt it in the plumes he stole 
From you! 


GORMAZ. 

O Sanchez, thou hast fired a thought 

That was before but dawning in my mind! 

O, now afresh it strikes my memory, 

With what dissembled warmth the artful king 
First charged his temper with the gloom he wore, 
When I supplied his late command of general! 
Then with what fawning flattery to me 
Alvarez fear disguised his trembling hate, 
And soothed my yielding temper to believe him. 


SANCHEZ. 
Not flattery, my Lord; though I must grant 
’T was praise well timed, and therefore skilful. 


GORMAZ. 
Now, on my soul, from him ’t was loathsome 
daubing ! 
I take thy friendship, Sanchez, to my heart ; 
And were not my Ximena rashly promised 


SANCHEZ. 

Ximena’s charms might grace a monarch’s bed ; 
Nor dares my humble heart admit the hope, — 
Or, if it durst, some fitter time should show it. 
Results more pressing now demand your thought; 
First ease the pain of your depending doubt, 
Divide this fawning courtier from the friend. 


GORMAZ, 
Which way shall I receive or thank thy love? 


SANCHEZ, 
My Lord, you overrate me now. But see, 
Alvarez comes! Now probe his hollow heart, 
Now while your thoughts are warm with his 
deceit, 
And mark how calmly he ’!] evade the charge. 
My Lord, I’m gone. 
[Exit. 
GORMAZ. 
I am thy friend for ever. 
[Alvarez enters. 
ALVAREZ. 
My Lord, the king is walking forth to see 
The prince, his son, begin his horsemanship : 
If you ’re inclined to see him, I ’I] attend you. 


GORMAZ. 
Since duty calls me not, I’ve no delight 
To be an idle gaper on another’s business. 
You may, indeed, find pleasure in the office, 
Which you ’ve so artfully contrived to fit. 


ALVAREZ. 
Contrived, my Lord? I’m sorry such a thought 
Can reach the man whom I so late embraced. 


GORMAZ. 
Men are not always what they seem. 
honor, 
Which, in another’s wrong, you ’ve bartered for, 
Was at the price of those embraces bought. 


— 


This 


FRENCH POETRY. 


a A 


ALVAREZ. 

Ha! bought? For shame! suppress this poor 

suspicion ! 
For if you think, you can’t but be convinced 
The naked honor of Alvarez scorns 
Such base disguise. Yet pause a moment ; — 
Since our great master, with such kind concern, 
Himself has interposed to heal our feuds, 
Let us not, thankless, rob him of the glory, 
And undeserve the grace by new, false fears. 


GORMAZ,. 
Kings are, alas! but men, and formed like us, 
Subject alike to be by men deceived : 
The blushing court from this rash choice will see 
How blindly he o’erlooks superior merit. 
Could no man fill the place but worn Alvarez? 


ALVAREZ. 
Worn more with wounds and victories than age. 
Who stands before him in great actions past ?>— 
But I’m to blame to urge that merit now, 
Which will but shock what reasoning may con- 


vince. 
GORMAZ, 
The fawning slave! O Sanchez, how I thank 
thee! [Aside. 
ALVAREZ. 


You have a virtuous daughter, I a son, 

Whose softer hearts our mutual hands have 
raised 

Even to the summit of expected joy ; 

If no regard to me, yet let, at least, 

Your pity of their passions rein your temper. 


GORMAZ, 
O needless care! to nobler objects now, 
That son, be sure, in vanity, pretends : 
While his high father’s wisdom is preferred 
To guide and govern our great monarch’s son, 
His proud, aspiring heart forgets Ximena. 
Think not of him, but your superior care : 
Instruct the royal youth to rule with awe 
His future subjects, trembling at his frown ; 
Teach him to bind the loyal heart in love, 
The bold and factious in the chains of fear: 
Join to these virtues, too, your warlike deeds; 
Inflame him with the vast fatigues yeu ’ve borne, 
But now are past, to show him by example, 
And give him in the closet safe renown; 
Read him what scorching suns he must endure, 
What bitter nights must wake, or sleep in arms, 
To countermarch the foe, to give the alarm, 
And to his own great conduct owe the day ; 
Mark him on charts the order of the battle, 
And make him from your manuscripts a hero. 


ALVAREZ, 


I]l-tempered man! thus to provoke the heart 
Whose tortured patience is thy only friend ! 


GORMAZ, 
Thou only to thyself canst be a friend: 
I tell thee, false Alvarez, thou hast wronged me, 
Hast basely robbed me of my merit’s right, 
And intercepted our young prince’s fame. 


His youth with me had found the active proof, 

The living practice, of experienced war ; 

This sword had taught him glory in the field, 

At once his great example and his guard ; 

His unfledged wings from me had learned to 
soar, 

And strike at nations trembling at my name: 

This I had done ; but thou, with servile arts, 

Hast, fawning, crept into our master’s breast, 

Elbowed superior merit from his ear, 

And, like a courtier, stole his son from glory. 


ALVAREZ, 
Hear me, proud man! for now I burn to speak, 
Since neither truth can sway, nor temper touch 
thee ;, 
Thus I retort with scorn thy slanderousrage : 
Thou, thou the tutor of a kingdom’s heir ? 
Thou guide the passions of o’erboiling youth, 
That canst not in thy age yet rule thy own? | 
For shame! retire, and purge thy imperious 
heart, 
Reduce thy arrogant, self-judging pride, 
Correct the meanness of thy grovelling soul, 
Chase damned suspicion from thy manly 
thoughts, 
And learn to treat with honor thy superior. 


GORMAZ, 
Superior, ha! dar’st thou provoke me, traitor? 


ALVAREZ, 
Unhand me, ruffian, lest thy hold prove fatal ! 


GORMAZ, 


Take that, audacious dotard ! 
[Strikes him. 


ALVAREZ, 


O my blood, 

Flow forward to my arm, to chain this tiger! 

If thou art brave, now bear thee like a man, 

And quit my honor of this vile disgrace ! 
[They fight; Alvarez is disarmed. 

O feeble life, I have too long endured thee ! 


GORMAZ. 
Thy sword is mine; take back the inglorious 
trophy, 
Which would disgrace thy victor’s thigh to wear. 
Now forward to thy charge, read to the prince 
This martial lecture of my famed exploits ; 
And from this wholesome chastisement learn 
thou 


To tempt the patience of offended honor! 
[Exit. 


ALVAREZ. 
O rage! O wild despair! O helpless age ! 
Wert thou but lent me to survive my honor? 
Am I with martial toils worn gray, and see 
At last one hour’s blight lay waste my laurels ? 
Is this famed arm to me alone defenceless ? 
Has it so often propped this empire’s glory, 
Fenced, like a rampart, the Castilian throne, 
To me alone disgraceful, to its master useless ? 
O sharp remembrance of departed glory ! 
O fatal dignity, too dearly purchased ! 


CORNEILLE.—MOLIERE. 


Now, haughty Gormaz, now guide thou my 
prince ; 

Insulted honor is unfit to approach him. 

And thou, once glorious weapon, fare thee well, 
Old servant, worthy of an abler master ! 
Leave now for ever his abandoned side, 

And, to revenge him, grace some nobler arm ! — 
My son! ; 

{Carlos enters. 

O Carlos! canst thou bear dishonor ? 


CARLOS. 
What villain dares occasion, Sir, the question ? 
Give me his name; the proof shall answer him. 


ALVAREZ. 
O just reproach! O prompt, resentful fire ! 
My blood rekindles at thy manly flame, 
And glads my laboring heart with youth’s return. 
Up, up, my son,—I cannot speak my shame, — 
Revenge, revenge me! 


CARLOS. 
O, my rage !—-Of what? 


ALVAREZ, 
Of an indignity so vile, my heart 
Redoubles all its torture to repeat it. 
A blow, a blow, my boy! 


CARLOS. 
Distraction! fury ! 

ALVAREZ. 
In vain, alas! this feeble arm assailed 
With mortal vengeance the aggressor’s heart ; 
He dallied with my age, o’erborne, insulted ; 
Therefore to thy young arm, for sure revenge, 
My soul’s distress commits my sword and cause: 
Pursue him, Carlos, to the world’s last bounds, 
And from his heart tear back our bleeding honor ; 
Nay, to inflame thee more, thou ’It find his brow 
Covered with laurels, and far-famed his prowess: 
O, I have seen him, dreadful in the field, 
Cut through whole squadrons his destructive 

way, . 

And snatch the gore-died standard from the foe! 


CARLOS. 
O, rack not with his fame my tortured heart, 
That burns to know him and eclipse his glory ! 


ALVAREZ. 
Though I foresee ’t will strike thy soul to hear it, 
Yet, since our gasping honor calls for thy 
Relief, —O Carlos!—’t is Ximena’s father — 


CARLOS. 
Ha! 
ALVAREZ. 
Pause not for a reply, —I know thy love, 
I know the tender obligations of thy heart, 
And even lend a sigh to thy distress. 
I grant Ximena dearer than thy life ; 
But wounded honor must surmount them both. 
I need not urge thee more; thou know’st my 
wrong ; 
’T is in thy heart, —and in thy hand the ven- 
geance : 


Blood only is the balm for grief like mine, 
Which till obtained, I will in darkness mourn, 
Nor lift my eyes to light, till thy return. 
But haste, o’ertake this blaster of my name, 
Fly swift to vengeance, and bring back my fame ! 
[Exit. 
CARLOS. 
Relentless Heaven! is all thy thunder gone? 
Not one bolt left to finish my despair? 
Lie still, my heart, and close this deadly wound ! 
Stir not to thought, for motion is thy ruin ! — 
But see, the frighted poor Ximena comes, 
And with her tremblings strikes thee cold as 
death ! 
My helpless father too, o’erwhelmed with shame, 
Begs his dismission to his grave with honor. 
Ximena weeps; heart-pierced, Alvarez groans: 
Rage lifts my sword, and love arrests my arm. 
O double torture of distracting woe! 
Is there no mean betwixt these sharp extremes? 
Must honor perish, if I spare my love? 
O ignominious pity ! shameful softness * 
Must I, to right Alvarez, kill Ximena? 
O cruel vengeance! O heart-wounding honor! 
Shall I forsake her in’ her soul’s extremes, 
Depress the virtue of her filial tears, 
And bury in a tomb our nuptial joy ? 
Shall that just honor, that subdued her heart, 
Now build its fame, relentless, on her sorrows ? 
Instruct me, Heaven, that gav’st me this distress, 
To choose, and bear me worthy of my being! 
O Love, forgive me, if my hurried soul 
Should act with error in this storm of fortune ! 
For Heaven can tell what pangs I feel to save 
thee ! — 
But, hark! the shrieks of drowning honor call! 
’'T is sinking, gasping, while I stand in pause ; 
lunge in, my heart, and save it from the billows! 
It will be so,— the blow ’s too sharp a pain ; 
And vengeance has at least this just excuse, 
That even Ximena blushes while I bear it: 
Her generous heart, that was by honor won, 
Must, when that honor’s stained, abjure my love. 
O peace of mind, farewell! Revenge, I come, 
And raise thy altar on a mournful tomb! 
[ Exit. 
Pe oh es 


JEAN-BAPTISTE POCQUELIN DE 
MOLIERE. 


Jean-Baptiste PocquEtin was born at Paris, 
in 1620. His father, a valet-de-chambre and up- 
holsterer to the king, intended the boy for the 
same occupation, and educated him accordingly, 
up to the age of fourteen years. Young Poc- 
quelin’s grandfather, who had a passion for the 
theatre, took him occasionally to the Hotel de 
Bourgogne, and thus helped to awaken an in- 
vincible repugnance to his destined profession. 
Through the interposition of his grandfather, he 
was soon placed under the instruction of the 
Jesuits, and made great progress in his studies. 
Gassendi was one of his teachers, and Chapelle 
and Bernier were among his school friends. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


i ee ee 


He studied five years. When his father had 
become infirm, the young man was required to 
take his place about the person of the king. 
The French theatre at this time was begitining 
to flourish, through the genius of Corneille, and 
the influence of Cardinal Richelieu; and Poc- 
quelin’s early passion for the drama received a 
new impulse. He formed a company of young 
persons who had a talent for declamation, which 
soon became distinguished, and was known un- 
der the name of L’Illustre Thédtre. Pocquelin 
now resolved to apply himself wholly to the 
drama, in the twofold capacity of author and ac- 
tor. He took the surname of Moliére, after the 
example of the Italian players, and those of the 
Hotel de Bourgogne. Molicére remained un- 
known during the civil wars of the Fronde; 
but he employed this time in cultivating his 
powers and preparing for his future career. His 
first regular piece, in five acts, was “‘ L’Etourdi,” 
represented at Lyons, in 1653. The comedy 
had great success, and drew away all the spec- 
tators from another provincial company, which 
was then playing at Lyons. From Lyons, Mo- 
licre went to Languedoc, where he was warm- 
ly received by the prince of Conti, who had 
known him at school. The ‘ Etourdi’’? was 
played with the same applause at the theatre of 
Béziers, and the “ Dépit Amoureux’”’ and the 
““Précieuses Ridicules”’ were also brought for- 
ward there. After having visited all the provin- 
ces, Moliére arrived in Paris, in 1658, where his 
company, now called “ The Company of Mon- 
sieur,”’ was permitted to play in the presence 
of Louis the Fourteenth. The king was so well 
satisfied with Moliére’s company, that he took 
them into his favor, and assigned the poet a 
pension of a thousand francs. In about fifteen 
years, Molicre produced thirty pieces, among 
j| which are the “Ecole des Maris,” the “ Fa- 
{| cheux,” the *“ Ecole des Femmes,” the “ Ma- 
riage Forcé,” the Misanthrope,” the “ 'Tartufe,” 
the ‘ Avare,” the « Amphitryon,”’ the ‘ Bour- 
geois Gentilhomme,”’ the “ Femmes Savantes,”’ 
and the ‘* Malade Imaginaire.’’ With this plece 
he closed his career. He had been suffering, for 
a long time, from pulmonary consumption. At 
the third representation of this comedy, he was 
more unwell than usual, and his friends urged 
him not to play ; but his concern for the inter- 
ests of others prevailed over their advice, and 
the effort cost him his life. He was seized with 
convulsions while pronouncing the word jura, 
in the last scene, and was carried, dying, to his 
home, where he expired, a few hours after, Feb- 
ruary 17th, 1673, at the age of forty-three years. 
The comedy was at an end; and Bossuet was 
austere enough to say: ‘“ Perhaps posterity will 
know the end of this poet-comedian, who, in 
playing’ his Malade Imaginaire, received the 
last blow of that disease which terminated his 
life a few hours afterwards, and passed from 
the jests of the theatre, amid which he almost 
breathed his last sigh, to the tribunal of Him 
who said, ‘ Woe to those who laugh, for they 


shall mourn!’ ” Five years later, the Academy 
erected his bust, with the line from Saurin, — 
“Rien ne manque 4 sa gloire ; il manquait a la nétre.?? 

La Harpe says, —“Of all that have ever 
written, Moliére has observed man the best, 
without proclaiming his observation; he has, 
too, more the air of knowing him by heart, than 
of having studied him. When we read his 
pieces with reflection, we are astonished, not 
at the author, but at ourselves. ..... His come- 
dies, properly read, may supply the place of expe- 
rience ; not because he has painted follies, which 
are transient, but because he has painted man, 
who does not change. He has given a series of 
traits, not one of which is thrown away ; this is 
for me, that is for my neighbour; and it isa 
proof of the pleasure derived from a perfect 
imitation, that my neighbour and I laugh very 
heartily to see ourselves fools, simpletons, or 
meddlers, and that we should be furious, if any 
body were to tell us in another manner one half 
of what Moliére says,” 

Schlegel has not done Moliére justice, though 
there is some truth in his criticism. The bound- 
less wit, the happy sarcasm, the infinite variety 
of comic traits, which are found in Moliére’s 
pieces, place him among the greatest comic wri- 
ters whom the world has ever seen, notwith- 
standing frequent defects of plot, some extraya- 
gances of character, and many instances of pla- 
giarism. An excellent account of the life and 
writings of Molicre has been published by J. 
Taschereau, Paris, 1825, of which a full and 
elegant analysis is contained in the sixty-first 
number of. the “ North American Review.” 
Most of his pieces have been translated into 
English, as “Plays,” by John Oczell, LvA4 
*¢ Select Comedies in French and English,” 
1732; ‘ Works, translated into English,’ Ber- 
wick, 1770 ; “‘ Tartufe, or the French Puritan, 
a Comedy,” translated by Matthew Medbourne, 
1620. His works were published by Bret, in 
six volumes, Paris, 1773. ‘They have gone 
through innumerable editions since, — among 
others, a very beautiful illustrated edition, pub- 


lished in 1839, by Dubochet. 


*2 
aa R a ee, 


EXTRACT FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 


CELEMINA, 
Br seated, Madam. 


ARSINOE. 

No, there is no need, — 
The claims of friendship call for care and speed ; 
And as no cares of equal weight can be 
To those of honor and propriety, 
A current rumor, sullying your fair fame, 
Has sent me here, sheltered by friendship’s name. 
Last night, a party, of distinguished taste, 
Of sterling virtue, and of judgment chaste, 
On you, fair lady, turned the conversation, 
And-at your conduct showed disapprobation. 
This crowd of visiters about you pressing, 


‘Your gallantry, which causes tales distressing, 


MOLIERE.—LA FONTAINE. 


Found censors rigorous far beyond my views, 

And much I strove your conduct to excuse ; 

You well may judge, with zeal I would de- 
fend 

And do my best to shield my absent friend: 

Act as you might, I said, you meant the best, 

And on my soul your virtue I'd protest. 

But in this world, there are some things, you 
know, 

Much as we would excuse, ’t is hard to do: 

I found myself obliged to grant the rest, — 

Your style of living was not of the best, 

That it looked ill before a slanderous town, 

And caused sad tales, which everywhere went 
down, — 

That, if you pleased your manners to restrain, 

The world would have less reason to complain: 

Not that I would your honesty impeach, — 

Heaven save me from the thought, much more 
the speech ! — 

But at the shade of vice we tremble so, 

And ’t is not for ourselves we live, you know. 

So well I know your rightly balanced mind, 

I doubt not this advice will welcome find ; 

And no unworthy motive, you ’Il suppose, 

Excites me thus your failings to disclose. 


CELEMINA. 
Madam, I thank you for your great good-will, 
And good advice, which far from taking ill, 
With interest I repay it on the spot, — 
For friendship’s favors should not be forgot ; 
And as your tender friendship you display 
In kindly telling all the public say, 
I your example in return pursue, 
And let you know what they remark on you. 
The other day, some friends I chanced to meet, 
Whose claims to taste and judgment are com- 
plete ; 
Conversing on the cares of living well, 
Madam, on you, their conversation fell: 
Your great display of zeal and prudery 
Was not the pattern which they fain would see ; 
Your tedious speeches, flourished out with pride, 
Of wisdom, honor; then your grave outside 
At the ambiguous joke, — your looks, your 
cries, — 
Of hidden meanings, still the worst supplies ; 
Your self-esteem, which every one must know ; 
Those looks of pity, which around you throw ; 
Your frequent lessons and your censures hard 
On things which others just and good regard : 
All this, dear Madam, — pray excuse the word, — 
Was freely blamed by all, with one accord. 
«© And whence,” said they, ‘this modest face 
and eye, — 
This grave exterior, which her deeds deny? 
She, to the last, with great exactness prays, 
But beats her servants, and their dues delays ; 
Her holy zeal displays to public sight, 
But sighs for beauty, and wears borrowed white.” 
For me, against them all I took your part, 
And said ’t was scandal rank and wicked art; 
But all opinions were opposed to me, — 
And all insisted it would better be, 


If you less care for others’ deeds had shown, 

And given more trouble to reform your own, — 

That you had better scan yourself with care, 

And others’ conduct further censure spare, — 

That she, who strove the public to correct, 

Should lead a life the public might respect, 

And that it was as well this task to leave 

To those who might from Heaven the charge 
receive. 

So well J know your rightly balanced mind, 

I doubt not this advice will welcome find; 

And no unworthy motive, you ’!l suppose, 

Excites me thus your failings to disclose. 

ARSINOE. 
The best of friends advice will oft reject, 
But this rejoinder I did not expect ; 


And, Madam, from its sharpness, well I see 
My counsel bears a sting not guessed by me. 


~-——}— - 


JEAN DE LA FONTAINE. 


Tus universally popular author was born at 
Chateau Thierry, in 1621. His father desir- 
ed to educate him for the church, a eareer whol- 
ly unsuited to his natural disposition. At the 
age of nineteen, he was placed with the Fath- 
ers of the Oratory, but remained with them only 
eighteen months. He was considered a dull and 
spiritless youth, and manifested not the least 
spark of poetry until he was twenty-two years 
old, when the recitation of an ode of Malherbe’s 
roused his dormant genius and he began to 
compose verses. At the age of twenty-six, his 
father persuaded him to marry a woman for 
whom he had little or no attachment. He 
lived, however, several years with her, and 
had a son. He made himself familiar with the 
best writings of the ancients, particularly Ho- 
mer, Plato, Plutarch, Horace, Virgil, Terence, 
and Quintilian. Being invited to Paris by the 
Duchess Bouillon, he was there introduced to 
Fouquet, then Minister of Finance, from whom 
he received an annual pension of a thousand 
francs, on condition of producing a piece of 
poetry quarterly. After the fall of Fouquet, he 
was taken into the service of Henrietta, wife 
of Monsieur, the king’s brother; and when 
she died, other persons of distinction gave him 
their protection, until Madame Sabliére opened 
her house to him and relieved him from every 
care. With this kindest. of friends he lived 
twenty years. After her death, he was invited 
by Madame Mazarin and Saint-Evremont to 
England, but could not make up his mind to 
leave Paris. In 1692, he was dangerously ill; 
and when a priest conversed with him on the 
subject of religion, he replied, “I, have lately 
been reading the New Testament, which I as- 
sure you is a very good book ; but there is one 
article to which I cannot accede; it is that of 
the eternity of punishment. I cannot compre- 
hend how this eternity is compatible with the 


goodness of God.” After recovering from this 
MM 2 


oo 


FRENCH 


illness, La Fontaine passed two years at the 
house of Madame D’Hervart, during which he 
attempted to translate some pious hymns, but 
with little success. He wrote his own epitaph, 
which is at once humorous and characteristic : 


“Jean s’en alla comme il étoit venu, 
Mangea le fonds avec le revenu, 

Tint les trésors chose peu nécessaire. 
Quant a son temps, bien sut le dispenser : 
Deux parts en fit, dont il souloit passer, 

L’une & dormir, et autre a ne rien faire.” 


He died at Paris, in 1695. 

As a man of genius, La Fontaine was one of 
the brightest ornaments of the age of Louis the 
Fourteenth; in originality, he stood nearly at 
the head of his great contemporaries. As a 
master of all the delicacies of the French lan- 
guage, he was at least equal to any writer of 
his day. His “Fables” are, probably, more read 
than any other work of the time, excepting the 
comedies of Moliére ; more read by English read- 
ers than any similar works of English writers. 
They possess an indescribable fascination, not 
only for children, but for men, the “children 
of a larger growth.” His thoughts are always 
fresh and natural ; his little pictures of human 
life are perfectly drawn; the short stories in 
which human actors are introduced are con- 
ceived in the same spirit as the fables of ani- 
mals, and the moral is worked out with a 
clearness, distinctness, and force, that make an 
indelible impression on the mind. His style is 
marked by the best qualities of the best writers 
of his age. It is familiar, yet elegant; idio- 
matic, but classic ; pithy and pointed, without 
any apparently studied attempts at concise- 
ness; and the versification is happily varied, 
and adapted to the various characters and trains 
of thought which it is the poet’s object to set 
forth. The exquisite turns of expression, which 
so frequently occur in the fables of La Fon- 
tune, mark the peculiar character of the French 
language, and give a better idea of its idiomatic 
richness than the writings of any other author, 
always excepting the immortal comedies of 
Moliére. His humor is abundant, without de- 
generating into coarseness; his sattre 
but never cynical. The faults, errors, and 
weaknesses of men are open to his searching 
gaze, but he is never misanthropical, never out 
of humor with his fellow-beings. That such 
a writer should be universally popular is not 
at all surprising. He lived on familiar terms 
with the greatest French writers, Moliére, Boi- 
leau, and Racine, and the principal men of 
talent and wit in the capital. They called him 
Le Bon Homme, for he was “as simple as the 
heroes of his own fubles.”” His wife, having 
left him after a short residence in Paris, he was 
accustomed to visit her from time to time, and 
on these occasions usually got rid of a part of 
his estate. He had no skill in the management 
of affairs, and in this respect his wife resembled 
him, and the natural consequence was that his 
property fell into great disorder. He had one son, 


is keen, 


POETRY. 


<—eUAEEEEEUriE 


whom the archbishop of Paris promised to pro- 
vide for. Meeting this son, after a long separa- 
tion, at the house of a friend, and not recogniz- 
ing him, he expressed great pleasure in his 
conversation, and, upon being told that it was 
his own son, he said, “ Ab! I am very glad of 
it.” At another time, he was persuaded by 
Racine and Boileau to return to Chateau Thier- 
ry and attempt a reconciliation with his wife. 
He called at the house, and learning from the 
servant, who did not know him, that Madame 
La Fontaine was well, went to the house of a 
neighbour, with whom he passed two days, and 
then returned to Paris. To his friends’ inquir- 
ies about the success of his mission, he said, “gI 
have been to see her, but I did not find her ; 
she is well.” 

La Fontaine's “Tales” and “Fables” have 
been published with splendid illustrations. The 
best edition of the former is that of 1762, with 
Eisen’s designs, and yignettes by Choffat. The 
‘Fables’? were published in a magnificent edi- 
tion, four volumes folio, 1755-59, each fable 
being illustrated with a plate. An exquisite 
edition of the “ Fables,” in octavo, was pub- 
lished by Fournier, in 1839, with designs by 
J. J. Grandville: The reader of this edition is 
at a loss which most to admire, the exuberant 
humor and wisdom of the poet, or the extra- 
ordinary felicity with which the artist has told 
the poet’s story in his illustrations. s 

La Fontaine’s fables have often been imi- 
tated, but never equalled, in English. A collec- 
tion of such imitations, done in a very spirit- 
ed manner, was published in London, 1820. 
The only entire translation ever attempted is 
that by Elizur Wright, Jr., Boston, 1841; a 
work which has many merits, though not reach- 
ing the standard of perfect translation. 


THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS. ° 


Op Rodilard, a certain cat, 
Such havoc of the rats had made, 
"T was difficult to find a rat 
With nature’s debt unpaid. 
The few that did remain, 
To leave their holes afraid, 
From usual food abstain, 
Not eating half their fill. 
And wonder no one will, 
That one, who made on rats his revel, 
With rats passed not for cat, but devil. 
Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater, 
Who had a wife, went out to meet her ; 
And while he held his caterwauling, 
The unkilled rats, their chapter calling, 
Discussed the point, in grave debate, 
How they might shun impending fate. 
Their dean, a prudent rat, 
Thought best, and better soon than late 
To bell the fatal cat; 
That, when he took his hunting-round, 
The rats, well cautioned by the sound, 
Might hide in safety under ground; 


7 


LA FONTAINE. 463 


Indeed, he knew no other means. 
And all the rest 
At once confessed 
Their minds were with the dean’s. 
No better plan, they all believed, 
Could possibly have been conceived; 
No doubt, the thing would work right well, 
If any one would hang the bell. 
But, one by one, said every rat, 
*¢T ’m not so big a fool as that.” 
The plan knocked up in this respect, 
The council closed without effect. 
And many a council I have seen, 
Or reverend chapter with its dean, 
That, thus resolving wisely, 
Fell through like this precisely. 


To argue or refute, 

- Wise counsellors abound ; 
The man to execute 

Is harder to be found. 


THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT. 


A sTORY-WRITER of our sort 
Historifies, in short, 
Of one that may be reckoned 
A Rodilard the Second, — 
The Alexander of the cats, 
The Attila, the scourge of rats, 
Whose fierce and whiskered head 
Among the latter spread, 
A league around, its dread ; 
Who seemed, indeed, determined 
The world should be unvermined. 
The planks with props more false than slim, 
The tempting heaps of poisoned meal, 
The traps of wire and traps of steel, 
Were only play, compared with him. 
At length, so sadly were they scared, 
The rats and mice no longer dared 
To show their thievish faces 
Outside their hiding-places, 
Thus shunning all pursuit ; whereat 
Our crafty General Cat 
Contrived to hang himself, as dead, 
Beside the wall, with downward head,— 
Resisting gravitation’s laws 
By clinging with his hinder claws 
To some small bit of string. 
The rats esteemed the thing 
A judgment for some naughty deed, 
Some thievish snatch, 
Or ugly scratch ; 
And thought their foe had got his meed 
By being hung indeed. 
With hope elated all 
Of laughing at his funeral, 
They thrust their noses out in air 5 
And now to show their heads they dare, 
Now dodging back, now venturing more ; 
At last, upon the larder’s store 
They fall to filching, as of yore. 
A scanty feast enjoyed these shallows ; 


And, really, there must be. something Trice 


They come so fast, they ‘Il be here in a minute. 


Down dropped the hung one from his gallows, 


And of the hindmost caught. 

‘¢ Some other tricks to me are known,” 
Said he, while tearing bone from bone, 
‘« By long experience taught ; 

The point is settled, free from doubt, 
That from your holes you shall come out.” 
His threat as good as prophecy 

Was proved by Mr. Mildandsly; , 

For, putting on a mealy robe, 

He squatted in an open tub, 

And held his purring and his breath ; — 
Out came the vermin to their death. 

On this occasion, one old stager, 

A rat as gray as any badger, 

Who had in battle lost his tail, 
Abstained from smélling at the meal; 
And cried, far off, “Ah! General Cat, 
I much suspect a heap like that; 

Your meal is not the thing, perhaps, 
For one who knows somewhat of traps ; 
Should you a sack of meal become, 

I ’d let you be, and stay at home.” 


Well said, I think, and prudently, 
By one who knew distrust to be 
The parent of security. 


— 


THE COCK AND THE FOX. 


Upon a tree there mounted guard 
A veteran cock, adroit and cunning ; 
When to the roots a fox up running 

Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard : — 
“Our quarrel, brother, ’s at an end; 
Henceforth I hope to live your friend ; 

For peace now reigns 
Throughout the animal domains. 

I bear the news. Come down, I pray, 
And give me the embrace fraternal ; 

And please, my brother, do n’t delay: 
So much the tidings do concern all, 

That I must spread them far to-day. 
Now you and yours can take your walks 
Without a fear or thought of hawks ; 

And should you clash with them or others, 
In us you ’ll find the best of brothers ; — 
For which you may, this joyful night, 
Your merry bonfires light. 
But, first, let ’s seal the bliss 
With one fraternal kiss.’’, 
«‘ Good friend,”’ the cock replied, ‘‘ upon my 
word, 
A better thing T never heard ; 
And doubly I rejoice 
To hear it from your voice: 


eS aS 


For yonder come two greyhounds, which, I 
flatter 
Myself, are couriers on this very matter ; 


1°11 down, and all of us will seal the blessing 
With general kissing and caressing.” 

s¢ Adieu,” said fox; ‘my errand ’s pressing ; 
Ill hurry on my way, 

And we'll rejoice some other day.” 


= 


FRENCH POETRY. 


464 


So off the fellow scampered, quick and light, 
To gain the fox-holes of a neighbouring height, — 
‘Less happy in his stratagem than flight. 
The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve ; — 
"T is doubly sweet deceiver to deceive. 


_— 


THE WOLF AND THE DOG, 


A prowtine wolf, whose shaggy skin 
(So strict the watch of dogs had been) 
Hid little but his bones, 
Once met a mastiff dog astray ; 
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray 
No human mortal owns. 
Sir Wolf, in famished plight, 
Would fain have made a ration 
Upon his fat relation ; 
But then he first must fight ; 
And well the dog seemed able 
To save from wolfish table 
His carcass snug and tight. 
So, then, in civil conversation, 
The wolf expressed his admiration 
Of Tray’s fine case. Said Tray, politely, 
“Yourself, good Sir, may be as sightly ; 
Quit but the woods, advised by me; 
For all your fellows here, I see, 
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt, 
Belike to die of haggard want; 
With such a pack, of course it follows, 
One fights for every bit he swallows. 
Come, then, with me, and share 
On equal terms our princely fare,” 
“¢ But what with you 
Has one te do?” 
Inquires the wolf. “ Light work indeed,” 
Replies the dog; “ you only need 
To bark a little, now and then, 
To chase off duns and beggar-men, — 
To fawn on friends that come or go forth, 
Your master please, and so forth ; 
For which you have to eat 
All sorts of well cooked meat, — 
Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes, — 
Besides unnumbered fond caresses,” 
The wolf, by force of appetite, 
Accepts the terms outright, 
Tears glistening in his eyes. 
But, faring on, he spies 
A galled spot on the mastiff’s neck. 
‘What ’s that?”’ he cries. « O, nothing but 
a speck.”’ * 
“A speck?” “Ay, ay; ’t is not enough to 
pain me; 
Perhaps the collar’s mark by which they chain 
me.”’ 
“Chain, —chain you? What! run you not, then, 
Just where you please, and when?” 
“‘ Not always, Sir; but what of that? ” 
‘Enough for me, to spoil your fat! 
It ought to be a precious price 
Which could to servile chains entice ; 
For me, I ’ll shun them, while I ’ve wit.” 
So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet. ’ 


THE CROW AND THE FOX, 


A MASTER crow, perched on a tree one day, 
Was holding in his beak a cheese ; — 
A master fox, by the odor drawn that way, 
Spake unto him in words like these: 
‘OQ, good morning, my Lord Crow! 
How well you look! how handsome you 
do grow! 
‘Pon my honor, if your note 
Bears a resemblance to your coat, 
You are the phenix of the dwellers in these 
woods.” 
At these words does the crow exceedingly 
rejoice ; 
And, to display his beauteous voice, 
He opens a wide beak, lets fall his stolen goods, 
The fox seized on ’t, and said, “6 My good 
Monsieur, 
Learn that every flatterer 
Lives at the expense of him who hears him 
out. 
This lesson is well worth a cheese, no doubt.” 
The crow, ashamed, and much in pain, 
Swore, but a little late, they ’d not catch him 
so again. 


oe 


NICHOLAS BOILEAU DESPREAUX. 


Nicwotas Boirreav Derspriavx, one of the 
most brilliant ornaments of the age of Louis 
the Fourteenth, was born at Crosne, near Paris, 
in 1636. He studied first at the Collége d’Har- 
court, and then at the Collége de Beauvais. 
Having completed his academical studies, he 
applied himself to the law; but soon becoming 
disgusted with this career, he resolved to give 
himself entirely to letters. His youth had been 
assiduously occupied with the ancient classics, 
on which his taste, so distinguished for its puri- 
ty and severity, was formed. He attempted a 
tragedy without success; but his first satire, 
“ Les Adieux a Paris,”’ made his talents known. 
The “ Satires,”’ which he published in 1666, were 
loudly applauded for their purity of language and 
elegance of versification. His « Epistles’. have 
retained their popularity to the present day. The 
next work which he published was the “ Art 
Poétique,” in imitation of the “ Ars Poetica” of 
Horace. The merits of this poem, as a tasteful 
and elegant summary of the principles of poet- 
ical style and composition, are universally rec- 
ognized, though his censures of Tasso and 
Quinault have justly exposed him to the charge 
of a somewhat narrow spirit in the criticism of 
literature. Another well known work of Boi- 
leau is the “ Lutrin,’” a mock-heroic poem, 
nearly equal in reputation to Pope’s “ Rape of 
the Lock.” Louis the Fourteenth gave him the 
appointment of Historiographer. The Academy 
did not elect him a member until 1684, he 
having attacked that body in some of his writ- 


ings. Boileau died in 1711. An edition of | 


BOILEAU DESPREAUX. 


his works was published by Saint-Surin; Paris, 
1824, in four volumes. 

Boileau was not a man of profound and orig- 
inal genius, but, in the language of Marmontel, 
“He was a sound and judicious critic, the 
avenger and conservator of taste, one who made 
war upon bad writers, and discredited their 
examples. He taught young people to feel the 
proprieties of all»the various styles; gave a 
neat and precise idea of each of the different 
kinds ; recognized those primary truths which 
are eternal laws, and stamped: them upon the 
minds of men in ineffaceable lines.”’ 

His works have been translated into English ; 
—‘ The Art of Poetry,” London, 1683; “ Lu- 
trin,” by N. Rowe, 1708; ‘The Works,” by 
Ozell and others, 1712, two volumes; ‘“ Posthu- 
mous Works,” by+the same, 1713-14, three 
volumes; ‘ Satires,’’ London, 1808. 


NINTH SATIRE. 


Look ye, my mind! a lecture I must read ; 
Your faults L’1l bear no more,—I won't, indeed! 
Too long already has my bending will 
Allowed your tricks and insolence their fill; 
But since you ’ve pushed my patience to the last, 
Have at you now! [’ll blow a wholesome blast. 

Why, what! to see you in that ethic mood, 
Like Cato, prating about bad and good, 
Judging who writes with merit, and who not, 
And teaching reverend doctors what is what, — 
One would suppose, that, covered over quite 
With darts of satire ready winged for flight, 
To you the sole prerogative was given 
To hector every mortal under heaven. 

But have a care, — with all that high pretence, 
I know the worth of both your wit and sense. 
All your defects, in all their black amount, 

As easy as my fingers I can count. 

Ready I am to burst with laughter, when 

I see you snatch your weak and sterile pen, 
And, with that censor-air, sit sternly down 

To wield the scorpion and reform the town, — 
More rough and biting in your satires far 

Than angry scolds, or Gautier? at the bar. 

But come, a moment’s parley let us hold ; — 
Say whence you got that freak so madly bold. 
How could you dare attempt in verse to shine, 
Without one glance of favor from the Nine? 
Say, if on you those inspirations roll 
Which stir the waters of the godlike soul ; 
Tell how that rash, fool-hardy spirit grew ; — 
Has Phebus made Parnassus plain for you? 
And have you yet the dreadful truth to learn, 
That, on that mount, where sacred splendors 

burn, 
He who comes short of its remotest height 
Falls to the ground in ignominious plight, 


1 Claude Gautier, a famous advocate, and excessively 
biting in his recriminations. Hence he obtained the nick- 
name of The Scold. When a pleader wished to intimi- 
date his opponent, he used to say, ‘‘I’Il let Gautier loose 


upon you.”’ 
59 


And, severed far from Horace and Voiture, 
Crawls round the bottom,— with the Abbé 
Pure? 
Yet still, if all that I can do or say 
Can neither frighten nor persuade away 
The dire approaches of that villain-sprite 
Which tempts your sad infirmity,— to write, — 
Why, make your scribbling, then, a gainful 
thing, 
And chant the glories of our conqueror-king ; ° 
So shall your whims and follies swell your purse, 
And every year shall fructify your verse, 
While by your thriving Muse is duly sold 
An ounce of smoke, for full its weight in gold. 
«¢ Ah, tempt me not!’’ I hear you ‘thus reply ; 
‘In vain such splendid tasks my hand shall try. 
It is not every dabbler that can strike 
So high a chord, and thunder, Orpheus-like ; 
Not every one can fill the glowing page 
With scenes where Discord swells and bursts 
with rage, — 
Where hot Bellona, thundering, shrieking, calls, 
And frightened Belgium shrinks behind her 
walls :4 
On such high themes, without a throb of fear, 
Racan® may chant, — since Homer is not here. 
But lack-a-day ! for me and poor Cotin,® 
Who rhyme by chance, and plunge through 
thick and thin, — 
We, who turned poets only on the plan 
Of meanly finding all the fault we can, — 
By crowds of schoolboys though our praise is 
sung, 
Our safest way we find —to hold our tongue. 
Strains worthy of a flatterer and a dunce 
Degrade both author and the king at once. 
In short, for me such subjects are the worst, — 
My capabilities they sure would burst.” 
’'T is thus, my mind, you lazily affect 
The outward semblance of a chaste respect, 


2 The Abbé de Pure had circulated some black and un- 
provoked calumnies against Boileau. 

3 The victories of Louis the Fourteenth called forth a 
swarm of inferior poets, who sought that celebrity from 
their theme, which they never could gain of themselves. 

4 The king had just taken Lille, and made himself, in 
the same campaign, master of several other cities in Flan- 
ders. 

5 This compliment is either too high, or posterity is very 
unjust to this French Homer. Racan, however, was un 
poéte estume. 

6 In the Third Satire, the author expresses his fondness 
of good accommodation at the dinner-table, by declaring 
that he wished for 

*¢ As much elbow-room to indulge himself in, 

As Cassagne had at church, or the Abbé Cotin.”” 
Cassagne had the good sense to testify no resentment 
against the author. Not so with Cotin. He could not en- 
dure that his pulpit talents should be contested. In order 
to have his revenge, he wrote a bad satire against Boileau, 
in which he reproaches him, as if it were a great crime, 
for having imitated Horace and Juvenal. He also published 
an essay on the satires of the times, in which he charged 
our author with having done the greatest injuries, and 
imputed to him imaginary crimes. This only provoked a 
new tissue of railleries, of which the above is one; and, 
Moliére being made a party in the game, the reputation of 
Cotin at length sunk under the contest. 


SS TR 


466 FRENCH 


While dark malignity, that poisonous sin, 

Broods, rankling, with a double power within. 

But grant, that, if you sung such high-wrought 
things, 

The lofty flight would melt your venturous. 

wings, — 

Were it not better and far nobler, say, 

Among the clouds to throw your life away, 

Than thus to sally on the king’s high-road, 

And slash about in that unchristian mood, 

Rhyming and scoffing, as you daily do, 

Insulting those wh» never speak to you, 

Rashly endanger ag others and yourself, — 

And all to load your publisher with pelf? 

Perhaps you think, puffed up with senseless 
pride, 

To march with deathless Horace, side by side. 

Even now you hope that on your rhymes obscure 

Future Saumaises7 will the rack endure. 

But think what numbers, well received at first, 
Have had their foolish expectations cursed ! 
How many flourish for a little date, 

Who see their packed-up verses sold by weight! 

To-day, your writings, gathering wide renown, 

From hand to hand spread briskly through the 
town; 

A few months hence, despite their matchless 
worth, 

Powdered with dust, and never named on earth, 

They to the grocer’s swell that solemn train 
Led by La Serre,? and eke by Neuf: Germain,>— 
Or, at Pont-Neuf,!° perhaps, all gnawed about, 
Lie w th their leaves defaced and half torn out. 
Ah! the fine thing, to see your works engage 
A loitering lacquey, or an idle page, — 

Or make, perchance, conveyed to some dark 

nook, 

A second volume to Savoyard’s book.!! 

Should fate allow, by some good-natured 
whim, 

Your verses on the stream of time to swim, 
Fulfilling, centuries hence, your spiteful vow, 
To load with hisses poor Cotin, as now, — 

Of what avail will be the future praise 
Which men may lavish in those distant days, 

If in your life-time now that trick of rhyme 
Blacken your conscience with repeated crime ? 
Where is the use to scare the public so ? 

Why will you make each sorry fool your foe ? 

Why draw down many a secret hearty curse, 

Merely to show your talent at a verse ? 

What demon tempts you to the vain display 

Of proving out how well you can inveigh ? 

You read a book, —and if it does not strike, 

Who forces you to publish your dislike ? 


7 Claude Saumaise, an excellent critic and commentator. 

8 This is that miserable writer, of whom, in the Third 
Satire, the country nobleman exclaims, 

“La Serre is the author of authors for me!” 

9 Neuf-Germain is described as a ridiculous and extraya- 
gant poet. 

10 This was a place in Paris, where books were exposed 
to sale as waste paper. 

11 Savoyard used to sing songs about the streets of Paris, 
and at length he must publish his ‘‘ New Collection of the 
Songs of Savoyard, as sung by himself at Paris”?! 


mond ”’ each extended to ten volumes. 


POETRY. 


Pray, let a dunce in quiet meet his lot ; 
Shall not an author unmolested rot? 
Jonas,'* in dust, lies’ withered from our sight ; 
David, though printed, has not seen the light ; 
Moses is stained with right Mosaic mould 
Along the margin of each musty fold. 
How can they harm? those who are dead are 
dead ; 
Shall not the tomb escape your hostile tread? 
What poison have they poured within your cup, 
That you should rake their slumbering ashes 
up, — 
Perrin and Bardin, Pradon and Hainaut, 
Colletet, Pelletier, Titreville, Quinaut,!3 
Whose names for ever to some rhyme you hitch, 
Like staring image in sepulchral niche? 
You say you hate the nonsense they produce, 
And that you ’re wearied out; —a fine excuse! 
Have they not wearied out both court and king? 
Yet who indictments has presumed to bring ? 
Has the least edict, to avenge their crime, 
Silenced the authors, or suppressed the rhyme? 
Let write who will. All at this trade may lose 
Freely what paper and what ink they choose. 
Let a romance, whose volumes number ten,)4 
Dismiss its hero,— Heaven alone knows when,— 
Yet who can charge it with a single flaw 
Against the statute or the common law ? 
Hence, to this wild impunity we owe 
Those tides of authors which for ever flow, — 
Whose annual swell has never ceased to drown, 
Time out of mind, this trash-devoted town. 
Hence, not a single gate-post guards a door, 
With puff-advertisements not smothered o’er. 
Fastidious spirit! and will you alone, 
Without prerogative, with name unknown, 
Presume to vindicate Apollo’s cause, 
Adjust his realm, and execute his laws? 
But whilst their works thus roughly you 
chastise, 
Will yours be viewed with quite indulgent eyes? 
No living thing escapes your rude attack ; 
Think you no blow of vengeance shall come 
back? 
Ah, yes! e’en now, methinks, some injured 
wright 
Exclaims, ** Keep out of that mad critic’s sight ! 
One cannot tell what often ails his brain, — ° 
A paradox, no shrewdness can explain, — 
A very boy, —an inexperienced fool, 
Who rashly grasps at universal rule ; 
Who, for a pair of well turned verses’ ends, 
Would run the risk of losing twenty friends. 
He gives no quarter to the godlike Maid, 
And wants his will by all the world obeyed. 
Is there a faultless pleader at the bar, 
Whose eloquence he does not mock and mar? !5 


———— eee 


12 The three poems, over whicha requiem is sung in 


these three lines, were all the productions of different au- 
thors, and never had one breeze of success. 


13 Poets, who had at various times incurred the humor 


of our author in his Satires. 


14 The romances of ‘‘Cyrus,” ‘ Clélie,” and ‘ Phara- 


15 Our author possessed i a very perfect degree the 


BOILEAU DESPREAUX. 


Teenie csc eee trotters tee tae mtn ERE 


Is there a preacher, brilliant, chaste, and deep, 

At whose discourse he does not go to sleep? 

And who is this Parnassian monarch-lad ? 

A beggar, in the spoils of Horace clad ! 

Did not one Juvenal, before him, teach 

How few attend Cotin, to hear him preach? '* 

Those poets both wrote satires upon rhyme ; *7 

And how he fathers upon them his crime ! 

Behind their glorious names he hides his head. 

*T is true, those authors I have little read ; 

But this I know, the world would get much good, 

If all that slanderous, satiric brood 

Into the river (and ’t would be but fair) 

Were headlong plunged, to make their verses 
there.” 

See how they treat you, and the world astound ; 
And the world deems you as already drowned. 
In vain will some good-natured friend essay 
To beg for grace, and wipe your doom away ;__ 
Nothing can satisfy the jealous wight, 

Who reads, and trembles as he reads in fright, 
Thinks that each shaft is aimed at him alone, 
Believing every fault you paint his own. 

You’re always meddling with some new affair, 

Picking eternal quarrels here and there. 

Why are my ears so frequently assailed 

With cries of authors and of fools impaled ? 

When will your zeal some due cessation find ? 

Come, now, —I ’m serious, — answer me, my 
mind ! 

‘¢My stars!’’ you answer, ‘what a mighty 

fuss ! 
Why do you let your spleen transport you thus? 
Must I be hung, for having given, once 
Or twice, a passing comment on a dunce? 
Where is the man, who, when a coxcomb brags 
Of having written a mere piece of rags, 
Does not exclaim,—‘ You good-for-nothing 
fool! 
You tiresome dunce ! you vile translating tool ! 
Why should such nonsense ever see the day, 
Or why such wordy nothings make display ?’ 

«¢ Must this be slander called, or honest speech? 
No, slander steals more softly to the breach. 
Thus, were it made a doubt, for what pretence 
M built a convent at his own expense, — 
‘M——-?’ cries the slanderer, with a solemn 

whine, 
‘Why, do n’t suspect him, — he’s a friend of 
mine. 
I knew him well, before his fortunes grew, — 
As fine a lacquey as e’er brushed a shoe. 


talent of mimickry. Being a young advocate, his attend- 
ance at the courts of justice enabled him to catch the tone 
and manners of the pleaders there. He was no less an 
annoyance to all preachers and all play-actors. 

16 This is the most piercing thrust in the whole Satire. 
Saint-Pavin and the Abbé Cotin had charged our author 
with stealing from Horace and Juvenal. The objection was 
very impertinent; but by making Juvenal talk about the 
Abbé Cotin, who lived sixteen or seventeen centuries after 
him, it fell back with tremendous force on the heads of its 
authors. 

17 It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that 
neither Horace nor Juvenal, nor any other Latin poet before 
the Dark Ages, knew any thing of rhyme. 


His pious heart and honorable mind 
Would give to God— his filchings from man- 
kind.’ 

‘‘' There is a sample of your slanderer’s art, 
Which stabs, with vast politeness, to the heart. 
The generous soul, to such intrigues unknown, 
Detests the soft, backbiting, double tone. 

But surely, to expose a wretched verse, 

Hard as a stone, and dismal as a hearse, 

To draw a line ’twixt merit and pretence, 

To throttle him who throttles common sense, 
To joke a would-be wit who wears out you, — 
This every reader has a right to do. 

“© A fool at court may every day judge wrong, 

And pass unpunished through the tasteless 
throng, 

Preferring (so all standards they disturb) 

Theophilus to Racan and Malherbe, 

Or e’en pretend an equal price to hold 

For Tasso’s tinsel as for Maro’s gold. 

‘Some understrapper, for a dozen sous, 
Who shrinks not from the scorn of public view, 
May go and take his station at the pit, 

And cry down Attila *® with vulgar wit ; 
Unfit the beauties of the Hun to feel, 
He chides those Vandal verses of Corneille. 

‘There ’s not a varlet author in this town, 
No drudge of pen and ink, no copyist clown, 
Who is not ready to assume his stand, 

And sternly judge all writings, scale in hand. 
Soon as the anxious bard his fortune tries, 

He is the slave of every dunce who buys. 

He truckles low to every body’s whim; 

His works must combat for themselves and him. 
In preface meek, he gets upon his knees, 

To beg his candor — whom his verses tease ; 
In vain, —no mercy let the author hope, 
When even his judge stands ready with the rope. 

«¢ And must J only hold my peace the while ? 
If men are fools, shal] I not dare to smile? 
What harm have my well-meaning verses done, 
That furious authors thus against me run ? 

So far from filching their hard-gotten fame, 
I but stepped in, and built them up a name, 
Had not my verses brought their trash to light, 
It would have sunk, long since, to hopeless night. 
Where’er my friendly notice had not reached, 
Who would have known Cotin had ever 
preached ° 
By satire’s dashes fools are glorious made, 
As pictures owe their brilliancy to shade. 
In all the honest censures I have brought, 
I have but freely uttered what I thought ; 
And they who say I hold the rod too high, 
Even they in secret think the same as I. 
“¢ Still some will murmur, —‘ Sure, he was to 
blame ; 
Where was the need of calling folks by name ? *° 
eat pel el lal Rs ek RR ee 


18 One of Corneille’s best dramas. 

19 One day, the Abbé Victoire met Boileau, and said to 
him : ‘‘Chapelain is one of my friends, and I do n’t like to 
have you call him by name in your Satires. It is true, that, 
if he had taken my advice, he would never have written 
poetry. Prose is much better for his talents.”? ‘* There it 
is, there it is!’? said our poet. ‘‘ What do I say more than 


468 


Attacking Chapelain, too! —so good a man! — 
Whom Balzac 2° always praises when he can. 
’T is true, had Chapelain taken my advice, 
He ne’er had versified, at any price 3 
In rhyme he to himself ’s the worst of foes ; 
O, had he always been content with prose !’ 

‘“‘ Such is the cant in which they talk away. 
But is it not the very thing I say ? 
When to his works I put my pruning-knife, 
Pray, do I throw rank poison on his life ? 
My Muse, though rough, adopts the candid plan 
Still to disjoin the poet from the man. 
Grant him what faith and honor are his due, 
Allow him to be civil, modest, true, 
Complaisant, soft, obliging, and sincere, — 
From me not even a scruple shall you hear. 
But when I see him as a model shown, 
And raised and worshipped on the poet’s throne, 
Pensioned far more than wits of greater might,?! 
My bile o’erflows, and I’m on fire to write. 
If I’m forbidden what I think to say 
In print, — then, like the menial in the play, 
I ll go and dig the earth, and whisper there, 
That even the reeds may publish to the air, 
Till every grove, and vale, and thicket hears, 
Midas, King Midas, has an ass’s ears. 
How have my writings done him any wrong? 
His powers how frozen, or how chilled his song? 
Whene’er a book first takes the vender’s shelf, 
Let every comer judge it for himself. 
Bilaine ?? may save it from his bookshop’s dust ; 
Can he prevent a critic’s keen disgust ? 
A minister may plot against The Cid,” 
And every breath of rapture may forbid ; 
In vain, —all Paris, more informed and wise, 
Looks on Ximena with Rodrigo’s eyes.*4 
The whole Academy may run it down, — 
Still shall it charm and win the rebel town. 
But when a work from Chapelain’s mint appears, 
Straightly his readers all become Liniéres ; 75 
In vain a thousand authors laud him high, — 
The book comes forth, and gives them all the 

lie. 

Since, then, he lives the mark of scorn and glee 
To the whole town, — pray, without chiding me, 
eer Tl ee ied 
you? Why am I reproached for saying in verse what 


every body else says in prose? Iam but the secretary of 
the public.” 

20 ‘Balzac was a nobleman, and a very popular writer of 
letters. Out of about twenty of his volumes, six were 
filled with letters to Chapelain, and encomiums on his 
works. 

21 Chapelain had, in different sinecures 
about eight thousand livres per annum, 

22 Bilaine was a famous bookseller, who kept his shop 
in the grand hall of the palace. 

23 Corneille having obtained the representation of his fa- 
mous drama of ‘‘ The Cid,” a party was formed against it, 
at the head of which was the great Cardinal Richelieu, 
Prime-minister of France. He obliged the French Academy 
to criticise that play, and their strictures were printed 
under the title of ‘Sentiments of the French Academy 
respecting The Cid.” 

24 Ximena and Rodrigo, —the heroine and the hero of 
“The Cid,?? 

25 Liniére was an author who wrote severely against 
Chapelain’s ‘‘ Maid of Orleans.’? 


and pensions, 


FRENCH POETRY. 


aaa RFCM noe eakanemennrete seg ee ee el a ee 


Let him accuse his own unhappy verse, 
Whereon Apollo has pronounced a curse ; 
Yes, blame that Muse that led his steps astray, 
His German Muse, tricked out in French array. 
Chapelain ! farewell, for ever and for aye!” 
Satire, they tell us, is a dangerous thing ; 
Some smile, but most are outraged at its sting ; 
It gives its author every thing to fear, 
And more than once made sorrow for Regnier.?6 
Quit, then, a path, whose wily power.decoys 
The thoughtless soul to too ill-natured JOYS 5 
To themes more gentle be your Muse confined, 
And leave poor Feuillet27 to reform mankind. 
‘What! give up satire? thwart my darling 
drift ? 
How shall I, then, employ my rhyming gift? 
Pray, would you have me daintily explode 
My inspiration in a pretty ode; 
And, vexing Danube in his course superb, 
Invoke his reeds with pilferings from Mal- 
herbe ? 28 
Save groaning Zion from the oppressor’s rod, 
Make Memphis tremble, and the crescent nod ; 
And, passing Jordan, clad in dread alarms, 
Snatch (undeserved !) the Idumean palms ?29 
Or, coming with an eclogue from the rocks, 
Pipe, in the midst of Paris, to my flocks, 
And sitting (at my desk), beneath a beech, 
Make Echo with my rustic nonsense screech ? 
Or, in cold blood, without one spark of love, 
Burn to embrace some Iris from above ; 
Lavish upon her every brilliant name, — 
Sun, Moon, Aurora, — to relieve my flame ; 
And while on good round fare I daily dine, 
Die in a trope, or languish in a line ? 
Let whining fools such affectation keep, 
Whose drivelling minds in luscious dulness sleep. 
‘No, no! Dame Satire, chide her as you will, 
Charms by her novelties and lessons still. 
She only knows, in fair proportions meet, 
Nicely to blend the useful with the sweet ; 
And, us good sense illuminates her rhymes, 
Unmasks and routs the errors of the times ; — 
Dares e’en within the altar’s bound to tread, 
And strikes injustice, vice, and pride with 
dread. 
Her fearless tongue deals caustic vengeance 
back, 
When reason suffers from a fool’s attack, 
Thus by Lucilius, when his Lelius bid, 
The old Cotins of Italy were chid ; 
Thus Attic Horace, with his killing leers, 
Braved and o’erwhelmed the Roman Pelletiers. 


ee eee 

26 Regnier was the first who wrote satires in France. 
While very young, his verses provoked for him go many 
enemies, that his father was obliged to chastise him. 

27 Feuillet was a preacher excessively severe in his man- 
ners, and alarming in his exhortations. He affected singu- 
larity in his public performances, 

28 These lines allude to the writings of one Périer, who 
borrowed and spoiled sentences from Malherbe. 

29 It is possible, that, in these few lines, he alludes to 
Tasso’s ‘‘ Jerusalem,’? whose popularity at that time might 
have roused Boileau’s jealousy for the ancients, and caused 
in his mind a reaction, both unfavorable and unjust to the 
Italian poet. 


= 


| 


Pele 


BOILEAU DESPREAUX.—RACINE. 


Yes, Satire, boon companion of my way, 

Has shown me where the path of duty lay ; 

For fifteen years has taught me how to look 

With due abhorrence on a foolish book. 

And eager o’er Parnassus as I run, 

She smiles and lingers, willing to be won, 

Strengthens my steps, and cheers my path with 
light ; 

In short, for her, — for her, I’ve vowed to write. 

‘¢ Yet e’en this instant, if you say I must, 
Ill quit her service, willing to be just ; 

And, if I can but quell these floods of foes, 

Suppress the verse whence so much mischief 
rose. 

Since you command, — retracting, I declare, 

Quinaut ’s a Virgil ! °° doubt it, ye who dare ; 

Pradon *! shines forth on these benighted times, 

More like Apollo, than a thing of rhymes ; 

To Pelletier °* a higher palm is due 

Than falls to Ablancourt and his Patru ; 33 

Cotin draws all the world to hear him preach, 

And through the crowds can scarce his pulpit 
reach ; 

Sofal *4’s the phenix of our wits of fame ; 

Perrin ”’ Well done! my mind, pursue that 
game. 

Yet do but see, how all the maddened tribe 

Your very praise to raillery ascribe. 

Heaven knows what authors soon, inflamed 
with rage, 

What wounded rhymesters will the battle wage. 

Soon will you see them dart the envenomed lie, 

Whole storms of slander will against you fly, 

Each verse you write be construed as a crime, 

And treasonous aims be charged on every rhyme. 

Scarce will you dare to sound your monarch’s 
fame, 

Or consecrate your pages with his name ; 

Who slights Cotin (if we believe Cotin) 

Has surely done the unpardonable sin, — 

A traitor to his king, his faith, his God, 

Fit for the hangman, or the beadle’s rod. 

‘¢ But what!” you say, ‘can he do any harm? 
How has Cotin the power to strike alarm? 
Can he forbid, what he esteems so high, 

Those pensions, which ne’er cost my heart a 
sigh ? 

No, no! my tongue waits not for sordid ore, 

To laud that king whom friends and foes adore ; 

Enough that I his praise may feebly speak, — 

No other honor or reward I seek. 

My brush may seem capricious and severe, 

While making vice in its own swarth appear, 


30 Alluding to the line in the Third Satire : 
‘Reason says Virgil, but the rnyme Quinaut.”’ 

31 A writer of tragedies. He affected to be the rival of 
Racine. He was very ignorant. 

32 Pelletier was a wretched scribbler of sonnets. 

33 Ablancourt and Patru were very close friends; both 
elegant writers. 

34 The author of a manuscript history of the antiquities 
of Paris, written in a very bombastic style. Some morti- 
fications and disappointments prevented the author from 
exposing it to the world. Boileau has a cutting verse upon 
him in the Seventh Satire. 


Or holding up a set of fools to shame, 
Who dare to arrogate an author’s name; 
Yet shall I ever treat with fond respect 
My honored Liege, with every virtue decked.”’ 9° 
Yes, yes, you always will; that’s very well; 
But, think you, will it stop their threatening 
yell? 
‘¢ Parnassian yells,” you say, “I little count ; 
A fig for all the Hurons on the mount!” 
Mon Dieu, take care, fear every thing, my mind, 
From a bad author, furiously inclined ; 
Who, if he choose, can “What? ’’?—TI 
know full well. 
‘Bless me! what is it?’’—- Hush! I must not 
tell. 


—_@— 


JEAN RACINE. 


Tus illustrious poet was born December 21st, 
1639, at Ferté-Milon. He received his early ed- 
ucation in the abbey of Port-Royal-des-Champs, 
and completed his studies at the Collége d’Har- 
court. His studies were chiefly directed to the 
Greek drama; and Euripides, whose pathos and 
tenderness were congenial to his own disposi- 
tion, was his favorite. An ode, which he wrote 
on the marriage of Louis the Fourteenth, was 
the means of procuring him a pension from the 
monarch. His first tragedy, “¢ Les Freres En- 
nemis,”’ appeared in 1664, and was very favor- 
ably received. Between this period and 1691, 
he produced a series of tragedies, which have 
immortalized his name, and which are known 
wherever the literature of France is studied. 
Besides these tragedies, he produced a comedy, 
‘Les Plaideurs,” in 1668. The Academy 
elected him into their body in 1673, and Louis 
the Fourteenth appointed him, in connection 
with Boileau, historiographer of his reign. Ra- 
cine at length, from religious motives, desert- 
ed the theatre; but, at the request of Madame 
de Maintenon, wrote the drama of ‘ Esther,” 
which was represented by the pupils of Saint- 
Cyr, in 1689. A treatise on the sufferings of 
the people from the extravagance of the gov- 


35 When the Eighth Satire was published, it met with 
extraordinary success. The king himself spoke of it sev- 
eral times with great praise. On one of these occasions, 
the Sieur de Saint-Mauris, of the horse-guard, told the 
king, that Boileau had composed another Satire (the Ninth), 
which was still finer than that, and in which he spoke of 
his Majesty. The king looked up with an air of surprise 
and offended dignity, and replied, ‘‘A satire, in which he 
speaks of me, say you?”’ ‘Yes, Sire,’? answered Saint- 
Mauris, ‘‘but with all that respect which is due to your 
Majesty.’? The king then expressed a curiosity to see it ; 
and when it was obtained, he admired it beyond measure, 
and showed it to several ladies and others about court, 
This was contrary to Boileati’s wishes; but when the poem 
was so much circulated, that there was danger of a defec- 
tive copy getting abroad, he resolved to publish it. “Thus,” 
says the commentator to whom we owe this story, ani 
may ina manner be said, that this piece came to the pub- 


lic through the hands of the king.”’ 
NN 


ernment, written by Racine at the instigation of 
Madame de Maintenon, caused him to fall into 
disgrace with the king. He died soon after, 
April 22d, 1699. 

Innumerable editions of his works have been 
published ; among which may be mentioned 
the beautiful edition of 1760, in three volumes 
quarto; the edition of Boisgermain, in 1767 ; 
and the more complete edition of Lenormand, 
in 1808. 

Racine, though not a poet of the highest or- 
der of genius, was yet unsurpassed in some of 
the best qualities of the tragedian. His deline- 
ation of the tender passions, especially the pas- 
sion of love, is masterly. The grace of his 
language, the harmony of his versification, the 
skilful management of the action, under all the 
restrictions of the French critical code, have 
made his tragedies unrivalled models of dramat- 
ic art, as that art was understood in the age of 
Louis the Fourteenth. 


| La 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ANDROMAQUE. 


HERMIONE. 
Wuart have I done? — Where am I ?_— Where 
is Pyrrhus ? — 
Ye gods! what mean these horrors ?— I’m un- 
done ! $ 
My soul is on the rack! I cannot bear it! — 
Why do I wander like some guilty ghost ? 
What brought me to this place? What keeps 
me here? 
The court of Pyrrhus has no room for me! 
Do I still doubt if I should love or hate him? 
Hard-hearted man! how unconcerned he left 
me ! 
Did he once sigh? bestow one pitying look ? 
Once shed a tear? or speak one soft, kind word ? 
Did he so much as feign one moment’s sorrow, 
To calm my griefs, and mitigate his falsehood ? 
Why am I still thus anxious for hig life ? 
Why do I start at his impending fate ? 
Shall he, then, live? Shall the base traitor live 
To laugh at my distress? No, let him perish ! 
Be quick, Orestes! Execute my orders ! — 
Alas! my orders! O preposterous guilt ! 
Can I decree the death of him I love? 
Was it for this my soul delighted in him ? 
Was it for this I left my father’s court? 
Have I, then, crossed so many realms and seas 
To murder Pyrrhus ? — 


[Cleone enters. 
O Cleone, help me! 
What have I done? 
What say’st thou? 
king? 


Is Pyrrhus yet alive? 
Answer me: where is the 


CLEONE. 
Madam, I saw the cruel prince set forward, 
Triumphant in his looks, and full of joy. 
Still as he walked, his ravished eyes were fixed 
On the fair captive; while through shouting 
crowds 


FRENCH POETRY. 


She passed along with a dejected air, 
And seemed to mourn her Hector to the Jast. 


HERMIONE, 
Insulting tyrant! I shall burst with rage ! 

But say, Cleone, didst thou mark him well ? 
Was his brow smooth? Say, did there not ap- 
pear 
Some shade of grief, some little cloud of sorrow? 
Did he not stop? Did he not once look back? 
Didst thou approach him? Was he not con- 

founded ? 
Did he not 


O, be quick, and tell me all! 


CLEONE. 

Madam, the tumult of his joy admits 
No thought but love. Unguarded he marched 

on, 
Midst a promiscuous throng of friends and foes. 
His cares all turn upon Astyanax, 
Whom he has lodged within the citadel, 
Defended by the strength of all his guards. 


HERMIONE. 
Enough! he dies! the traitor! — Where ’s 
Orestes ? 
CLEONE. 


He ’s in the temple with his whole retinue. 


HERMIONE. 


Is he still resolute? Is he still determined ? 


CLEONE. 


Madam, I fear 


HERMIONE. 
How! Is Orestes false ? 
Does he betray me too? 


CLEONE. 
A thousand doubts 
Perplex his soul, and wound him with remorse: 
His virtue and his love prevail by turns. 
He told me Pyrrhus should not fall ignobly, — 
Pyrrhus, the warlike son of great Achilles. 
He dreads the censure of the Grecian states, — 
Of all mankind; and fears to stain his honor. 


HERMIONE. 
Poor timorous wretch! ’T is false ! 
fears 
To cope with dangers, and encounter death; 
‘Tis that he fears‘— Am I bright Helen’s 
daughter ? 

To vindicate her wrongs all Greece conspired ; 
For her, confederate nations fought, and kings 
were slain, ; 
Troy was o’erthrown, and a whole empire fell : 

My eyes want force to raise a lover’s arm 
Against a tyrant that has dared to wrong me! 


He basely 


CLEONE,. 
Madam, like Helen, trust your cause to Greece. 


HERMIONE. 
No! I'll avenge myself: I'll to the temple; 
I'll overturn the altar, stab the priest ; 
I°ll burl destruction like a whirlwind round me! 


RACINE. 


shall not ! — 
Let me begone! I have no time to lose ! 
Stand off! hold me not! I am all distraction !— 
O Pyrrhus! tyrant! traitor! thou shalt bleed ! 
{Orestes enters. 


They must not wed! they must not live! they 
| 
| 


ORESTES. 
|| Madam, ’tis done; your orders are obeyed: 
The tyrant lies expiring at the altar. 


| HERMIONE. 
| Is Pyrrhus slain? 


ORESTES. 

Even now he gasps in death. 

Our Greeks, all undistinguished in the crowd, 

Flocked to the temple, and dispersed themselves 

On every side the altar. I was there: 

|| Pyrrhus observed me with a haughty eye ; 

And, proud to triumph over Greece in me, 

|| From his own brows he took the diadem, 

And bound it on the temples of his captive : 

“¢ Receive,” said he, ‘my crown! receive my 
faith ! 

| Mine and my people’s sovereign, reign for ever! 

From this blessed hour, a father to your son, 

I ‘ll scourge his foes : henceforward he be styled 

The Trojan king: I swear it at the altar, 

And call the gods to ratify my vows!”’ 

His subjects with loud acclamations shook 

| The spacious dome. Our Greeks, enraged, 

| cried out, 

* Revenge ! revenge ! 
thronging press, 

And rushed tumultuous on the unguarded king: 

Their eager fury left no work for me. 

Pyrrhus awhile opposed their clashing swords, 

And dealt his fatal blows on every side 

|| With manly fierceness; till, oppressed by num- 
bers, 

Streaming with blood, all over gashed with 
wounds, 

He reeled, he groaned, and at the altar fell. — 

Haste, Madam; let us fly! Haste to our ships! 

They lie unmoored: our friends attend us there. 


” 


broke through the 


HERMIONE. 
What have they done? 


ORESTES. 
Madam, forgive their rage ! 
I own your vengeance had been more complete, 
Had Pyrrhus fallen by me, and had he known 
| Hermione chastised him by my arm. 


. HERMIONE. 

| Peace, monster, peace! Go, tell thy horrid tale 

| To savages, and howl it in the deserts ! 

Wouldst thou impute to me thy barbarous guilt ? 

Me wouldst thou make the accomplice of thy 
crimes ? 

| Hence to thy Greeks, and boast thy foul exploits! 

| My soul abhors them! JI disclaim the deed! 

| Begone! I know thee not, thou fell barbarian ! 

What had he done? What could provoke thy 


madness 


To assassinate so great, so brave a man? 
Who set thee on? 


ORESTES. 
O, grant me patience, Heaven! 
With your own lips did you not curse the ty- 
rant, 


Pronounce his death, and urge me to destroy him? 


HERMIONE. 

What if, transported by my boundless passion, 
I could not bear to see him wed another, — 
Were you to obey a jealous woman’s frenzy? 
You should have dived into my inmost thougiits ; 
My heart, though full of rage, was free from 

malice ; 
And all my anger was excess of love. 


Why did you take me at my word? You su 

The struggles of my soul; you heard me rave 

You should have questioned me a thousand 
times, 


Yet still have doubted, and still questioned on, 
Before you ventured on a life so precious. 


ORESTES. 
Hear me but speak : 
will 


Heaven knows, against my 


HERMIONE, 

Why did you not return? why not consult me 

A second time? and, undetermined still, 

Again return, and still find new delays? 

What had your rash, officious Greeks — dire 
bloodhounds ! — 

To do with my revenge? What drew you hith- 
er? 

To bring on me the vengeful woes that haunt 
you? 

Are these the fruits of your detested love ? 

Your fatal embassy, your hateful presence, 

Drove Pyrrhus to my rival; and destroys 

Both him and me. He might have loved me 
still, 

Had you ne’er interposed.—Avaunt! 

And leave me in Epirus. I renounce 

My friends, my country, Greece, and all man- 
kind: 

But, chiefly, I renounce thee, monster! thee! 

[Exit. 


Begone! 


ORESTES. 
Am I awake ?>—Where am I ?— Soft, my soul! 
Be not too rash. Was that Hermione ? 
Why should her anger thunder against me? 
Was not this blood shed all by her command? — 
I am, indeed, a most outrageous monster ! 
A ruffian, murderer, a base assassin! 
And all to please a false, ungrateful woman. 
Henceforward let the laws of nations cease ; 
And let the pale that severs right and wrong, 
Things sacred and profane, be broken down : 
Gods in their temples, kings upon their thrones, 
Are not in safety, while Orestes lives. 
O, never more shall my torn mind be healed, 
Nor taste the gentle comforts of repose! 
A dreadful band of gloomy cares surround me, 
And lay strong siege to my distracted soul ! 


ai; 


eo 


ne ee 


FRENCH POETRY. 


; 


FIFTH PERIOD.—CENTURY XVIIL 


ANONYMOUS. 


Tus piece of pleasantry, on the supposed 
death and burial of the duke of Marlborough, 
was written after the battle of Malplaquet, in 
1709. The bibliophile Jacob* says, Some mer- 
ry ballad-singer pronounced this funeral oration 


Boufflers...... In 1731, however, it suddenly 
resounded from one end of the kingdom to the 
other.”’ A peasan# woman, who had been select- 
ed as nurse of the dauphin, the son of Marie 
Antoinette, used to sing this song in the royal 
nursery, “‘and the royal infant opened his eyes 
at the great name of Marlborough. This name, 
the naive words of the song, the oddity of the 
burden, and the touching simplicity of the air, 
struck the queen, who retained the words and 
the music. Every body repeated them after her; 
and the king himself did not disdain to hum in 


unison, 
‘Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre.’ ” 


MALBROUCK. 


Maxerrouck, the prince of commanders, 
Is gone to the war in Flanders; 
His fame is like Alexander’s ; 

But when will he come home? 


Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or 

Perhaps he may come at Easter. 

Egad! he had better make haste, or 
We fear he may never come. 


For Trinity Feast is over, 
And has brought no news from Dover 
And Easter is past, moreover, 

And Malbrouck still delays. 


? 


Milady in her watch-tower 

Spends many a pensive hour, 

Not knowing why or how her 
Dear lord from England stays. 


While sitting quite forlorn in 
2 . . 
That tower, she spies returning 
A page clad in deep mourning, 
With fainting steps and slow. 


“© O page, prithee, come faster ! 
What news do you bring of your master? 


* Chants et Chansons Populaires de la France. Pre- 


miére Série. Paris: 1843. 8vo. = 


I fear there is some disaster, 
Your looks are so full of woe.’’ 


‘The news I bring, fair lady,”’ 
With sorrowful accent said he, 
‘Is one you are not ready 

So soon, alas! to hear. 


“‘ But since to speak I ’m hurried,” 

Added this page, quite flurried, 

*¢ Malbrouck is dead and buried!” 
And here he shed a tear. 


‘¢ He ’s dead! he’s dead as a herring! 
For I beheld his berring, 
And four officers transferring 

His corpse away from the field. 


“One officer carried his sabre, 
And he carried it not without labor, 
Much envying his next neighbour, 


Who only bore a shield. 


‘The third was helmet-bearer, — 

That helmet which on its wearer 

Filled all who saw with terror, 
And covered a hero’s brains. 


‘¢ Now, having got so far, I 

Find, that— by the Lord Harry !— 

The fourth is left nothing to carry ; — 
So there the thing remains.” 


——¢ 


FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET DE VOL- 
é TAIRE. 


Francots-Mariz Arovet, who afterwards 
assumed the name of Voltaire, was born at 
Chatenay, February 20th, 1694. After having 
studied in the Jesuits’ College, he devoted him- 
self to the law, in compliance with his father’s 
wishes, but found it repugnant to his own taste, 
which inclined him strongly to literature. In 
1713, he was sent to Holland in the retinue of 
the Marquis de Chateauneuf, but was soon re- 
called in consequence of a love affair, and forced 
to resume the study of the law. At length, he 
found a retreat at a country estate of Caumar- 
tin, the Intendant of Finances; but after the 
death of Louis the Fourteenth, in 1715, he 
was imprisoned in the Bastille a year, on sus- 
picion of having written some satirical verses. 
In 1718, his “edipe” was represented, and 
had great success. In 1722, he went to Hol- 
land, where he became acquainted with J. J. . 
Rousseau. He returned to France in 1724. 


About this time, a surreptitious edition of the 
‘“‘ Henriade,” which he had sketched during his 
imprisonment, was published, under the title of 
In 1726, he was again confined 


“La Ligue.” 


PRET 


DSi dak EN enh el BE alla aii hiatal 


VOLTATIRE. 


i in emda 


in the Bastille, on account of a quarrel with a 
haughty young nobleman, the Chevalier de Ro- 
han, but was released at the end of six months, 
and banished from the kingdom. The follow- 
ing three years he passed in England, where he 
became acquainted with many persons of the 
highest rank, and with the most distinguished 
men of letters. Here he published the “ Hen- 
riade,” and wrote the “Life of Charles the 
Twelfth,” the tragedy of * Brutus,” the “ Essay 
on Epic Poetry,” and the “ Philosophical Let- 
ters.” In 1730, he returned to Paris, and, by 
several successful speculations, acquired a large 
fortune. His tragedy of “ Brutus” 
out at this time, but with no great success. 
Some lines, which he wrote on the death of 
the actress Lecouvreur, who had been refused 
Christian burial, forced him to retire from Paris, 
and he passed some time at Rouen, under an 
assumed name. The tragedy of “ Zaire”’ ap- 
peared in 1731; the poem called “* The Temple 
of Taste,” in 1733; the tragedy of “* Cesar,” in 
1735. This piece and the “ Philosophical Let- 
ters’’ raised a great clamor against Voltaire, 
and he lived three years in concealment at 
Cirey, in the house of the learned Marchioness 
du Chitelet, where he wrote several of bis phi- 
losophical works, four tragedies, and the come- 
dy of “ L’ Enfant Prodigue.”” The fame of Vol- 
taire now spread over all Europe, and gained him 
the friendship and correspondence of the crown- 
prince of Prussia, afterwards Frederic the Sec- 
ond; and when this prince ascended the throne, 
Voltaire was sent to Berlin, where he was ena- 
bled to render political service to the French 
court, by his mfluence with the new sovereign. 
On the marriage of the dauphin, he wrote the 
‘¢ Princesse de Navarre,”’ and, through the inter- 
est of Madame Pompadour, obtained a seat in 
the Academy, and the appointment of Cham- 
berlain and Historiographer of France. In 1750, 
he accepted the reiterated invitations of the 
king of Prussia, and went to Potsdam, where 
he was received with the greatest distinction. 
He had an apartment assigned to him in the pal- 
ace, the, order of Merit was given him, and a 
pension of six thousand thalers. But difficul- 
ties and jealousies soon interrupted the harmo- 
ny of this relation, and in three years Voltaire 
left Berlin. On his way, he was arrested, by 
Frederic’s order, at Frankfort, and required to 
surrender a collection of the king’s poems which 
he had taken with him, and which the king 
feared might be used to his prejudice. After 
this, Voltaire lived a year in Colmar, and two 
years in Switzerland; he then purchased the 
two estates of Tourney and Ferney, in the Pays 
de Gex, and at the latter passed the last twen- 
ty years of his life. Here he lived, surrounded 
by his friends and dependents, having collected 
about him’ manufacturers and other settlers, 
whom he attached strongly to himself by con- 
tinued acts of kindness and constant attention 
to their interests. He prosecuted his literary 


labors with the greatest vigor and activity, 
60 


was brought 


RE EE ET SEE a Sa 


Be 


waged a violent war against the abuses of church 
and state, and attacked Christianity itself with 
unexampled bitterness. He erected a church 
with the inscription, Deo erezit Voltaire. He 
protected the victims of persecution and fanati- 
cism; and, in the numerous writings which he 
published during this period of his life, assailed, 
with all the weapons of ridicule and eloquence, 
whatever seemed to him opposed to freedom 
and justice. An edition of his works, which 
appeared in 1757, led to a reconciliation with 
Frederic, and a renewal of their correspondence. || 
The king sent him his bust, inscribed, Viro am- | 
mortali ; and the Empress Catharine wrote him 
the most flattering. letters, accompanied by 
splendid presents. In February, 1778, he went 
to Paris, where he was enthusiastically received 
by the French Academy, who placed his bust | 
by the side of that of Corneille ; the actors 
waited upon him in a body; his tragedy of 
“éTréne’’ was played in the presence of the 
royal family, and at the sixth representation 
a laurel wreath was presented to him as he 
entered the theatre, and at the close of the per- 
formance his bust was crowned. The excite- 
ment of such scenes, and the change from his 
usual mode of life, were too much for his ad- 
vanced age to bear. He died, May 30th, 1778, 
in his eighty-fifth year. 

It is difficult to present a satisfactory view of 
this extraordinary man’s character. He was vain, 
almost beyond example. Subjects that men 
thought sacred, and looked upon with awe, he 
treated with levity, scoffing, and contempt. On | 
the other hand, he nobly maintained the rights 
of the oppressed; he vindicated, with irresisti- | 
ble eloquence, the claims of suffering humanity. 
He was a strange compound of virtues and vices, 
of folly and wisdom, of the little and the great. 
He was capable of the most gigantic efforts, the 
most astonishing labors; at the age of eighty, 
he worked fourteen hours a day. He had the 
most piercing wit, the liveliest imagination, and 
all the graces of style were at his command. 
In many different species of literary composi- 
tion, he excelled; and in the drama, he ranks 
next to Corneille and Racine. 

Baranté, in his eloquent and philosophical 
‘‘Tableau de la Littérature Frangaise,” uses the 
following language. 

“The farther Voltaire advanced in his ca- 
reer, the more he saw himself encompassed 
with fame and homage. Soon even sovereigns 
became his friends, and almost his flatterers. 
Hatred and envy, by resisting his triumphs, 
excited in him sentiments of anger. This con- 
tinual opposition gave still greater vivacity to 
his character, and often made him lose moder- 
ation, shame, and taste. Such was his life; 
such was the path which conducted him to that 
long cold age, which he might have rendered so 
honorable; when, surrounded by unbounded 
glory, he reigned despotically over letters, 
which had taken the first rank among all the 


objects to which the curiosity and attention of 
NN2 


men are ‘directed. It is sad that Voltaire did 
not feel how he might have ennobled and adorn- 
ed such a position, by using the advantages 
which it offered him, and following the conduct 
which it seemed to prescribe. It is deplorable 
that he allowed himself to be carried away by 
the torrent of a degraded age, and yielded toa 
wicked and shameless spirit, which forms a re- 
volting contrast with white hairs, the symbol 
of wisdom and purity. What more melancho- 
ly spectacle than an old man insulting the 
Deity at the moment when he is about to be 
recalled, and casting off the respect of youth by 
sharing its disorders !”’ 

‘His works,” continues Barante, “ have al- 
most always been received with enthusiasm by 
the public, but at the same time have encoun- 
tered obstinate detractors, and party spirit has 
continually dictated the judgment that has been 
passed upon them. Half a century has elapsed, 
and Voltaire’s reputation, like the body of Pa- 
troclus, is still disputed by two hostile par- 
ties. Such a conflict alone would be enough 
to perpetuate the glory of his name. Men have 
made themselves famous by having defended 
him ; others owe all their celebrity to their in- 
cessant attacks upon him. In this long con- 
tinued conflict, the renown of Voltaire has doubt- 
less failed to preserve all the splendor with 
which it shone at first. There is no longer that 
national enthusiasm, that admiration, equal to 
the admiration inspired by the heroes and ben- 
efactors of humanity. The triumph which was 
decreed to him in his last days is no more. 
A colder and more measured judgment has 
checked these lively manifestations. But there 
is something absurd and ridiculous in the efforts 
of those who labor to tarnish entirely the glory 
of Voltaire.’’ 

The life of Voltaire has been written by Con- 
dorcet, Mercier, Luchet, Duvernet, and others. 
His works have passed through numerous edi- 
tions. The principal are those of Beaumarchais, 
Kehl, 1784; Palissot, Paris, 1796; and the 
more recent one by Dupont, in seventy volumes. 
They were published in English, in the last 
century, under the names of Smollett and 
Franklin, in thirty-six volumes; again, in 
1821, by Sotheby, in thirty-six volumes. An 
excellent paper on Voltaire may be found in 
Carlyle’s ‘ Miscellanies,’’ Vol. II. 


—— 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ALZIRA 


ALZIRA’S SOLILOQUY. 


Suave of my murdered lover, shun to view me! 

Rise to the stars, and make their brightness 
sweeter ; 

But shed no gleam of lustre on Alzira ! 

She has betrayed her faith, and married Carlos! 

The-sea, that rolled its watery world betwixt us, 

Failed to divide our hands,—and he has reached 
me! 

The altar trembled at the unhallowed touch ; 


FRENCH POETRY. 


And Heaven drew back, reluctant at our meet- 


ing. ; 
O thou soft-hovering ghost, that haunt’st my 
fancy ! 
Thou dear and bloody form, that skimm’st be- 
fore me! 


Thou never-dying, yet thou buried Zamor ! 

If sighs and tears have power to pierce the 
grave; 

If death, that knows no pity, will but hear me ; 

If still thy gentle spirit loves Alzira ; 

Pardon, that even in death she dared forsake 
thee ! 

Pardon her rigid sense of nature’s duties : 

A parent’s will, —a pleading country’s safety ! 

At these strong calls, she sacrificed her love 

To joyless glory and to tasteless peace, — 

And to an empty world, in which thou art not! 

O Zamor, Zamor, follow me no longer ! 

Drop some dark veil, snatch some kind cloud 
before thee, ; 

Cover that conscious face, and let Seath hide 
thee ! 

Leave me to suffer wrongs that Heaven allots 
me, 

And teach my busy fancy to forget thee ! 


DON ALVAREZ, DON GUZMAN, AND ALZIRA. 


[Enter Alvarez and Guzman. — Shouts ; trumpets, a long 
and lofty flourish. ] 


ALVAREZ, 

Drsurve, my son, this triumph of your arms. 
Your numbers and your courage have prevailed ; 
And of this last, best effort of the foe, 
Half are no more, and half are yours in chains, 
Disgrace not due success by undue cruelties ; 
But call in mercy to support your fame, 
I will go visit the afflicted captives, 
And pour compassion on their aching wounds. 
Meanwhile, remember you are man and Chris- 

tian : 
Bravely, at once, resolve to pardon Zamor 
Fain would I soften this indocile flerceness, 
And teach your courage how to conquer hearts. 


GUZMAN. 
Your words pierce mine. Freely devote my life, 
But leave at liberty my just revenge, 
Pardon him? Why, the savage brute is loved! 


ALVAREZ, 
The unhappily beloved most merit pity. 


GUZMAN. 
Pity !— Could I be sure of such reward, 
I would die pleased, —and she should pity me. 


ALVAREZ. 
How much to be lamented is a heart, 
At once by rage of headlong will oppressed, 
And by strong jealousiés and doubtings torn! 


GUZMAN. 
When jealousy becomes a crime, guard, Heaven, 
¢ 


That husband’s honor, whom his wife not loves! 
Wour pity takes in all the world — but me. 


ALVAREZ. 
Mix not the bitterness of distant fear 
With your arrived misfortunes. — Since Alzira 
Has virtue, it will prove a wiser care 
To soften her for change, by patient tenderness, 
Than, by reproach, confirm a willing hate. 
Her heart is, like her country, rudely sweet, — 
Repelling force, but gentle to the kind. 
Softness will soonest bend the stubborn will. 


GUZMAN. 

Softness ! —by all the wrongs of woman’s hate, 

Too much of softness but invites disdain. 

Flattered too long, beauty at length grows wan- 
ton, 

And, insolently scornful, slights its praiser. 

O, rather, Sir, be jealous for my glory ; 

And urge my doubting anger to resolve! 

Too low already condescension bowed, 

Nor blushed to match the conqueror with the 
slave ! 

But, when this slave, unconscious what she 
owes, 

Proudly repays humility with scorn, 

And braves and hates the unaspiring love, 

Such love is weakn’ess; and submission, there, 

Gives sanction to contempt, and rivets pain. 


ALVAREZ, 
Thus, youth is ever apt to judge in. haste, 
And lose the medium in the wild extreme. 
Do not repent, but regulate your passion : 
Though love is reason, its excess is rage. 
Give me, at least, your promise to reflect, 
In cool, impartial solitude ; and still, 
No last decision till we meet again. 


GUZMAN. 

It is my father asks, —and, had I will 

=) A 9 y) 9 
Nature denies me power to answer, No. 
I will, in wisdom’s right, suspend my anger. 

¥ . fo) v] y tem) 
i : 
Yet. spare my loaded heart, nor add more weight; 

9 i F) z y) S 2) 

Lest my strength fail beneath the unequal pres- 


sure. 
ALVAREZ, 
Grant yourself time, and all you want comes 
with it. [Exit. 
GUZMAN. 


And must I coldly, then, to pensive piety 

Give up the livelier joys of wished revenge? 

Must I repel the guardian cares of jealousy, 

And slacken every rein to rival love? 

Must I reduce my hopes beneath a savage, 

And poorly envy such a wretch as Zamor ? 

A coarse luxuriance of spontaneous virtue ; 

A shoot of rambling, fierce, offensive freedom ; 

Nature’s wild growth,——strong, but unpruned, 

in daring ; 

A rough, raw woodmanof this rugged clime ; 

Illiterate in the arts of polished life ; 

And who, in Europe, where the fair can judge, 

Would hardly, in our courts, be called a man ! — 
\ [Alzira enters. 


VOLTAIRE. 
Ne ete reread er emery 


She comes!—Alzira comes !— unwished, —yet 
charming. 


ALZIRA. 

You turn, and shun me! So, I have been told, 

Spaniards, by custom, meet submissive wives. 

But hear me, Sir; hear even a suppliant wife ; 

Hear this unguilty object of your anger: 

One, who can reverence, though she cannot love 
you : 

One, who is wronged herself, not injures you : 

One, who indeed is weak, and wants your pity. 

I cannot wear disguise : be it the effect 

Of greatness, or of weakness, in my mind, 

My tongue could ne’er be moved but by my 
heart ; 

And that was vowed another’s. If he dies, 

The honest plainness of my soul destroys him. 

You look surprised: I will still more surprise 
you. 

I come to try you deeply, — for I mean 

To move the husband in the lover’s favor! 

I had half flattered my unpractised hope, 

That you, who govern others, should yourself 

Be temperate in the use of your own passions. 

Nay, I persuaded my unchristian ignorance, 

That an ambitious warrior’s infelt pride 

Should plead in pardon of that pride in others. 

This I am sure of, —that forgiving mercy 

Would stamp more influence on our Indian 
hearts 

Than all our gold on those of men like you. 

Who knows, did such a change subdue your 
breast, 

How far the pleasing force might soften mine? 

Your right secures you my respect and faith : 

Strive for my love; strive for whatever else 

May charm, — if aught there 1s can charm like 
love. — 

Forgive me! I shall be betrayed by fear 

To promise till I overcharge my power. 

Yet try what changes gratitude can make. 

A Spanish wife, perhaps, would, promise more: 

Profuse in charms, and prodigal of tears, 

Would promise all things,— and forget them all. 

But I have weaker charms, and simpler arts. 

Guileless of soul, and left as nature formed me, 

I err, in honest innocence of aim, 

And, seeking to compose, inflame you more. 

All I can add is this: unlovely force 

Shall never bow me to reward constraint ; 

But to what lengths I may be led by benefits, 

’"T is in your power to try, — not mine to tell. 


GUZMAN. 

’'T is well. Since justice has such power to 

guide you, 
That you may follow duty, know it first. 
Count modesty among your country’s virtues ; 
And copy, not condemn, the wives of Spain. 
’T is your first lesson, Madam, to forget : 
Become more delicate, if not more kind, 
And never let me hear the name I hate. 
You should learn, next, to blush away your haste, 
And wait in silence, till my will resolves 
What punishment, or pity, suits his crimes. 


Know, last, that, thus provoked, a husband’s 
clemency 

Outstretches nature, if it pardons you. 
Learn thence, ungrateful! that I want not pity, 
And be the last to dare believe me cruel. 

[ Exit. 

EMIRA. 

Madam, be comforted ;—I marked him well; 
I see, he loves; and love will make him softer. 


ALZIRA. 

Love has no power to act, when curbed by 
jealousy. 

Zamor must die, — for I have asked his life. 

Why did not I foresee the likely danger ? 

But has thy care been happier? Canst thou 
save him? 

Far, far divided from me, may he live! 

Hast thou made trial of his keeper’s faith ? 


EMIRA, 
Gold, that with Spaniards can outweigh their 
God, 


Has bought his hand; and so his faith’s your own. 


ALZIRA. 
Then, Heaven be blessed 
for crimes, 
Sometimes atones the wrongs ’t is dug to 
cause ! — 
But we lose time. 
pause? 


! this metal, formed 


Why dost thou seem to 


EMIRA. 
I cannot think they purpose Zamor’s death. 
Alvarez has not lost his power so far ; 
Nor can the council 


ALZIRA. 
They are Spaniards all. 
Mark the proud, partial guilt of these vain men ! 
Ours, but a country held to yield them slaves, 
Who reign our kings by right of different clime : 
Zamor, meanwhile, by birth, true sovereign here, 
Weighs but a rebel in their righteous scale. 
O civilized ascent of social murder! — 
But why, Emira, should this soldier stay ? 


EMIRA. 
We may expect him instantly. The night, 
Methinks, grown darker, veils your bold design. 
Wearied by slaughter, and unwashed from blood, 
The world’s proud spoilers all lie hushed in sleep. 


ALZIRA, 
Away, and find this Spaniard ! 
hand 
Opening the prison, innocence goes free. 


Guilt’s bought 


EMIRA., 
See! by Cephania led, he comes with Zamor. 
Be cautious, Madam, at so dark an hour; 
Lest, met, suspected honor should be lost, 
And modesty, mistaken, suffer shame. 


ALZIRA, 
What does thy ill-taught fear mistake for shame ? 
Virtue, at midnight, walks as safe within, 


FRENCH, POETRY, 


a oe 


She who in forms finds virtue has no virtue. 

All the shame lies in hiding honest love. 

Honor, the alien phantom, here unknown, 

Lends but a lengthening shade to setting virtue. 

Honor ’s not love of innocence, but praise ; 

The fear of censure, not the scorn of sin. 

But I was taught, in a sincerer clime, 

That virtue, though it shines not, still is virtue ; 

And inbred honor grows not but at home. 

This my heart knows; and, knowing, bids me 
dare, 

Should Heaven forsake the just, be bold and 
save him. 


* 


—— 


JEAN-BAPTISTE-LOUIS GRESSET. 


Tuts agreeable poet was born at Amiens, in 
1709. He studied with the Jesuits, and at 
the age of seventeen entered that order; after 
which he was sent to Paris, and completed his 
education in the Collége Louis-le-Grand. In 
his twenty-fourth year, he wrote the humorous 
poem, called ‘ Ver-Vert.’? This was shortly 
followed by “Le Caréme Impromptu,” * Le 
Lutrin Vivant,” and other poems, which rapid- 
ly gained him a great reputation. The free 
tone of his writings gave offence in some pow- 
erful quarters, and brought him under the cen- 
sure of the Jesuits, who sent him to La Fléche, 
by way of punishment. Here he continued his 
literary occupations. At the age of twenty-six, he 
left the order, and returned to Paris, where his 
various and agreeable talents, and the celebrity 
of his works, made him the favorite of society. 
In 1748, he was chosen a member of the Acad- 
emy. Soon after this, he returned to Amiens, 
married, and established himself on a beautiful 
estate near the city. In 1774, he was appoint- 
ed to congratulate Louis the Sixteenth, in the 
name of the Academy, on his coronation, and 
was ennobled. He died in his native city, June 
16th, 1777. 

Besides the poems mentioned above, Gresset 
wrote several dramatic pieces, which had but 
little success. The tragedies, “ Edouard III.” 
and ‘ Sidney,”’ were failures; but the piece en- 
titled «Le Méchant”’ has distinguished merit as 
a picture of manners. His style is marked by 
humor, grace, and simplicity. The best edition 
of his works is that by Renouard, in three vol- 
umes, Paris, 1811. 

The following piece, taken from ‘ Fraser’s 
Magazine,” is, as the writer truly remarks, Ver- 
vert merely ‘‘ wpset into English verse.” It is a 
loose paraphrase, or rather, imitation, adapted to 
English circumstances and ideas, “ for the use of 
the melancholy inhabitants of these [the British] 
islands.’’ Considerable portions are omitted, oth- 
ers transposed, others altered so as to be scarcely 
recognizable ; and names, allusions, lines, and 
even long passages, are freely introduced, which 
have nothing corresponding to them in the orig- 


As in the conscious glare of flaming day. inal. A few of these last are here struck out. 


VER-VERT, THE PARROT. ‘ 


HIS ORIGINAL INNOCENCE. 


Atas! what evils I discern in 

Too great an aptitude for learning! 

And fain would all the ills’ unravel 

That aye ensue from foreign travel : 

Far happier is the man who tarries 

Quiet within his household lares. 

Read, and you ’ll find how virtue vanishes, 
How foreign vice all goodness banishes, 
And how abroad young heads will grow dizzy, 
Proved in the underwritten Odyssey. 


In old Nevers, so famous for its 
Dark, narrow streets and Gothic turrets, 
Close on the brink of Loire’s young flood, 
Flourished a convent sisterhood 
Of Ursulines. Now, in this order 
A parrot lived as parlour-boarder ; 
Brought in his childhood from the Antilles, 
And sheltered under convent mantles. 
Green were his feathers, green his pinions, 
And greener still were his opinions: 
For vice had not yet sought to pervert 
This bird who had been christened Ver- Vert ; 
Nor could this wicked world defile him, 
Safe from its snares in this asylum. 
Fresh, in his teens, frank, gay, and gracious, 
And, to crown all, somewhat loquacious ; 
If we examine close, not one, or he, 
Had a vocation for a nunnery. 


The convent’s kindness need I mention? 
Need I detail each fond/attention, 
Or count the tit-bits which in Lent he 
Swallowed remorseless and in plenty ° 
Plump was his carcass ; no, not higher 
Fed was their confessor, the friar ; 
And some even say that this young Hector 
Was far more loved than the director. 
Dear to each novice and each nun, — 
He was the life and soul of fun ; 
Though, to be sure, some hags censorious 
Would sometimes find him too uproarious, 
What did the parrot care for those old 
Dames, while he had for him the household ° 
He had not yet made his profession, 
Nor come to years called of discretion ; 
Therefore, unblamed, he ogled, flirted, 
And romped, like any unconverted ; 
Nay, sometimes, too,—by the Lord Harry !|— 
He ’d pull their caps and scapulary. 
But what in all his tricks seemed oddest 
Was, that at times he ’d turn so modest, 
That to all bystanders the wight 
Appeared a finished hypocrite. 


Placed, when at table, near some vestal, 
His fare, be sure, was of the best all, — 
For every sister would endeavour 
To keep for him some sweet hors-d’auvre. 
Kindly at heart, in spite of vows and 
Cloisters, a nun is worth a thousand ; 

And aye, if Heaven would only lend her, 
I’d have a nun for a nurse tender ! 


GRESSET. 477 


Then, when the shades of night would 
come on, 
And to their cells the sisters summon, 
Happy the favored one whose grotto 
This sultan of a bird would trot to. 
Mostly the young ones’ cells he toyed in, — 
The aged sisterhood avoiding ; 
Sure among all to find kind offices, 
Still he was partial to the novices, 
And in their cells our anchorite 
Mostly cast anchor for the night ; 
Perched on the box that held the relics, he 
Slept without notion of indelicacy. 
Rare was his luck ; nor did he spoil it 
By flying from the morning toilet : 
Not that I can admit the fitness 
Of, at the toilet, a male witness, — 
But that I seruple, in this history, 
To shroud a single fact in mystery. 


Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at 
That best accomplishment called chit-chat ; 
For, though brought up within the cloister, 
His beak was not closed like an oyster, 
But, trippingly, without a stutter, 

The longest sentences would utter. 

Pious withal, and moralizing, 

His conversation was surprising ; 

None of your equivoques, no slander, — 
To such vile tastes he scorned to pander 5 
But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on 
“6 Deo sit laus”’ and “ Kyrie eleison”’ ; 
The maxims he gave with best emphasis 
Were Suarez’s or Thomas a Kempis’. 

In Christmas carols he was famous, 

‘‘ Orate, fratres’’ and ** Oremus ”’ ; 

If in good-humor, he was wont 

To give a stave from “ Think well on ’t,”’ 
Or, by particular desire, he 

Would chant the hymn of ‘“ Dies ire.” 
Then in the choir he would amaze all, 
By copying the tone so nasal 

In which the sainted sisters chanted, — 
At least, that pious nun, my aunt, did. 


HIS FATAL RENOWN. 


Tue public soon began to ferret 
The hidden nest of so much merit, 
And, spite of all the nuns’ endeavours, 
The fame of Ver-Vert filled all Nevers ; 
Nay, from Moulines folks came to stare at 
The wondrous talent of this parrot ; 
And to fresh visiters, ad libitum, 
Sister Sophie had to exhibit him. 
Dressed in her tidiest robes, the virgin, 
Forth from the convent cells emerging, 
Brings the bright bird, and for his plumage 
First challenges unstinted homage ; 
Then to his eloquence adverts, — 
‘© What preacher ’s can surpass Ver-Vert’s ? 
Truly, in oratory, few men 
Equal this learned catechumen, 
Fraught with the convent’s choicest lessons, 
And stuffed with piety’s quintessence ; 
A bird most quick of apprehension, 
With gifts and graces hard to mention : 


"j 
f 


Say, in what pulpit can you meet 

A Chrysostom half so discreet, 

Who ’d follow, in his ghostly mission, 
So close the fathers and tradition ? ”” 
Silent, meantime, the feathered hermit 
Waits for the sister’s gracious permit, 
When, at a signal from his Mentor, 
Quick on a course of speech he ’ll enter: 
Not that he cares for human glory, 

Bent but to save his auditory ; 

Hence he pours forth with so much unction, 
That all his hearers feel compunction. 


Thus for a time did Ver-Vert dwell 
Safe in this holy citadel ; 
Scholared like any well-bred abbé, 
And loved by many a cloistered Hebe ; 
You ’d swear that he had crossed the same 

bridge 

As any youth brought up in Cambridge. 
Other monks starve themselves ; but his skin 
Was sleek, like that of a Franciscan, 
And far more clean; for this grave Solon 
Bathed every day in eau de Cologne. 
Thus he indulged each guiltless gambol, 
Blessed had he ne’er been doomed to ramble ! 


. ° e e ° 


O town of Nantz! yes, to thy bosom 
We let him go, alas! to lose him! 
Edicts, O town famed for revoking ! 
Still was Ver-Vert’s loss more provoking. 
Dark be the day when our bright Don went 
From this to a far distant convent ! 
Two words comprised that awful era, — 
Words big with fate and woe, —“ In ira!” 
Yes, “he shall go!” but, sisters, mourn ye 
The dismal fruits of that sad journey, — 
Ills on which Nantz’s nuns ne’er reckoned, 
When for the beauteous bird they beckoned. 


Fame, O Ver-Vert! in evil humor 
One day to Nantz had brought the rumor 
Of thy accomplishments, — acumen, 
Nois, and esprit, quite superhuman ; 

All these reports but served to enhance 
Thy merits with the nuns of Nantz. 
How did a matter so unsuited 

For convent ears get hither bruited ? 
Some may inquire. But nuns are knowing, 
And first to hear what gossip ’s going. 
Forthwith they taxed their wits to elicit 
From the famed bird a friendly visit. 
Girls’ wishes run in a brisk current, 

But a nun’s fancy is a torrent. 

To get this bird they ’d pawn the missal : 
Quick they indite a long epistle, 

Careful with softest things to fill it, 

And then with musk perfume the billet, 
Thus, to obtain their darling purpose, 
They send a writ of habeas corpus. 


Off goes the post. When will the answer 
Free them from doubt’s corroding cancer? 
Nothing can equal their anxiety; — 

Except, of course, their well known piety. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


j 


* Things at Nevers, meantime, went harder 
Than well would suit such pious ardor ; 
It was no easy job to coax 
This parrot from the Nevers folks. 
What! take their toy from convent belles ? 
Make Russia yield the Dardanelles ! 
Filch his good rifle from a Suliote, 

Or drag her Romeo from a Juliet! 
Make an attempt to take Gibraltar, 
Or try the old corn-laws to alter ! 
This seemed to them, and eke to us, 
Most wasteful and ridiculous. 

Long did the chapter sit in state, 

And on this point deliberate : 

The junior members of the senate 
Set their fair faces quite again’ it ; 
Refuse to yield a point so tender, 
And urge the motto, — No surrender ! 
The elder nuns feel no great scruple 
In parting with the charming pupil ; 
And as each grave affair of state runs 
Most on the verdict of the matrons, 
Small odds, I ween, and poor the chance 
Of keeping the dear bird from Nantz. 
Nor in my surmise am I far out, — 
For by their vote off goes the parrot. 


HIS EVIL VOYAGE. 


En ce tems la, a small canal-boat, 
Called by most chroniclers the « Talbot,” 
(TaLzor, a name well known in France t) 
Travelled between Nevers and Nantz. 
Ver-Vert took shipping in this craft, 

"T is not said whether fore or aft ; 

But in a book as old as Massinger’s 

We find a statement of the passengers : 
These were, — two Gascons and a piper, 
A sexton /a notorious swiper), 

A brace uf children, and a nurse ; 

But what was infinitely worse, 

A dashing Cyprian ; while by her 

Sat a most jolly-looking friar. 


For a poor bird brought up in purity 
"T was a sad augur for futurity 
To meet, just free from his indentures, 
And in the first of his adventures, 
Such company as formed his hansel, — 
Two rogues! a friar!! and a damsel!!! 
Birds the above were of a feather ; 
But to Ver-Vert ’t was altogether 
Such a strange aggregate of scandals 
As to be met but among Vandals. 
Rude was their talk, bereft of polish, 
And calculated to demolish 
All the fine notions and good-breeding 
Taught by the nuns in their sweet Eden. 
No Billingsgate surpassed the nurse’s, 
And all the rest indulged in curses: 
Ear hath not heard such vulgar gab in 
The nautic cell of any cabin. 
Silent and sad, the pensive bird, 
Shocked at their guilt, said not a word. 


Now he of orders gray, accosting 
The parrot green, who seemed quite lost in 


= . = * 


ican RTS LIL NA tr te are ANNE SNL an I ERR 


GRESSET. 479 


The contemplation of man’s wickedness, 

And the bright river’s gliding liquidness, — 

“Tip us a stave,’ quoth Tuck, ‘my darling! 

Are n’t you a parrot or a starling ? 

If you do n’t talx, — by the holy poker ! — 

Ill give your ugly neck a choker!” 

Scared by this threat from his propriety, 

Our pilgrim, thinking with sobriety, 

That if he did not speak they ’d make him, 

Answered the friar, ‘‘ Pax sit tecum!”’ 

Here our reporter marks down after 

Poll’s maiden-speech,—‘“ loud roars of laugh- 
ter’); 

And, sure enough, the bird so affable 

Could hardly use a phrase more laughable. 


Poll’s brief address met lots of cavillers: 
Badgered by all his fellow-travellers, 
He tried to mend a speech so ominous 
By striking up with ‘ Diait Dominus.” 
But louder shouts of laughter follow ; — 
This last roar beats the former hollow, 
And shows that it was bad economy 
To give a stave from Deuteronomy. 


Posed, not abashed, the bird refused to 
Indulge a scene he was not used to ; 
And pondering on his strange reception, 
“¢ There must,” he thought, ‘‘ be some deception 
In the nuns’ views of things rhetorical, 
And Sister Rose is not an oracle : 
True wit, perhaps, lies not in matins, 
Nor is their school a school of Athens.”’ 


Thus in this villanous receptacle 
The simple bird at once grew skeptical. 
Doubts lead to hell. The Arch-deceiver 
Soon made of Poll an unbeliever ; 
And mixing thus in bad society, 
He took French leave of all his piety. 


His austere maxims soon he mollified, 
And all his old opinions qualified ; 
For he had learned to substitute 
For pious lore things more astute: 
Nor was his conduct unimpeachable, 
For youth, alas! is but too teachable ; 
And, in the progress of his madness, 
Soon he had reached the depths of badness. 
Such were his curses, such his evil 
Practices, that no ancient devil, 
Plunged to the chin, when burning hot, 
Into a holy water-pot, 
Could so blaspheme, or fire a volley 
Of oaths so drear and melancholy. 


Must the bright blossoms, ripe and ruddy, 
And the fair fruits of early study, . 
Thus in their summer season crossed, 
Meet a sad blight, —a killing frost ? 
Must that vile demon, Moloch, oust 
Heaven from a young heart’s holocaust ? 
And the glad hope of Jife’s young promise 
Thus in the dawn of youth ebb from us? 
Such is, alas! the sad and last trophy 
Of the young rake’s supreme catastrophe ; 


For of what use are learning’s laurels, 
When a young man is without morals? 
Bereft of virtue, and grown heinous, 
What signifies a brilliant genius ? 

'T is but a case for wail and mourning, — 
'T is but a brand fit for the burning ! 


Meantime the river wafts the barge, 
Fraught with its miscellaneous charge, 
Smoothly upon its broad expanse, 

Up to the very quay of Nantz; 

Fondly within the convent bowers 

The sisters calculate the hours, 

Chiding the breezes for their tardiness, 
And, in the height of their foolhardiness, 
Picturing the bird as fancy painted, — 
Lovely, reserved, polite, and sainted, — 
Fit Ursuline ; — and this, I trow, meant, 
Enriched with every endowment. 

Sadly, alas! these nuns anointed 

Will find their fancy disappointed ; 
When, to meet all those hopes they drew on, 
They ’ll find a regular Don Juan! 


THE AWFUL DISCOVERY. 


Scarce in the port was this small craft 
On its arrival telegraphed, 
When, from the boat home to transfer him, 
Came the nuns’ portress, Sister Jerome. 
Well did the parrot recognize 
The walk demure and downcast eyes ; 
Nor aught such saintly guidance relished 
A bird by worldly arts embellished ; 
Such was his taste for profane gayety, 
He ’d rather, much, go with the laity. 
Fast to the bark he clung; but, plucked thence, 
He showed dire symptoms of reluctance, 
And, scandalizing each beholder, 
Bit the nun’s cheek, and eke her shoulder ! 
Thus a black eagle once, ’t is said, 
Bore off the struggling Ganymede. 
Thus was Ver-Vert, heart-sick and weary, 
Brought to the heavenly monastery. 
The bell and tidings both were tolled, 
And the nuns crowded, young and old, 
To feast their eyes, with joy uncommon, on 
This wondrous, talkative phenomenon. 


Round the bright stranger, so amazing 
And so renowned, the sisters, gazing, 
Praised the green glow which a warm lati- 

tude 
Gave to his neck, and liked his attitude. 
Some by his gorgeous tail are smitten, 
Some by his beak so beauteous bitten! 
And none e’er dreamed of dole or harm in 
A bird so brilliant and so charming. 


Meantime, the abbess, to draw out 
A bird so modest and devout, 
With soothing air and tone caressing 
The pilgrim of the Loire addressing, 
Broached the most edifying topics 
To start this native of the tropics ; 


pore 


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480 


When, O, surprise ! the pert young Cupid 

Breaks forth,— Morbleuw! those nuns are 
stupid!” 

Showing how well he learned his task on 

The packet-boat from that vile Gascon. 

‘Fie! brother Poll!”’ with zeal outbursting, 

Exclaimed the abbess, Dame Augustin ; 

But all the lady’s sage rebukes 


' Brief answer got from Poll, —‘ Gadzooks!”’ 


Scared at the sound, —“ Sure as a gun, 

The bird ’s a demon!” cried the nun. 

“OQ, the vile wretch! the naughty dog! 

He ’s surely Lucifer incog. 

What! is the reprobate before us 

That bird so pious and decorous, — 

So celebrated ?’’ Here the pilgrim, 

Hearing sufficient to bewilder him, 

Wound up the sermon of the beldam 

By a conclusion heard but seldom, — 

“ Ventre Saint Gris!” “ Parbleu!”’ 
Sacre 1171 

Three oaths! and every one a whacker! 


and 


Still did the nuns, whose conscience tender 
Was much shocked at the young offender, 
Hoping he ’d change his tone, and alter, 
Hang breathless round the sad defaulter ; 
When, wrathful at their importunity, 

And grown audacious from impunity, 

He fired a broadside — holy Mary ! — 
Drawn from hell’s own vocabulary ; 

Forth, like a Congreve rocket, burst, 

And stormed and swore, flared up and cursed ! 


‘ Stunned at these sounds of import Stygian, 


The pious daughters of religion 

Fled from a scene so dread, so horrid ; 
But with a cross first signed their forehead. 
The younger sisters, mild and meek, 
Thought that the culprit spoke in Greek ; 
But the old matrons and “ the bench ”’ 
Knew every word was genuine French ; 
And ran in all directions, pell-mell, 

From a flood fit to overwhelm hell. 

'T was by a fall that Mother Ruth 

Then lost her last remaining tooth. 

“‘ Fine conduct this, and pretty guidance! ”’ 
Cried one of the most mortified ones ; 
‘Pray, is such language and such ritual 
Among the Nevers nuns habitual ? 

"T was in our sisters most improper 

To teach such curses, — such a whapper! 
He sha’ n’t by me, for one, be hindered 
From being sent back to his kindred!” 
This prompt decree for Poll’s proscription 
Was signed by general subscription. 
Straight in a cage the nuns insert 

The guilty person of Ver-Vert ; 

Some young ones wanted to detain him, 
But the grim portress took the paynim 
Back to the boat, close, in his litter : 

"T is not said thts time that he bit her. 


Back to the convent of his youth, 
Sojourn of innocence and truth, 


FRENCH POETRY, 
eee 


Sails the green monster, scorned and hated, 

His heart with vice contaminated. 

Must I tell how, on his return, 

He scandalized his old sojourn, 

And how the guardians of his infancy 

Wept o’er their quondam child’s delinquen- 
cy? 

What could be done? The elders often 

Met to consult how best to soften 

This obdurate and hardened sinner, 

Finished in vice ere a beginner. 

One mother counselled to denounce, 

And let the Inquisition pounce 

On the vile heretic’; another 

Thought ‘it was best the bird to smother” ; 

Or “‘send the convict, for his felonies, 

Back to his native land, — the colonies.” 

But milder views prevailed. His sentence 

Was, that, until he showed repentance, 

‘A solemn fast and frugal diet, 

Silence exact, and pensive quiet, 

Should be his lot’’; and, for a blister, 

He got, as gaoler, a lay-sister, 

Ugly as sin, bad-tempered, jealous, 

And in her scruples over-zealous. 

A jug of water and a carrot 

Was all the prog she ’d give the parrot ; 

But every eve, when vesper-bell 

Called Sister Rosalie from her cell, 

She to Ver-Vert would gain admittance, 

And bring of comfits a sweet pittance. 

Comfits, — alas! can sweet confections 

Alter sour slavery’s imperfections ? 

What are preserves to you or me, 

When locked up in the Marshalsea, — 

A place that certainly deserves 

The name of “ Best of all Preserves” 2 

The sternest virtue in the hulks, 

Though crammed with richest sweetmeats, 
sulks. 


Taught by his gaoler and adversity, 
Poll saw the folly of perversity, 
And by degrees his heart relented : 
Duly, in fine, the lad repented. 
His Lent passed on, and Sister Bridget 
Coaxed the old abbess to abridge it. 


The prodigal, reclaimed and free, 
Became again a prodigy, 
And gave more joy, by works and words, 
Than ninety-nine Canary-birds, 
Until his death ; — which last disaster 
(Nothing on earth endures!) came faster 
Than they imagined. The transition 
From a starved to a stuffed condition, 
From penitence to jollification, 
Brought on a fit of constipation. 
Some think he would be living still, 
If given a vegetable pill ; 
But from a short life, and a merry, 
Poll sailed one day per Charon’s ferry. 


By tears from nuns’ sweet eyelids wept, 
Happy in death this parrot slept; 


DE L’ISLE.—CHATEAUBRIAND. 


Een TO ne cc aaa REN OTETG! 


For him Elysium oped its portals, 

And there he talks among immortals. 

But I have read, that, since that happy day 
(So writes Cornelius 4 Lapidé, 

Proving, with commentary droll, 

The transmigration of the soul), 

Still Ver-Vert this earth doth haunt, 
Of convent bowers a visitant ; 

And that gay novices among 

He dwells, transformed into a tongue ! 


oe ned 
JOSEPH ROUGET-DE-L’ISLE. 


Roverr-pE-L’IstE was born May 10th, 1760, 
at Lons-le-Saulnier, in the department of Jura. 
He was an officer in the French Revolution, 
the principles of which he adopted with ardor. 
He is best known as the author of ‘The Mar- 
seilles Hymn,’ which he wrote and set to 
music in one night. This became the national 
song of the French patriots, and was famous in 
Europe and America. Its author was, however, 
imprisoned in the Reign of Terror, and owed his 
liberation to the Revolution of the 9th Ther- 
midor (27th July, 1794). He never enjoyed 
the favor of Napoleon, either during the -Con- 
sulate or the Empire. After the Revolution of 
July, “The Marseilles Hymn” again became 
the national song of France, and Louis-Philippe 
bestowed on the author a pension of fifteen hun- 
dred francs from his private purse. De L’Isle has 
published other pieces, both in poetry and prose. 


THE MARSEILLES HYMN. 


Yr sons of France, awake to glory ! 
Hark ! hark! what myriads bid you rise ! 
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, — 
Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 


Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
Affright and desolate the land, 

While liberty and peace lie bleeding? 


To arms! to arms! ye brave! 
The avenging sword unsheathe ! 
March on! march on! all hearts resolved 
On victory or death! 


Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling, 
Which treacherous kings confederate raise ; 

The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 
And, Jo! our fields and cities blaze. 

And shall we basely view the ruin, 
While lawless force, with guilty stride, 
Spreads desolation far and wide, 

With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? 


To arms! to arms! ye brave! &c. 


With luxury and pride surrounded, 
The bold, insatiate despots dare — 

Their thirst of gold and power unbounded — 
To mete and vend the light and air. 

Like beasts of burden would they load us, 
Like gods would bid their slaves adore ; 
But man is man, and who is more? 

Then shall they longer lash and goad us? 


To arms! to arms! ye brave! &c. 


O Liberty, can man resign thee, 

Once having felt thy generous flame? 

Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee, 
Or whips thy noble spirit tame? 

Too long the world has wept, bewailing, 
That Falsehood’s dagger tyrants wield ; 
But Freedom is our sword and shield, 

And all their arts are unavailing. 


To arms! to arms! ye brave! &c. 


SIXTH PERIOD.—FROM 1800 TO 1844. 


FRANCOIS-AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE 
° CHATEAUBRIAND. 


Tuts illustrious author and nobleman was 
born in 1769, at Combourg, in Bretagne. In 
1786, he joined the regiment of infantry, called 
the Regiment of Navarre. During the troubles of 
the Revolution, he sought refuge in America, 
where he passed several years, and where he 
wrote the prose-poem, entitled ‘ Les Natchéz, 
ou Tableau de la Vie des Tribus Indiennes.”’ 
In 1792, he returned to Europe, joined the em- 
igrants in arms, and was wounded at the siege 
of Thionville ; after which he went to England, 
and, being in’ narrow circumstances, was obliged 
to support himself by his literary labors. After 


the overthrow of the Directory, be returned to 
61 


France, and became one of the editors°of the 
‘Mercure de France.”” His “ Gérie du Chris- 
tianisme ’’ appeared in England in 1802, and 
was reprinted in France. In 1803, he visited 
Rome, where he remained a short time as Sec- 
retary of Legation under Cardinal Fesch. His 
residence in Rome inspired him to write ‘“ Les 
Martyrs,” a religious poem in prose. In the same 
year, he was appointed French minister in the 
Valais; but resigned the place after the death of 
the Duc d’Enghien, in March, 1804. In 1806, he 
travelled through Greece and Rhodes to Jeru- 
salem, visited Alexandria, Cairo, and Carthage, 
and returned to France by way of Spain, in 
May, 1807. In 1811, he was elected into the 
Institute. In 1814, after Napoleon’s fall, he 


wrote his celebrated pamphlet,‘* De Bonaparte 
00 


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482 


et des Bourbons,” in which he went over to 
the side of the ultra-royalists, to whom he has 
ever since remained faithful. On Napoleon’s 
return from Elba, he followed Louis the Eigh- 
teenth to Ghent, and afterwards returned with 
him to Paris, where, in 1815, he was made a 
minister of state and a peer. In 1816, he was 
chosen a member of the Academy. In 1820, 
he was sent as Minister Plenipotentiary and 
Envoy Extraordinary to Berlin, but returned to 
Paris the next year, and was appointed minister 
of state, and member of the Privy Council. In 
1822, he went as ambassador to London, and 
afterwards accompanied the Duc de Montmo- 
renci to the Congress of Verona, and in the 
same year succeeded the duke as Minister of 
Foreign Affairs. After the death of Louis the 
Eighteenth, Chateaubriand published a pam- 
phlet, entitled ‘Le Roi est mort: vive le Roi!” 
In 1825, he published the eloquent * Note sur 
la Grece.’” Under the administration of Mar- 
tignac, he went to Rome as French ambassador ; 
but in 1829, upon the dismissal of that minister, 
he retired to private life. 

The Revolution of July called Chateaubriand 
again into political activity. He refused to take 
the oath of allegiance to Louis-Philippe, and 
consequently was deprived of his place in the 
Chamber of Peers, and a yearly income of 
twelve thousand francs. Since then, he has de- 
voted himself, with chivalrous fidelity, to the 
defence of the Duc de Bordeaux, and his moth- 
er, the Duchesse de Berti. 

His works were published in 1826-31, by 
Ladvocat, in thirty volumes. His writings show 
a poetical imagination, and great power of de- 
scription. His style is warm, copious, and elo- 
quent. His prose has almost the rhythmical 
cadence of poetry. “ But, however distinguish- 
ed a rank,” says a writer in the last edition of 
the ‘“ Conversations-Lexicon,” “his talent for 
description has gained for him, among the au- 
thors of his nation, yet no one of his works can 
be called classical, in the sense in which this 
distinction belongs only to the works of a free 
and lofty mind, which unite richness of ideas 
with depth and solidity, without distorting the 
truth by sophistical tricks, or by the illusions of 
a self-deceiving imagination, or the bombast of 
a luxuriant form of expression.” 


JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR. 


Tue bier descends, the spotless roses too, 
The father’s tribute in his saddest hour : 
O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy 
due, — 
The fair young girl and flower. 


Give them not back unto a world again, 
Where mourning, grief, and agony have 
power, — 
Where winds destroy, and suns malignant 
reign, — 
That fair young girl and flower. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now, 
Nor fear’st the burning heat, nor chilling 
shower ; 
They both have perished in their morning 
glow, — 
The fair young girl and flower. 


But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, 

Bends, lost in sorrow, o’er thy funeral bower; 

And Time the old oak’s roots doth now assail, 
O fair young girl and flower! 


o> 


CHARLES DE CHENEDOLLE. 


Cuartzs pz Cufnreporxi was born at Vire, 
about the year 1770, and was educated at the 
Collége de Juilly. At the commencement of 
the Revolution, he emigrated. On his return to 
France, he devoted himself to poetry and public 
instruction in the office of Professor of Belles- 
lettres in the Lyceum at Caen. Chénedollé 
several times gained the prize of poetry at the 
Floral Games of Toulouse. His chief poetic 
works are, “The Genius of Man,” and “ Poet- 
ical Studies.” He also assisted M. Fayolle in 
editing the works of Rivarol. 


_——— 


ODE TO THE SEA. 


At length I look on thee again, 

Abyss of azure! thou vast main, 

Long by my verse implored in vain, 
Alone inspired by thee ! 

The magic of thy sounds alone 

Can raise the transports I have known; 

My harp is mute, unless its tone 
Be waked beside the sea, 


The heights of Blanc have fired mine eyes, — 
Those three bare mounts that touch the 
skies ; 

I loved the terror of their brow, 

I loved their diadem of snow, — 

But, O thou wild and awful Sea, 

More dear to me 
Thy threatening, drear immensity ! 


Dread Ocean! burst upon me with thy shores! 
Fling wide thy waters where the storms bear 
sway ! 
Thy bosom opens to a thousand prores; 
Yet fleets, with idle daring, breast thy spray, — 
Ripple with arrow’s track thy closing plain, 
And graze the surface of thy deep domain. 


Man dares not tread thy liquid way ; 

Thou spurn’st that despot of a day, 

Tossed like a snow-flake or the spray 
From storm-gulfs to the skies : 

He breathes and reigns on solid land, 

And ruins mark his tyrant hand ; 

Thou bidd’st him in that circle stand, 
Thy reign his rage defies : 


CHENEDOLLE. 


eS ae RE OEE NI a rec Pe ee De 


Or should he force his passage there, 

Thou risest, mocking his despair ; 

The shipwreck humbles all his pride : 

He sinks within the darksome tide, — 

The surge’s vast unfathomed gloom 
His catacomb, — 

Without a name, without a tomb. 


Thy banks are kingdoms, where the shrine, the 
throne, 
The pomp of human things are changed and 
past ; 
The people, — they were phantoms, — they are 
flown ; 
Time has avenged thee on their strength at 
last : 
Thy billows idly rest on Sidon’s shore, 
And her bold pilots wound thy pride no more. 


Rome, — Athens, — Carthage, — what are 
they ? 
Spoiled heritage, successive prey; 
New nations force their onward way, 
And grasp disputed reign : 
Thou changest not; thy waters pour 
The same wild waves against the shore, 
Where liberty had breathed before, 
And slavery hugs his chain. 


States bow; Time’s sceptre presses still 

On Apennine’s subsiding hill ; 

The steps of ages, crumbling slow, 

Are stamped upon his arid brow: 

No trace of time is left on thee, 
Unchanging Sea! 

Created thus, and still to be. 


Sea! of Almightiness itself the immense 
And glorious mirror! how thy azure face 
Renews the heavens in their magnificence ! 
What awful grandeur rounds thy heaving 
space ! 
Thy surge two worlds eternal-warring sweeps, 
And God’s throne rests on thy majestic deeps. 


THE YOUNG MATRON AMONG THE RUINS OF 
ROME. 


Turoucu Rome’s green plains with silent tread 
I wandered, and on every side, 

O’er all the glorious soil, I read 
The nothingness of human pride. 


Where reared the Capitol its brow, 
Entranced I gazed on desert glades, 

And saw the tangled herbage grow, 
And brambles crawl o’er crushed arcades. 


Beneath a portal, balf-disclosed, 
By its own ruins earthward pressed, 
A young Italian wife reposed, 
Mild, blooming, with her babe at breast. 


O’er that drear scene she breathed a grace, 
And near her I inquiring drew, 

And asked her of that lonely place, 
The old traditions that she knew. 


“‘ Stranger!” she softly said, “¢1 grieve 
Thy question, must unanswered be ; 

These ruins, —I should but deceive, 
Did I rehearse their history. 


‘¢Some defter tongue, some wiser head, 


May know, and can instruct thee right; 


I thought not whither I was led, 


And scarce the pile had caught my sight.” 


Thus, wrapped in tenderness alone, 
Joy’s innocence becalmed her brow ; 


She loved !—no other knowledge known, 


She lived not in the past, but now. 


REGRETS. 


Wuere are my days of youth,—those fairy days, 
Breathing of life, and strangers yet to pain, — 


When inspiration kindled to a blaze 
The rapture of the heart and brain ? 


Then nature was my kingdom; and I stood 
Rich in the wealth of all beneath the pole ; 


An antique rock, a torrent, or a wood, 
Awaked the transport of my soul. 


When the young Spring her rosy arms outspread, 
And ice-flakes melted from the green-tipped 


spray, 


How rich the change! what magic hues were 


shed 


On tribes of flowers that laughed in day ! 


Thou, too, black Winter, hadst a charm for me ; 
Thou held’st high festival: thy storms arose, 


Delightsome in their horrid revelry 


Of hail-blasts, hurricanes, and snows. 


How have I loved to see the radiance run 
O’er the calm ocean from an azure sky ; 


Or on the liquid world the evening sun 
Gaze down with burning eye! 


Yet dearer were thy shores, when, blackening 


round, 


Thy waves, O Sea, rolled, gathering from afar ; 
And all the waste in pompous horror frowned, 
As storm-lashed surges strove in war. 


Jura! thou throne of tempests! many a time 
My love has sought thee in the musing hour ; 
Oft was I wont thy topmost ridge to climb, 
Thy fir-tree depths my shadowing bower. 


How, when I saw thy lofty scenes unfold, 
My soul sprang forth, transported at the sight! 
Enthusiasm there shook its wings of gold, 
And bore me up from height to height. 


My bounding step o’ervaulted summits high, 
Where resting clouds had checked their soar- 


ing pride ; 


And my foot seemed in hovering speed to vie 


With eagles swooping at my side. 


a 


O, then with what enamoured touch I drew 
Thy pencilled outlines desolate and grand! 
Vast ice-rifts ! ancient crags! your wonders grew 

Beneath my recreating hand. 


All was enchantment then : but they depart, 
Those days so beautiful, when the bright 
flame 
From unveiled genius shot within my heart 
The noble pang of fame. 


/ 


———>———— 


CHARLES-HUBERT MILLEVOYE. 


Turs poet was the only son of a merchant 
of Abbeville. He was born December 24th, 


~ 1782. He was first taught by one of his uncles, 


and afterwards placed under the care of M. 
Bardoux, a learned Greek scholar, and Profes- 
sor in the College of Abbeville. At the age of 
thirteen years, Millevoye lost his father. He 
was sent by his family to complete his education 
in Paris, where he distinguished himself by his 
talent and industry, and began early to display 
his poetical genius. Soon after finishing his 
studies, he wrote a series of poems which suc- 
cessively received the prize of the Institute. 
He began the study of the law; but, finding it 
impossible to bring his brilliant powers and 
dreamy imagination down to the dry technical- 
ities of that profession, he entered the estab- 
lishment of a bookseller, hoping thus to unite 
his favorite literary pursuits with the details of 
business; but, not succeeding in this scheme, 
he finally gave himself up wholly to study and 
composition. He wrote the poems of “ Charle- 
magne,”’ * Belzunce,”’ and ¢¢ Alfred”? ; and the 
tragedies of “ Corésus,” “ Ugolin,” and * Con- 
radin,’’ which, however, were not represented. 
Besides these, he composed numerous fugitive 
pieces, and a volume of elegies. 

Millevoye’s constitution was delicate from 
his childhood, and he predicted his approach- 
ing end in the touching elegy of “The Dying 
Poet.” Only eight days before his death, he 
wrote the piece entitled ‘ Priez pour. moi.” 
H{e died August 12th, 1816, in the thirty-fourth 
year of his age. 


—— 


THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 


Autumn had stripped the grove, and strewed 
The vale with leafy carpet o’er, 
Shorn of its mystery the wood, 
And Philomel bade sing no more: 
Yet one still hither comes to feed 
His gaze on childhood’s merry path; 
For him, sick youth! poor invalid! 
Lonely attraction still it hath. 


‘“‘T come to bid. you farewell brief, 
Here, O my infancy’s wild haunt! 

For death gives in each falling leaf 
Sad summons to your visitant. 


FRENCH POETRY. 


"T was a stern oracle that told 

My dark decree, —‘ The woodland bloom 
Once more ’tis given thee to behold, 

Then comes the inexorable tomb !’ 


‘The eternal cypress, balancing 

Its tall form, like some funeral thing, 
In silence o’er my head, 

Tells me my youth shall wither fast, 

Ere the grass fades, — yea, ere the last 
Stalk from the vine is shed. 


“I die! Yes, with his icy breath, 

Fixed Fate has frozen up my blood ; 
And by the chilly blast of Death 

Nipped is my life’s spring in the bud. 
Fall, fall, O transitory leaf, 

And cover well this path of sorrow ; 
Hide from my mother’s searching grief 

The spot where I'll be laid to-morrow ! 


*“‘ But should my loved one’s fairy tread 
Seek the sad dwelling of the dead, 
Silent, alone, at eve, — 
O, then with rustling murmur meet 
The echo of her coming feet,’ 
And sign of welcome give !”’ 


Such was the sick youth’s last sad thought; 
Then slowly from the grove he moved: 
Next moon that way a corpse was brought, 
And buried in the bower he loved. 

But at his grave no form appeared, 
No fairy mourner: through the wood 
The shepherd’s tread alone was heard, 
In the sepulchral solitude. 


PRAY FOR ME. 


SILENT, remote, this hamlet seems; 
How hushed the breeze! the eve how calm! 
Light through my dying chamber beams, 
But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
Kind villagers! God bless your shed ! 
Hark! ’t is for prayer, — the evening bell: 
O, stay ! and near my dying bed, 
Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 


When leaves shall strew the waterfall, 
In the sad close of autumn drear, 
Say, “The sick youth is freed from all 
The pangs and woe he suffered here.” 
So may ye speak of him that ’s gone ; 
But when your belfry tolls my knell, 
Pray for the soul of that lost one, — 
Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 


O, pity her, in sable robe, 
Who to my grassy grave will come; 
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe !— 
She was my love !— point out my tomb; 
Tell her my life should have been hers, — 
"T was but a day !— God’s will!—’t is well: 
But weep with her, kind villagers ! 
Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 


a 


BERANGER. 


PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER. 


BiraneeEr, the most original and popular of 
the lyrical poets of France, was born at Paris, 
August 19th, 1780, in a very humble condition. 
He was educated by his grandfather, a poor 
tailor. The books which first aroused his ge- 
nius were the Bible and a translation of Homer. 
His earliest poetical attempts attracted the at- 
tention of Lucien Bonaparte. His songs, which 
were enlivened by allusions to the politics of 
the day, had a great run. Among his first pieces 
were ‘“‘ Le Roi d’Yvetot”’ and “* Le Sénateur.”’ 
Béranger neither flattered Napoleon in his pow- 
er, nor turned against him after his fall; but 
jealously maintained his personal independence. 


After the Restoration, he fell under the ban of | 


the government, was prosecuted in 1821, on 
occasion of a new edition of his poems being 
subscribed for by his friends, and in 1828 was 
again prosecuted, condemned to pay a fine of 
ten thousand francs, and to be imprisoned nine 
months. He took an active part in the July 
Revolution, but refused all offices under the new 
government. Since then, he has written but 
little. A complete collection of his songs ap- 
peared at Paris in 1831, with the title, “ Chan- 
sons de P. J. Béranger, nouvelles, anciennes et 
inédites.”’ A new collection, ‘*Chansons nou- 
velles et derni¢res,’’ was published in 1833, in 
which Béranger took leave of the Muses. 

The poems of Béranger are distinguished for 
their genuine national spirit, their gayety and 
wit, and for a delicacy and pungency of ex- 
pression, which can scarcely be preserved in 
translation. 


ed 


THE LITTLE BROWN MAN. 


A LITTLE man we ’ve here, 
All in a suit of brown, 
Upon town ; 
He ’s as brisk as bottled beer, 
And, without a shilling rent, 
Lives content: 
‘¢ For d’ ye see,” says he, ‘my plan? 
D’ ye see,”’ says he, “‘my plan? 
My plan, d’ ye see, ’s to — laugh at that 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man! 


1? 


When every mad grisette 
He has toasted, till his score 
Holds no more ; 
Then, head and ears in debt, 
When the duns and bums abound 
All around, 
‘¢ D’ ye see,” says he, “my plan? 
D’ ye see,” says he, ‘my plan? 
My plan, d’ ye see, ’s to— laugh at that 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man! 


1? 


When the rain comes through his attic, 
And he lies all day a-bed 
Without bread ; 
When the winter winds rheumatic 


Make him blow his nails for dire 
Want of fire, 
‘¢ PD’ ye see,’ says he, “ my plan? 
D’ ye see, says he, “my plan? 
My plan, d’ ye see, ’s to— laugh at that!” 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man! 


His wife, a dashing figure, 
Makes shift to pay her clothes 
By her beaux ; 
The gallanter they rig her, 
The more. the people sneer 
At her dear : 
ve Then d’ ye see,’’ says he, “my plan? || 
D’ ye see,’ says he, ‘my plan? 
My plan, d’ ye see,’s to — laugh at that!” 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man ! 


When at last laid fairly level, 
And the priest (he getting worse) 
*Gan discourse 
Of death and of the Devil, 
Our little sinner sighed, 
And replied, — 
*¢ Please your reverence, my plan, — 
Please your reverence, my plan, — 
My plan, d’ ye see, ’s to— laugh at that 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man! 


1? 


THE OLD VAGABOND. 


Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay; 
Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. 

‘¢ He ’s drunk,” the passing crowd will say : 
’'T is well, for none will need to grieve. 

Some turn their scornful heads away, 
Some fling an alms in hurrying by ; — 

Haste, —’t is the village holyday ! 

The aged beggar needs no help to die. 


Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age 
I die; for hunger slays not all. 
I hoped my misery’s closing page 
To fold within some hospital ; 
But crowded thick is each retreat, 
Such numbers now in misery lie. 
Alas! my cradle was the street! 
As he was born the aged wretch must die. 


In youth, of workmen, o’er and o er, 
I’ve asked, ‘¢ Instruct me in your trade.”’ 
«« Begone ! — our business is not more 
Than keeps ourselves,—go, beg!” they said. 
Ye rich, who bade me toil for. bread, 
Of bones your tables gave me store, 
Your straw has often made my bed ; — 
In death I lay no curses at your door. 


Thus poor, I might have turned to theft ; — 
No!— better still for alms to pray! 
At most, I’ve plucked some apple, left 
To ripen near the public way 
Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid 
In the king’s name, they let me pine ; 
They stole the only wealth I had, — 


Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine. 
002 


What country has the poor to claim ? 
What boots to me your corn and wine, 
Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, 

The senate where your speakers shine? 
Once, when your homes, by war o’erswept, 
Saw strangers battening on your land, 
Like any puling fool, I wept! 
The aged wretch was nourished by their hand. 
2 
Mankind! why trod you not the worm, 
The noxious thing, beneath your heel ? 
Ah! had you taught me to perform 
Due labor for the common weal ! 
Then, sheltered from the adverse wind, 
The worm and ant had learned to grow ; 
Ay,—then I might have loved my kind ; — 
The aged beggar dies your bitter foe ! 


THE GARRET, 


O, ir was here that Love his gifts bestowed 
On youth's wild age! 

Gladly once more I seek my youth’s abode, 
In pilgrimage : 

Here my young mistress with her poet dared 
Reckless to dwell; 

She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared 
This attic cell. 


Yes, ’t was a garret! be it known to all, 
Here was Love’s shrine : 

There read, in charcoal traced along the wall, 
The unfinished line. 

Here was the board where kindred hearts would 

blend: 

The Jew can tell 

How oft I pawned my watch, to feast a friend 
In attic cell! 


O, my Lisette’s fair form could I recall 
With fairy wand! 
There she would blind the window with her 
shawl, — 
Bashful, yet fond! 
What though from whom she got her dress I ’ve 
since 
Learned but too well? 
Still, in those days I envied not a prince, 
In attic cell! 


Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, 
’Mid the bright bowls: 

Yes, it was here Marengo’s triumph first 
Kindled our souls! 

Bronze cannon roared: France with redoubled 

might 

Felt her heart swell ! 

Proudly we drank our consul’s health that’ night 
‘In attic cell ! 


Dreams of my youthful days! I'd freely give, 
Ere my life’s close, 

All the dull days I’m destined yet to live, 
For one of those! 


FRENCH POETRY. 


And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt 


Where shall I now find raptures that were felt, 
Joys that befell, 


In attic cell? 


a 


THE SHOOTING STARS. 


‘‘ SHEPHERD, say’st thou that a star 
Rules our days, and gems the skies?” 
‘Yes, my child; but in her veil 
Night conceals it from our eyes.” 
‘Shepherd, they say that to thy sight 
The secret of yon heaven is clear ; 
What is, then, that star so bright, 
Which flies, and flies to disappear? ”’ 


*¢ My child, a man has passed away.; 
His star has shed its parting ray: 
He, amid a joyous throng, 
Pledged the wine-cup and the song ; 
Happy, he has closed his eyes 

By the wine to him go dear.”’ 
‘¢ Yet another star that flies, — 

That flies, and flies to disappear !”’ 


‘My child, how pure and beautiful ! 
A gentle girl hath fled to heaven ; 
Happy, and in love most true, 
To the tenderest lover given: 
Flowerets crown her maiden brow, 
Hymen’s altar is her bier,” | 
‘“¢ Yet another star that flies, — | 
That flies, and flies to disappear ! ” | 


‘“‘Child, the rapid star behold 
Of a great lord newly born; 
Lined with purple and with gold, 
The empty cradle whence he ’s gone: 
E’en now the tide of flatteries 
Had almost reached his infant ear.”’ 
*“‘ Yet another star that flies, — 
That flies, and flies to disappear !”’ 


‘My child, what lightning flash is that ? 
A favorite has sought repose, 
Who thought himself supremely great, 
When his laughter mocked our woes: 
They his image now despise, 
Who once worshipped him in fear.”’ 
‘Yet another star that flies, — 
That flies, and flies to disappear!” 


“My son, what sorrow must be ours! 

A generous patron’s eyes are dim: 
Indigence from others gleans, 

But she harvested on him ; 
This very eve, with tears and sighs, 
* The wretched to his roof draw near.” 
‘“¢ Yet another star that flies, — 

That flies, and flies to disappear!” 


‘‘A mighty monarch’s star is dark ! 
Boy! preserve thy purity, 

Nor Jet men thy star remark 
For its size or brilliancy : 


eer 


 BERANGER.—LAMARTINE. 487 


Wert thou bright but to their eyes, 

They would say, when death is near, — 
‘It is but a star that flies, — 

That flies, and flies to disappear!’ ’ 


LOUIS THE ELEVENTH. 


Our aged king, whose name we breathe in dread, 
Louis, the tenant of yon dreary pile, 
Designs, in this fair prime of flowers, ’t is said, 
To view our sports, and try if he can smile. 
Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! 
Village maidens, village boys, 
Neighbour hand in hand with neighbour, 
Dance we, singing to the tabour, 
And the sackbut’s merry noise! 


While laughter, love, and song are here abroad, 
His jealous fears imprison Louis there ; 
He dreads his peers, his people, —ay, his God ; 
But more than all, the mention of his heir. 
Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! &c. 


Look there! a thousand lances gleam afar, 
In the warm sunlight of this gentle spring ! 
And, midst the clang of bolts, that grate and jar, 
Heard ye the warder’s challenge sharply ring ? 
Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! &c. 


He comes! he comes! Alas! this mighty king 


With envy well the hovel’s peace may view ; 
See where he stands, a pale and spectral thing, 
And glares askance the serried halberds 
through ! 
Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! &c. 


Beside our cottage hearths, how bright and grand 
. Were all our visions of a monarch’s air! 
What! is his sceptre but that trembling hand? 
Is that his crown,—a forehead seamed by care? 
Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! &c. 


In vain we sing; at yonder distant chime, 
Shivering, he starts! — ’t was but the village 
bell! 
But evermore the sound that notes the time 
Strikes to his ear an omen of his knell! 
Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! &c. 


Alas! our joys some dark distrust inspire ! 

He flies, attended by his chosen slave : 
Beware his hate; and say, ‘‘ Our gracious sire 
A loving smile to greet his children gave.” 

Welcome! sport that sweetens labor! &c. 


THE SONGS OF THE PEOPLE. 


Amin the lowly straw-built shed, 
Long will the peasant seek his glory ; 
And, when some fifty years have fled, 
The thatch will hear no other story. 
Around some old and hoary dame 
The village crowd will oft exclaim, — 
‘¢ Mother, now, till midnight chimes, 
Tell us tales of other times. 


in 1792. 
Bellay, which he left in 1809; he then resided 


eS gr ene rEat EIU EE TSS anSSaRC RG SASL 


He wronged us! say it if they will, ” 

The people love his memory still ; — 
Mother, now the day is dim, 
Mother, tell us now of him!”’ 


«¢ My children, in our village here, 
I saw him once by kings attended ; 
That time has passed this many a year, 
For scarce my maiden days were ended. 
On foot he climbed the hill, and nigh 
To where I watched him passing by : 
Small his hat upon that day, 
And he wore a coat of gray ; 
And when he saw me shake with dread, 
‘Good day to you, my dear!’ he said.” 
‘©O, and, mother, is it true? 
Mother, did he speak to you?” 


“From this a year had passed away, 
Again in Paris’ streets I found him: 
To Notre Dame he rode that day, 
With all his gallant court around him. 
All eyes admired the show the while, 
No face that did not wear a smile: 
‘See how brightly shine the skies ! 
’'T is for him!’ the people cries: 
And then his face was soft with joy, 
For God had blessed him with a boy.” 
‘‘ Mother, O, how glad to see 
Days that must so happy be!” 


«¢ But when o’er our province ran 
The bloody armies of the strangers, 
Alone he seemed, that famous man, 
To fight against a thousand dangers. 
One evening, just like this one here, 
I heard a knock that made me fear: 
Entered, when I oped the door, 
He, and guards perhaps a score ; 
And, seated where I sit, he said, 
‘To what a war have [ been led!’ ” 
“¢ Mother, and was that the chair ? 


Mother, was he seated there?” 


“¢¢ Dame, I am hungry,’ then he cried ; 

I set our bread and wine before him ; — 
There at the fire his clothes he dried, - 
And slept while watched his followers o’er 

him. 

When with a start he rose from sleep, 

He saw me in my terror weep, . 
And he said, ‘ Nay, our France is strong ; 
Soon I will avenge her wrong.’ 

It is the dearest thing of mine, — 

The glass in which he drank his wine.” 

«© And through change of good and ill,. 
Mother, you have kept it still.” 


nhitey BO 


ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 


Turs richly gifted writer was born at Macon, 


He was educated at the College of 


in Lyons, and in Paris, and twice travelled 
through Italy. His temper was naturally in- 
clined to religious seriousness, and this was in- 
creased by the circumstances of his life and by 
the condition of his country. The writings of 
Saint-Pierre and Chateaubriand exercised no 
little influence upon him. His “ Méditations 
Poétiques”’ appeared in 1820, and laid the foun- 
dation of his fame. . This was followed by the 
* Nouvelles Méditations Poétiques” and the 
“‘ Mort de Socrate,”’ in 1823. In 1825, he pub- 
lished “ Le Dernier Chant du Pélerinage d’ Har- 
old,” and the “* Chant du Sacre”’; and in 1829, 
the ‘Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses.”’ 
From 1820 to 1822, Lamartine was Secretary of 
Legation in Naples, then in the same capacity in 
London, and in 1825 went to Florence. Having 
left the service of the state, he lived until the 
July Revolution alternately in Paris and at the 
Chateau Pierrepoint. In 1829, he was elected 
into the French Academy. After the Rev- 
olution, he became a member of the Chamber 
of Deputies. In 1832, he travelled to Con- 
stantinople, Syria, and Egypt, and on his return 
published his observations. The best edition 
is that in ten volumes, octavo, with illustrations 
by Johannot and others. 


ON LEAVING FRANCE FOR THE EAST. 


Ir to the fluttering folds of the quick sail 
My all of peace and comfort I impart ; 
If to the treacherous tide and wavering gale 
My wife and child I lend, my soul’s best part; 
If on the seas, the sands, the clouds, I cast 
Fond hopes, and beating hearts I leave be- 
hind, 
With no returning pledge beyond a mast 
That bends with every blast of wind- 


"T is not the paltry thirst of gold could fire 

A heart that ever glowed with holier flame, 
Nor glory tempt me with the vain desire 

To gild my memory with a fleeting fame. 
I go not, like the Florentine of old, 

The bitter bread of banishment to eat ; 
No wave of faction, in its wildest roar, 

Broke on my calm. paternal seat. 


Weeping, I leave on yonder valley’s side 
Trees thick with shade, a home, a noiseless 
. plain, 
Peopled with warm regrets, and dim descried 
Even here by wistful eyes across the main ; 
Deep in the leafy woods a lone abode, 
Beyond the reach of faction’s loud annoy, 
Whose echoes, even while tempests groaned 
abroad, 


Were sounds of blessing, son 


gs of joy. 
There sits a sire, who sees our imaged forms, 
When through the battlements the breezes 
sweep, 
And prays to Him who stirs or lays the storms 
To make his winds glide gentler o’er the deep; 


FRENCH 


I have not heard in the tall cedar-top 


Nor seen from Lebanon the eagles drop 


POETRY. 


There friends, and servants masterless, are try- 
ing 
To trace our latest footprints on the sward, 
And my poor dog, beneath my window lying, 


Howls when my well known name is 
heard. 


There sisters dwell, from the same bosom fed, — 
Boughs which the wind should rock on the 
same tree; 
There friends, the soul’s relations, dwell, that 
read 
My eye, and knew each thought that dawned 
in me; 
And hearts unknown, that list the Muses’ call, — 
Mysterious friends, that know me in my 
strain, — 
Like viewless echoes, scattered over all 
To render back its tones again. 


But in the soul’s unfathomable wells, 
Unknown, inexplicable longings sleep ; 

Like that strange instinct which the bird impels 
In search of other food athwart the deep. 
What from those orient climes have they to 

gain? 
Have they not nests as mossy in our eaves, 
And, for their callow progeny, the grain 
Dropped from a thousand golden sheaves ? 


I, too, like them, could find my portion here, 
Enjoy the mountain slope, the river’s foam, — 
My humble wishes seek no loftier sphere ; 
And yet like them I go, —like them I come. 
Dim longings draw me on and point.my path 
To Eastern sands, to Shem’s deserted shore, 
The cradle of the world, where God in wrath 
Hardened the human heart of yore. 


I have not yet felt on the sea of sand 
The slumberous rocking of the desert bark ; 
Nor quenched my thirst at eve with quivering 
hand 
By Hebron’s well, beneath the palm-trees 
dark ; 
Nor in the pilgrim’s tent my mantle spread, 
Nor laid me in the dust where Job hath lain, 
Nor, while the canvass murmured overhead, 
Dreamed Jacob’s mystic creams again. 


Of the world’s pages one is yet unread : — 
How the stars tremble in Chaldea’s sky, 
With what a sense of nothingness we tread, 
How the heart beats, when God appears so 
nigh ; — 
How on the soul, beside some column lone, 
The shadows of old days descend and hover, — 
How the grass speaks, the earth sends out its 
moan, 
And the breeze wails that wanders over. 


The cries of nations echo to and fro, 


On Tyre’s deep-buried palaces below ; 


a ee 


LAMARTINE. 


[rrr nn nnn nn nnn n en ee aE EEssS SSS SSS aU 


I have not laid my head upon the ground 
Where Tadmor’s temples in the dust decay, 
Nor startled, with' my footfall’s dreary sound, 
The waste where Memnon’s empire lay. 


I have not stretched where Jordan’s current 
flows, 
Heard how the loud-lamenting river weeps, 
With moans and cries sublimer even than those 
With which the Mournful Prophet stirred its 
deeps ; 
Nor felt the transports which the soul inspire 
In the deep grot, where he, the bard of kings, 
Felt, at the dead of night, a hand of flame 
Seize on his harp, and sweep the strings. 


I have not wandered o’er the plain, whereon, 

Beneath the olive-tree, THe Saviour wept; 
Nor traced his tears the hallowed trees upon, 

Which jealous angels have not all outswept ; 
Nor, in the garden, watched through nights sub- 

lime, 

Where, while the bloody sweat was undergone, 

The echo of his sorrows and our crime 
Rung in one listening ear alone. 


Nor have I bent my forehead on the spot 
Where his ascending footstep pressed the clay ; 
Nor worn with lips devout the rock-hewn grot, 
Where, in his mother’s tears embalmed, he 
lay ; 
Nor smote my breast on that sad mountain-head, 
Where, even in death, conquering the Powers 
of Air, 
His arms, as to embrace our earth, he spread, 
And bowed his head, to bless it there. — 


For these I leave my home; for these I stake 
My little span of useless years below : 
What matters it, where winter-winds may shake 
The trunk that yields nor fruit nor foliage 
now? 
Fool! says the crowd. Theirs is the foolish part! 
Not in one spot can the soul’s food be found ;— 
No!—to the poet thought is bread, — his heart 
Lives on his Maker’s works around. 


Farewell, my sire, my sisters dear, again ! 
’ y ke) y 9 D5 
Farewell. my walnut-shaded place of birth! 
de Ab) Lee 
Farewell, my steed, now loitering o’er the plain! 
9 J 3 (=) 
Farewell, my dog, now lonely on the hearth! 
Your image haunts me like the shade of bliss, 
Your voices lure me with their fond recall: 
Soon may the hour arise, less dark than this, 
The hour that reunites us all! 


And thou, my country, tossed by winds and seas, 
Like this frail bark on which my lot is cast, 
Big with the world’s yet unborn destinies, — 
Adieu! thy shores glide from my vision past | 
O, that some ray would pierce the cloud that 
broods , 
O’er throne and temple, liberty and thee, 
And kindle brighter, o’er the restless floods, 
Thy beacon-light of immortality ! 
62 


And thou, Marseilles, at France’s portals placed, 
With thy white arms the coming guest to greet, 

Whose haven, gleaming o’er the ocean’s breast, 
Spreads like a nest, each winged mast to meet ; 

Where many a hand beloved now presses mine, 
Where my foot lingers still, as loth to flee, — 

Thine be my last departing accents, — thine 

My first returning greeting be ! 


THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


Wuen, in my childhood’s morning, I rested 
neath the shade 

Of the citron or the almond tree, with fruits and 
blossoms weighed, 

While the loose curls from my forehead were 
lifted by the breeze, 

Which like a spirit haunteth each living thing 
it sees 5 

Then, in those golden hours, a whisper soft and 
light 

Stole on my senses, thrilling each pulse to wild 
delight : 

’'T was not the perfumed zephyr, the dreamy 
pipe’s low swell, 

The tones of cherished kindred, or the distant 
village bell ; 

O, no, my Guardian Angel, that music in the air 

Was' but thy viewless pinions, that hovered 
round me there ! 


When deeper founts of feeling within my bo- 
som sprung, 

And Love, with soft enchantment, its varied 
cadence rung ; 

When twilight after twilight still found me 
lingering near 

Yon green and wavy sycamore, to meet with 
one most dear, 

Whose least caress could liberate the full springs 
of my breast, 

Whose kiss at every parting gave strange but 
sweet unrest, — 

Ah! then the selfsame whisper upon my spirit 
fell : 

Say, could it be his footsteps, which woke the 
mystic spell ? 

O, no, my Guardian Angel, who watchest over 
me, 

My heart returned that echo of sympathy from 
thee ! 


And when, in bliss maternal, I clustered round 
my hearth 

Those blessings God had lent me, to make my 
heaven on earth ; 

When at my vine-clad portal I watched their 
buoyant glee, 

As my children, wild with frolic, shook the 
ripe figs from the tree ; 

E’en then, though half-defined, that voice with 
sweetness fraught 

Poured out its notes familiar upon my raptured 
thought : 


ih 2s hae 


' 
' 
! 
i 
t 
: 


Sones oem 


nt Nth fin asia 


senoersiiensennemesnennin- nessa een renner 


iettastnnnssnstnsememseesieieerenateence ee eee ee 


a Sin nen aah Onan 


c— 
ice} 
fom) 


What moved me then ?——ah! was it the bird’s 


song unrepressed ? 


Or the breathings of the baby that slumbered 


on my breast? 


O, no, my Guardian Angel, I felt that thou 


wert near, 


To echo back the gladness of my heart-music 


clear ! 


And now old age hath planted its snow-crown 


on my head, 


And, sheltered from the bleak winds that 


through the forest spread, 


I feed the blazing embers that warm my shrink- 


ing frame, 


And guard the lambs and children, who scarce 


can lisp my name ; 


Yet inthis withered bosom, as in the days of 


youth, 


The selfsame voice consoles me with words of 


love and truth: 


"T is not the joys of childhood that haunt me 


in my sleep, 


Or the lost tones of the dear one whom even 


now I weep; 


O, no, my Guardian Angel, my tried and faith- 


ful friend, 


It is thy heart that twineth with mine till life 


shall end ! 


eee 


HYMN. 


A uymy more, O my lyre! 
Praise to the God above, 
Of joy, and life, and love, 

Sweeping its strings of fire! 


O, who the speed of bird and wind 

And sunbeam’s glance will lend to me, 
That, soaring upward, I may find 

My resting-place and home in Thee? 
Thou, whom my soul, ‘midst doubt and gloom, 

Adoreth with a fervent flame, — 
Mysterious Spirit! unto whom 

Pertain nor sign nor name! 


Swifily my lyre’s soft murmurs go 

Up from the cold and joyless earth, 
Back to the God who bade them flow, 

Whose moving spirit sent them forth: 
But as for me, O God! for me, 

The lowly creature of thy will, 
Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, 

An earth-bound pilgrim still! 


Was not my spirit born to shine 
Where yonder stars and suns are glow- 
ing? 
To breathe with them the light divine, 
From God’s own holy altar flowing? 
To be, indeed, whate’er the soul 
In dreams hath thirsted for so long, — 
A portion of heaven’s glorious whole 
Of loveliness and song? 


FRENCH POETRY. 


O watchers of the stars of night, 

Who breathe their fire, as we the air, — 
Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, 

O, say, is Hx, the Eternal, there ? 
Bend there around his awful throne 

The seraph’s glance, the angel’s knee? 
Or are thy inmost depths his own, 

O wild and mighty sea? 


Thoughts of my soul! how swift ye go— 
Swift as the eagle’s glance of fire, 
Or arrows from the archer’s bow — 
To the far aim of your desire ! 
Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, 
Like spring-doves from the startled wood, 
Bearing like them your sacrifice 
Of music unto God! 


And shall there thoughts of joy and love 
Come back again no more to me, — 
Returning, like the Patriarch’s dove, 
Wing-weary, from the eternal sea, 
To bear within my longing arms 
The promise-bough of kindlier skies, 
Plucked from the’green, immortal palms 
Which shadow paradise ? 


All-moving Spirit! freely forth, 

At thy command, the strong wind goeg 
Its errand to the passive earth ; 

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, 
Until it folds its’ weary wing 

Once more within the hand divine: 
So, weary of each earthly thing, 

My spirit turns to thine! 


Child of the sea, the mountain-stream 
From its dark caverns hurries on 

Ceaseless, by night and morning’s beam, 
By evening’s star and noontide’s sun, — 

Until at last it sinks to rest, . 
O’erwearied, in the waiting sea, 

And moans upon its mother’s breast : 

So turns my soul to thee! 


O Thou who bidd’st the torrent flow, 
Who lendest wings unto the wind, — 

Mover of all things! where art thou? 
O, whither shall I go to find 

The secret of thy resting-place ? 
Is there no holy wing for me, 

That, soaring, I may search the space 

Of highest heaven for thee? 


O, would I were as free to rise, 
As leaves on autumn’s whirlwind borne, 
The arrowy light of sunset skies, 
Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, 
Which melts in heaven at twilight’s close, 
Or aught which soars unchecked and 
free, 
Through earth and heaven, — that I might 
lose 


Myself in finding Thee ! 


DELAVIGNE. 


a ET a a tie ai, i) 2 hd OLLIE get Ta 


JEAN-FRANCOIS-CASIMIR DELAVIGNE. 


Casimir Detaviane, one of the best known 
among the recent French poets, was born at 
Havre, in 1794. He first appeared as a poet 
in a “ Dithyrambe sur la Naissance du Roi de 
Rome,” in 1811. His poem entitled “ La De- 
couverte de la Vaccine’”’ received the first of 
the secondary prizes from the French Academy. 
Afterwards he applied himself to dramatic poe- 
try, and his tragedies, ‘‘ Les Vépres Siciliennes,”’ 
and ‘** Le Paria,’’ were favorably received. Love 
of country inspired his elegies, “‘ Les Trois Mes- 
séniennes,” in which he bewailed the humilia- 
tion of France; and in the * Nouvelles Messé- 
niennes ”’ he gives utterance to his feelings up- 
on the Greek Revolution. A new ‘“ Messé- 
nienne,”’ which appeared in the tenth edition 
of his “« Messéniennes et Poésies Diverses,’’ is 
consecrated to the memory of Byron. His 
comedy, “ L’Ecole des Vieillards,”’ and the trag- 
edies, “¢ Marino Faliero,” ** Louis XI.,” and “ Les 
Fils d’Edouard,” which appeared between 1823 
and 1833, greatly increased his reputation. In 
1824, Delavigne was elected a member of the 
French Academy; and in 1825, a pension of 
twelve hundred francs from the civil list, and 
the cross of the Legion of Honor, were offered 
him, both of which he declined. He wrote the 
‘Parisienne,’ which was to the Revolution of 
July what the ‘ Marseillaise’’ had been to the 
old Revolution. 


BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 


Tuey breathe no longer: let their ashes rest ! 
Clamor unjust and calumny 
They stooped not to confute; but flung their 
breast 
Against the legions of your enemy, 
And thus avenged themselves: for you they 
> die. 


Woe to you, woe! if those inhuman eyes 
Can spare no drops to mourn your country’s 
weal ; 
Shrinking before your selfish miseries ; 
Against the common sorrow hard as steel : 
Tremble! the hand of death upon you lies : 
You may be forced yourselves to feel. 


But no,—what son of France has spared his 
tears 
For her defenders, dying in their fame ? 
Though kings return, desired through lengthen- 
ing years, 
What old man’s cheek is tinged not with her 
shame? 
What veteran, who their fortune’s treason hears, 
Feels not the quickening spark of his old 
youthful flame ? 


Great Heaven! what lessons mark that one 
day’s page ! 
What ghastly figures that might crowd an age! 


peat nan = x si itn haiti a ne eee 
a hag | 


491 


How shall the historic Muse record the day, 
Nor, starting, cast the trembling pen away ? 
Hide from me, hide those soldiers overborne, 
Broken with toil, with death-bolts crushed and 
torn, — 
Those quivering limbs with dust defiled, 
And bloody corses upon corses piled ; 
Veil from mine eyes that monument 
Of nation against nation spent 
In struggling rage that pants for breath ; 
Spare us the bands thou sparedst, Death ! 
O Varus! where the warriors thou hast led? 
Restore our Lrerons!— give us back the 
dead ! 


I see the broken squadrons reel; 
The steeds plunge wild with spurning heel ; 
Our eagles trod in miry gore ; 
The leopard standards swooping o’er; 
The wounded on their slow cars dying ; 
The rout disordered, wavering, flying; 
Tortured with struggles vain, the throng 
Sway, shock, and drag their shattered mass 
along, 
And leave behind their long array 
Wrecks, corses, blood, — the foot-marks of their 


way. 
Through whirlwind smoke and flashing 
flame, — 
ne : : x 
O grief! — what sight appalls mine eye: 


The sacred band, with generous shame, 
Sole ’gainst an army, pause — to die! 


Struck with the rare devotion, ’t is in vain 

The foes at gaze their blades restrain, 

And, proud to conquer, hem them round: the cry 

Returns, ‘The guard surrender not! — they 
die!” 


'T is said, that, when in dust they saw them lie, 
A reverend sorrow for their brave career 

Smote on the foe: they fixed the pensive eye, 
And first beheld them undisturbed with fear. 


See, then, these heroes, long invincible, 
Whose threatening features still their con- 
querors brave ; 
Frozen in death, those eyes are terrible ; 
Feats of the past their deep-scarred brows 
engrave : 
For these are they who bore Italia’s sun, 
Who o’er Castilia’s mountain-barrier passed ; 
The North beheld them o’er the rampart run, 
Which frosts of ages round her _ussia cast: 
All sank subdued before them, and the date 
Of combats owed this guerdon to their glory, 


Seldom to Franks denied, — to fall elate ' 
On some proud day that should survive nm 
story. 


Let us no longer mourn them ; for the palm 
Unwithering shades their features stern and 
calm : 
Franks ! mourn we for ourselves, — our land’s 
iy disgrace, — 
The proud, mean passions that divide her race, 


Nags Mein vi clint JP ee ek 
Se 


ii 


—— 


“Bars AERP nt a AEE A i A ON IE iT sh 


492 FRENCH POETRY. 


fee ouct c | D Oe er 


What age so rank in treasons? to our blood 
| The love is alien of the common good ; 
Friendship, no more unbosomed, hides her tears, 
And man shuns man, and each his fellow fears ; 
Scared from her sanctuary, Faith shuddering flies 
The din of oaths, the vaunt of perjuries. 


{ 


O cursed delirium ! jars deplored, 

That yield our home-hearths to the stranger’s 
sword ! 

Our faithless hands but draw the gleaming blade 

To wound the bosom which its point should aid. 


The strangers raze our fenced walls; 
The castle stoops, the city falls; 
Insulting foes their truce forget ; 
| . The unsparing war-bolt thunders yet; 
Flames glare our ravaged hamlets o’er, 
And funerals darken every door ; 
Drained provinces their greedy prefects rue, 
Beneath the lilied or the triple hue ; 
And Franks, disputing for the choice of power, 
Dethrone a banner, or proscribe a flower. 
France! to our fierce intolerance we owe 
The ills that from these sad divisions flow; 
’T is time the sacrifice were made to thee 
Of our suspicious pride, our civic enmity : 
Haste, — quench the torches of intestine war ; 
Heaven points the lily as our army’s star; 
Hoist, then, the banner of the white,— some tears 
May bathe the thrice-dyed flag which Austerlitz 
endears. 


France: France! awake, with one indignant 
mind! 

With new-born hosts the throne’s dread pre- 
cinct bind! 

Disarmed, divided, conquerors o’er us stand ; 

Present the olive, but the sword in hand. 

And thou, O people, flushed with our defeat, 

To whom the mourning of our land is sweet, 

Thou witness of the death-blow of our brave! 

Dream not that France is vanquished to a slave ; 

Gall not with pride the avengers yet to come: 

Heaven may remit the chastening of our doom; 

A new Germanicus may yet demand 

Those eagles wrested from our Varus’ hand. 


ere 


PARTHENOPE AND THE STRANGER. 


“ Waar wouldst thou, lady?” “ An asylum.”’ 


| 6 Say, 
What is thy crime?” “None.” Who ac 
cuse thee?’ ¢ They 
Who are ungrateful.’’ “* Who thine enemy?” 


‘¢ Hach whom the succour of my sword set free ; 
Adored but yesterday, proscribed to-day.”’ 

** What shall my hospitality repay?” 

** A day’s short peril; laws eternal.’ « Who 
Within my city dare thy steps pursue >?” 

‘“‘ Kings.” ‘When arrive they?” With the 
| morn.” ‘From whence?” 

‘From every side. Say, shall thy gates’ defence 
Be mine?’’ ‘Yes, enter: but reveal to me 
Thy name, O stranger!’ “I am Liperty!” 


scien kes ORET Tae a ee ee sy 


Receive her, ramparts old, again ! 
For ye her dwelling were-of yore ; — 
Receive her ’midst your gods once more, 
O every antique fane ! — 
Rise, shades of heroes! hover o’er, 
To grace her awful train ! 


Fair sky of Naples, laugh with gladdening rays! 
Bring forth, O earth, thy hosts on every side ! 

Sing, O ye people! hymn the goddess’ praise ! 
"Tis she for whom Leonidas once died. 


Her brows all idle ornaments refuse ; 
Half-opened flowers compose her diadem ; 
Reared in Thermopylae with gory dews, 
Not twice a thousand years have tarnished 
them. 


The wreath immortal sheds a nameless balm, 
Which courage raptured breathes: in accents 
calm, 
Yet terrible, her conquering voice disarms 
The rebel to her sway : her eyes impart 
A holy transport to the panting heart, 
And virtue only Boasts superior charms. 


The people pause around her; and their cries 
Ask from what cause these kings, forgetting 
ruth, 
Cherish their anger: the strange maid replies, 
“Alas! I told to monarchs truth ! 
If hate or if imprudence in my name 
Had shook their power, which I would but 
restrain, 
Why should I bear the burden of the blame ? 
And are they Germans, who would forge my 
chain ? : 


‘‘ Have they forgot, these slaves of yesterday, 

Who now oppress you with their tyrant sway, 

How, in sore straitness when to‘me they cried, 

I joinéd their phalanx by Arminius’ side? 

Rallying their tribes, I scooped the blood-tinged 
snows 

In gaping death-beds for their sinking foes. 


“‘Avenge ye, gods, that look upon my wrong! 
And may the memory of my bounties past 
Pursue these ingrates,—dog their scattering 

throng! 

May Odin’s sons upon the cloudy blast, 
‘With storm-wrapt brows, above them stray, — 
Glare by them in the lightning’s midnight ray ! 
And may Rome’s legions, with whose whiten- 

ing bones 

I strewed their plains.in ages past, 

Rise in their sight and chase them to their 
thrones ! 


‘Hla! and does Rome indeed sepulchred lie 
In her own furrows’ crumbling mould ? 
Shall not my foot with ancient potency 
Stamp, and from earth start forth her legions 
old? 


nT See ee ea ee Te Soe ee 


DELAVIGNE. 


493 


“‘Feel’st thou not, Rome, within thy entrails 
deep, 
The cold bones shaking, and the spirits stir 
Of citizens, that, in their marble sleep, 
Rest under many a trophied sepulchre ? 


flood 
Murmurs till ye from worthless sloth have 
started, 
And proudly heaves beneath your floating wood, 
Where streams the flag whose glory is de- 
parted. 


“Fair widow of the Medici! be born 
Again, thou noble Florence! Now unclasp 
Thy arms to my embrace: from slavery’s 
ereey . . 
Breathe free in independence’s stormy morn! 


*‘O Neptune’s daughter, Venice! city fair 
As Venus, and that didst like her emerge 
From the foam-silvered, beauty-ravished surge, 
Let Albion see thee thy shorn beams repair ! 
Doge, in my name command! Within your 
walls 
Proclaim me, Senate! Zeno, wake! 
Aside thy sleep, Pisani, shake ! — 
"T is Liberty that calls!” 


She spoke: and a whole people with one will 
the furnace- 


{ 
‘«¢ Break, Genoese, your chains ! — the impatient 
| 
| 


Caught that arousing voice: 
light’ 
| Giowed, and the hardening steel grew white ; 
| Against the biting file the edge rang shrill ; 
Far clanged the anvil; brayed the trumpet; one 
Furbished his lance, and one his steed’s capari- 
son. 


The father throws his weight of years aside, 
Accoutring glad the youngest of his sons ; 
Nor tarries, but his steps outruns, 

And foremost joins the lines with emulous 

stride : 

The sister, smiling at his spleen, detains 

The baby warrior, who the lap disdains, 

And cries, ‘¢I go to die upon the plains!”’ 


Then what did they, or might they not have 
done, 

Whose courage manhood nerved? or say, could 
one 

Repose his hope in flight, or fear the death 

Claimed by the aged and the infant breath? - 


Yes ! — all with common voice exclaimed aloud, 
“We sit beneath thy laurel, and will guard 
Its leaves from profanation: take, O bard, 
Thy lyre, and sing our feats, their best reward ! 

For Virgil’s sacred shroud 
Shall ne’er be spurned by victor footstep proud.’ 


They marched, this warlike people, in their 
scorn ; 


And when one moon had filled her horn, 


The oppressor German took his rouse 
And drained his draughts of Rhenish tranquil- 
ly 
And they lay round him, sheltered by the 
boughs 
Of Virgil’s laurel-tree. 


With eyes averted, Liberty had fled: 
Parthenope recalled her; she her head 
Bent for a moment from the height of air: 
‘Thou hast betrayed thy guest: befall thee 
fair!’ 
‘© Art gone for ever?’”’ 
“Where?” 
‘In Greece.” ‘They will pursue thee thith- 
er too.” 
*¢ Defenders will be found.” ‘¢ They too may 
yield, 
And numbers then may sweep thee from thy 
field.”’ 
‘Ay; but ’tis possible to die: adieu!” 


“They await me.” 


LA PARISIENNE. 


GALLANT nation! now before you 
Freedom, beckoning onward, stands! 
Let no tyrant’s sway be o’er you, — 
Wrest the sceptre from his hands! 
Paris gave the general cry; 
Glory, Fame, and Liberty! 
Speed, warriors, speed, 
Though thousands bleed, 
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
dering steed! 
Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 


Keep your serried ranks in order ; 

Sons of France, your country calls! 

Gory hecatombs accord her, — 

Well she merits each who falls! 
Happy day! the general cry 
Echoed naught but Liberty ! 

Speed, warriors, speed, 
Though thousands bleed, 
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest waits, — your foemen die! 


Vain the shot may sweep along you, 
Ranks of warriors now displayed ! 
Youthful generals are among you, 
By the great occasion made ! 
Happy day! the general cry 
Echoed naught but Liberty! 
Speed, warriors, speed, 
. Though thousands bleed, 
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest waits, — your foemen die ' 


Foremost, who the Carlist lances 
With the banner-staff has met? 

Freedom’s votary advances, 

' Venerable Lafayette ! 


PP 


| 


{ 
it 


| 


fea 


in. 


Se La a steele nee 


eg 


Happy day! the general cry 
KEchoed naught but Liberty ! 
Speed, warriors, speed, 
Though thousands bleed, 
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 


Triple dyes again combining, 
See the squadrons onward go! 
In the country’s heaven shining, 
Mark the various-colored bow ! 
Happy day! the general cry 
Echoed naught but Liberty ! 
Speed, warriors, speed, 
Though thousands bleed, 
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 


Heroes of that banner gleaming, 
Ye, who bore it in the fray, — 
Orléans’ troops ! your blood was streaming 
Freely on that fatal day ! 
From the page of history 
We have learned the general cry ! 
Speed, warriors, speed, 
Though thousands bleed, 
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 


Muffled drum, thy music lonely 
Answers to the mourner’s sighs ! 
Laurels, for the valiant only, 
Ornament their obsequies ! 
Sacred fane of Liberty, 
Let their memories never die !’ 
Bear to his grave 
Each warrior brave 
Who fell in Freedom’s cause, his country’s 
rights to save, 
Crowned with fame and victory ! 


——_ 6 


VICTOR-MARIE HUGO. 


Victor-Mariz Hueco was born February 
26th, 1802, at Besangon. Several years of his 
childhood were passed in Elba; then two years 
in Paris; then two years in the Neapolitan dis- 
trict of Avellino, where his father was governor ; 
again in Paris, where his mother superintended 
his education in strict privacy. In 1811, he 
went to Madrid, where he passed a year; and 
in 1815, entered the Collége Louis-le-Grand. 
‘He already began to meditate the plans of sev- 
eral tragedies. In 1817, he wrote a poem, “ Sur 
les Avantages de ]’Ktude,” for the Academy’s 
prize; which, however, he failed to obtain. In 
1819, he gained two prizes from the Academy 
of the Floral Games. ‘The first volume of his 
lyrical poems appeared in 1822. Louis the 
Eighteenth bestowed on the young poet a pen- 


FRENCH POETRY. 


er erheeanareenty-somepennbinn cans ~ meeoionionennn 


sion of three thousand francs, which enabled him 
to marry in 1823. He was soon acknowledged 
as the leader of the Romantic School in France, 
and as such has been assailed with unexampled 
violence by the Classicists. Besides his lyrical 
poems, of which several collections have ap- 
peared, Victor Hugo has published novels, the 
most celebrated of which is “ Notre Dame de 
Paris.”’ His dramas, “« Cromwell,” « Hernani,”’ 
“Marion Delorme,” “ Triboulet, ou le Roi 
s'amuse,”’ “ Lucréce Borgia,’ and ‘Marie Tu- 
dor,” are full of vigorous and striking passages. 
He published, in 1834, a collection of miscella- 
neous writings, entitled *“ Littérature et Philoso- 
phie Mélées.”” The collections of his lyrical 
poems are, “Odes et Ballades,”’ «‘ Les Orien- 
tales,” “ Chants du Crépuscules,” “ Les Feuilles 
d’Automne,”’ “ Les Rayons et les Ombres,”’ and 
‘¢ Voix Intérieures.”’ 

Victor Hugo stands undoubtedly at the head 
of the modern French poets. In vigor of thought 
and splendor of diction, in beauty and variety 
of poetical illustration, he is unrivalled by any 
of his contemporaries. At the same time it 
must be admitted that he often falls into extrav- 
agance, and has written much that a purer taste 
condemns. 


INFANCY. 


In the dusky alcove, 

Near the altar laid, 
Sleeps the child in shadow 
Of his mother’s bed ; 

Softly he reposes, 

And his lids of roses, 

Closed to earth, uncloses 
On the heaven o’erhead. 


Many a dream is with him, 
Fresh from fairy Jand: 
Spangled o’er with diamonds 
Seems the ocean sand ; 
Suns are gleaming there ; 
Troops of ladies fair 
Souls of infants bear 
In their charming hand. 


O enchanting vision ! 
Lo! a rill upsprings, 
And from out its bosom 
Comes a voice that sings. 
Lovelier there appear 
Sire and sisters dear, 
While his mother near 
Plumes her new-born wings. 


But a brighter vision 
Yet his eyes behold: 
Roses all and lilies 
Every path unfold ; 
Lakes in shadow sleeping, 
Silver fishes leaping, 
And the waters creeping 
Through the reeds of gold. 


SSE] 


Slumber on, sweet infant, 
Slumber peacefully ! 

Thy young soul knows not 
What thy lot may be. 

Like dead leaves tha sweep 

Down the stormy deep, 

Thou art borne in sleep : 
What is all to thee? 


° 


Innocent! thou sleepest ! — 
See! the heavenly band, 
Who foreknow the trials 
That for man are planned, 
Seeing him unarmed, 
Unfearing, unalarmed, 


With their tears have warmed 
His unconscious hand. 


Angels, hovering o’er him, 
Kiss him where he lies ; 
Hark! he sees them weeping: 
«¢ Gabriel!’’ he cries; 

‘¢ Hush!” the angel says, 

On his lip he lays 

One finger, and displays 
His native skies. 


HER NAME. 


A wity’s pure perfume ; a halo’s light ; 
The evening’s voices mingling soft above ; 
The hour’s mysterious farewell in its flight ; 
The plaintive story told 
By a dear friend who grieves, yet is consoled ; 
The sweet, soft murmur of a kiss of love ; 


The scarf, seven-tinted, which the hurricane 
Leaves in the clouds, a trophy to the sun ; 
The well remembered tone, 

Which, scarcely hoped for, meets the ear again ; 
The pure wish of a virgin heart; the beam 
That hovers o’er an infant’s earliest dream ; 


The voices of a distant choir; the sighs 
That fabulous Memnon breathed of yore to 
greet 
The coming dawn; the tone whose murmurs 
rise, 
Then, with a cadence tremulous, expire ; — 
These, and all else the spirit dreams of sweet, 
Are not so sweet as her sweet name, O lyre! 


Pronounce it very softly, like a prayer ; 
Yet be it heard, the burden of the song: 
Ah! let it be a sacred light to shine 
In the dim fane; the secret word, which there 
Trembles for ever on one faithful tongue, 
In the Jone, shadowy silence of the shrine. 


But O, or e’er, in words of flame, 
My Muse, unmindful, with the meaner crowd 
Of names, by worthless pride revealed aloud, 


By fond affection set apart, 
And hidden, like a treasure, in my heart 5 


My strain, soft-syllabled, should meet the ear 
Like sacred music heard upon the knees ; 
The air should vibrate to its harmonies, 

As if, light-hovering in the atmosphere, 

An angel, viewless to the mortal eye, 

With his fine pinions shook it, rustling nigh. 


THE VEIL. 


SISTER. 
Wuart ails, what ails you, brothers dear? 
Those knitted brows why cast ye down? 
Why gleams that light of deathly fear 
’Neath the dark shadows of your frown? 
Torn are your girdles’ crimson bands ; 
And thrice already have I seen, 
Half-drawn within your shuddering hands, 
Glitter your poniards’ naked sheen. 


ELDEST BROTHER. 
Sister, hath not to-day thy veil upraised been? 


SISTER, 
As I returned from the bath, — 
From the bath, brothers, I returned, — 
By the mosque led my homeward path, 
And fiercely down the hot noon burned ; 
In my uncovered palanquin, 
Safe from all eye of infidel, 
I gasped for air, —I dreamed no sin, — 
My veil a single instant fell. 


SECOND 
A man was passing? —in green caftan ? — 
sister, tell! 


BROTHER. 


SISTER. 
Yes, yes, — perhaps ; — but his bold eye 
Saw not the blush upon my cheek. — 
Why speak ye thus aside? O, why, 
Brothers, aside do ye thus speak ? 
Will ye my blood ? —O, hear me swear, 
He saw me not, — he could not see! 
Mercy ! — will ye refuse to spare 
Weak woman helpless on her knee? 


THIRD BROTHER. 
When sank the sun to-night, in robe of red 
was he! 


SISTER, 
Mercy ! — O, grant me, grant me grace !— 
O God! four poniards in my side ! — 
Ah! by your knees which I embrace ! — 
My veil! my veil of snowy pride !— 
Fly me not now ! —in blood I swim! 
Support, support my sinking head ! 
For o’er my eyes, now dark and dim, 
Brothers, the veil of death is spread. 


FOURTH BROTHER. 


I rs rir 
_ 495 | 


VICTOR HUGO. 


Should dare to blend the dear and honored | That veil, at least, is one thou ne’er shalt lift |; 


name, 


again ! ; 


lle  — eee 


THE DJINNS. 


Town, tower, 
Shore, deep, 
Where lower 
Cliffs steep; 
Waves gray, 
Where play 
Winds gay, — 
All sleep. 


Hark! a sound, 
Far and slight, 
Breathes around 
On the night : 
High and higher, 
Nigh and nigher, 
Like a fire 


Roaring bright. 


Now on ’t is sweeping 
With rattling beat, 
Like dwarf imp leaping 
In gallop fleet : 

He flies, he prances, 

In frolic fancies, 

On wave-crest dances 
With pattering feet. 


Hark, the rising swell, 
With each nearer burst ! 


ee 


Like the toll of bell 

Of a convent cursed ; 

Like the billowy roar 

On a storm-lashed shore, — 
Now hushed, now once more 
Maddening to its worst. 


O God! the deadly sound 

Of the Djinns’ fearful cry ! 
Quick, ’neath the spiral round 

Of the deep staircase fly ! 

See, see our lamplight fade ! 

And of the balustrade 

Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
Up to the ceiling high ! 


‘T is the Djinns’ wild streaming swarm 
$ Whistling in their tempest-flight ; 

Snap the tall yews ’neath the storm, 

Like a pine-flame erackling bright. 

Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd 

Through the heavens rushing loud, 

Like a livid thunder-cloud 

With its bolt of fiery night! 


Ha! they are on us, close without! 

Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! 

With hideous din the monster rout, 

Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! 

The loosened rafter overhead 

Trembles and bends like quivering reed ; 
Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 
As from its rusty hinge ’t would fly ! 


Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek 
The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed — 
O Heaven !— descends my lowly roof to seek: 


FRENCH POETRY. 


Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn 
From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, 
Up from its deep foundations it were torn 

To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost! 


O Prophet! if thy hand but now 

Save from these foul and hellish things, 
A pilgrim at thy shrine I ’ll bow, 

Laden with pious offerings. 

Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 

Stream on my faithful door in vain, 
Vainly upon my blackened pane 

Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings! 


They have passed !— and their wild legion 
Cease to thunder at my door ; 

Fleeting through night’s rayless region, 
Hither they return no more. 

Clanking chains and sounds of woe 

Fill the forests as they go; 

And the tall oaks cower low, 

Bent their flaming flight before. 


On! on! the storm of wings 
Bears far the fiery fear, 

Till scarce the breeze now brings 
Dim murmurings to the ear ; 
Like locusts’ humming hail, 

Or thrash of tiny flail 

Plied by the pattering hail 

On some old roof-tree near. 


Fainter now are borne 
Fitful mutterings still ; 
As, when Arab horn 
Swells its magic peal, 
Shoreward o’er the deep 
Fairy voices sweep, 
And the infant’s sleep 
Golden visions fill. 


Each deadly Djinn, 
Dark child of fright, 
Of death and sin, 
Speeds the wild flight. 
Hark, the dull moan, 
Like the deep tone 
Of ocean’s groan, 
Afar, by night ! 


More and more 
Fades it now, 

As on shore 
Ripple’s flow, — 
As the plaint 
Far and faint 

Of a saint 
Murmured low. 


Hark! hist! 
Around, 

I list ! 

The bounds 
Of space 
All trace | 
Efface 


Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. Of sound. | | 
SS SS ——_—- 


inna AS Oa dle Bsa a 


MOONLIGHT. 
Brigur shone the merry moonbeams dancing 
o’er the wave ; 
At the cool casement, to the evening breeze 
flung wide, 
Leans the sultana, and delights to watch the 
tide, 
With band of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets 
lave. 


From her hand as it falls, vibrates her light 
guitar ; — 
She listens, — hark, that sound that echoes 
dull and low! 
Is it the beat upon the Archipelago 
Of some deep galley’s oar, from Scio bound afar? 


Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by 
one, 
Cut the blue wave that o’er them breaks in 
liquid pearls ? 
Is if some hovering djinn with whistling 
scream that hurls 
Down to the deep from yon old tower each 
loosened stone ? 


Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio? 
’T is no dark cormorants upon the sea that 
float, — 
’'T is no dull plunge of stones, —no oars of 
Turkish boat 
With measured beat along the water sweeping 
slow. 


’T is heavy, sacks, borne each by voiceless 
eunuch slave ; 
And could you dare to sound the depth of 
yon dark tide, 
Something like human form would stir within 
its side. 
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o’er 
the wave. 


(ees 


THE SACK OF THE CITY. 


Tuy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to 
consume, . 
The roar of the fierce flames drowned even 
the shouts and shrieks; 
Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of 
bloody doom, 
Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above 
their wrecks. 


Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed 
on high, 
Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his 
streaming steel ; 
Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie, 
While gathering overhead the vultures scream 
and wheel. 


Died the pale mothers ;—~ and the virgins, from 
their arms, 
O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young 


years’ blight ; 
63 


lS NRA TS lft RES = 


VICTOR HUGO.—TASTU. 


With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quiv- | 
ering charms 
At our fleet coursers’ heels were dragged in 
mocking flight. 


Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of 
death ! 
Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all 
things must bend ! 
As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their 
accursed breath, — 
Vainly their sacred book for shield did they 
extend. 


Some infants yet survived, and the unsated 
steel 
Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of 
Christian hound. 
To kiss thy sandal’s foot, O King, thy people 
kneel, 
With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle 
bound. 


EXPECTATION. 


SauirReL, mount yon oak so high, 
To its twig that next the sky 

Bends and trembles as a flower! 
Strain, O stork, thy pinion well, — 
From thy nest ’neath old church-bell, 
Mount to yon tall citadel, 

And its tallest donjon tower ! 


To yon mountain, eagle old, 

Mount, whose brow so white and cold 
Kisses the last ray of even! 

And, O thou that lov’st to mark 

Morn’s first sunbeam pierce the dark, 

Mount, O, mount, thou joyous lark, 
Joyous lark, O, mount to heaven! 


' And now say, from topmost bough, 
Towering shaft, and peak of snow, 
And heaven’s arch, —- O, can ye see 
One white plume that like a star 
Streams along the plain afar, 
And a steed that from the war 
Bears my lover back to me? 


— 


i 


AMABLE TASTU. 


Mapame Tastv is one of the most pleasing 
and elegant of the living poets of France. Her 
style is rich and copious, and frequently sug- 
gests the impassioned manner and stately dic- 
tion of Mrs. Hemans. The pieces entitled “ La 
Mort” and “ L’Ange Gardien’’ are among her 
best and most vigorous productions. Her works 
are very popular. The sixth edition was pub- 
lished in 1838, with vignettes after the designs 


of Johannot. 
pp2 


Spree 


LEAVES OF THE WILLOW-TREE. 


THE air was pleasant; the last autumn day 
With its sad parting tore away 
The garland from the tree : 
I looked, and, lo! before me passed 
The sun, the autumn, life, at last, — 
One company! 


Sitting alone a mossy trunk beside, 
The presence of the evil days to hide 
From my heart I sought ; 
Upon the stream, amid my musing grief, 
Silently fell a withered leaf: 
I looked, and thought! 


Over my head an ancient willow-tree, — 
My hand, all indolent and listlessly, 
A green bough taketh ; 
The light leaves casting, one by one, 
I watch, as on the stream they run, 


The course each taketh. 


O folly of my fancy’s idle play ! 

I asked each broken fragment, on its way, 
Of future years: 

Linked to thy fortune, let me see 

What is my fate of life to be, — 
Gladness, or tears ? 


One moment only in my longing sight, 
Like a bark that glideth in the light 
Upon the main, 
The billow hurls it ’gainst the shore, 
The little leaf returns no more, — 
I wait in vain. 


Another leaf upon the stream I throw, 

Seeking my fond lute’s fate to know, 
If fair it be : 

Vainly I look for miracles to-day ; 

My oracle the wind hath borne away, 
And hope from me! 


Upon this water where my fortune dieth, 
My song upon the zephyr’s pinion flieth, 
The wild wind’s track : 
O, shall I cast a vow more dear 
Upon this faithless stream ? My hand, with 
fear, 
Hath started back ! 


My feeble heart its weakness knoweth well, 

Yet cannot banish that dark, gloomy spell, — 
That vague affricht: 

The sick heart heedeth each mysterious thing : 

About my soul the clouds are gathering, 
Blacker than night! 


The green bough falleth from my hands to 
earth : 
Mournfully I turned unto my hearth, 
Yet slow and ill; 
And in the night, around that willow-tree 
And its prophetic leaves my memory 
Did wander still. 


E FRENCH POETRY. 
eee eeneeeecarene es eee re NEA 


% 


DEATH, 


EMBARKING on the sea of life, 
The infant smiles at coming years ; 
But Death is there ! and, like a small, thin cloud, 
Upon the horizon’s edge appears, — 
Seen only by the mother’s eye, 
Which ever watcheth fearfully : 
He laugheth in his cradle of delight, 
His lovely morning thinketh not of night: 
Death is there! when in the hands of Time 
The sands of infancy are running by, 
The veiled phantom riseth up 
Unto youth’s affrighted eye ; 
In the bosom of his play, 
A sudden restlessness doth bring, 
Even from wisdom’s flowery way, 
His heart back to that fearful thing :. 
Slowly falleth back the veil from that dark 
visioning ! — 
There is an hour, when from our blinded youth 
The drunkenness of empty dreaming flies, — 
An hour of mourning, when the voice of grief 
Draweth the first tear from’ our shaded eyes: 
All earth unmantleth itself to sight: 
Death is there! but Death appeareth bright ; 
"T is a young angel, in his bearing sweet, 
With a light mourner-garment folded round ; 
With pale, pale flowers his shining head is 
crowned, 
And like a friend he cometh nigh to greet; 
No sound of fear is following his feet ; 
His pure hand presseth from the torch of life 
Its mortal brightness on the ground ; 
His face doth breathe a slumber upon pain, — 
He smiles, and pointeth to the héaven around. 
The daylight gleameth on our hearts forlorn, 
And, shaking off the vapors of the morn, 
The angel waxeth mightier, and proud 
From behind the fading cloud 
His forehead towereth up in scorn ! 
He strideth forward, and men’s spirits quake ! 
His mighty hand unfolds itself, to take 
The towers in his path, — the warrior in his mail ! 
Then it is that Death doth make the heart grow 
pale ; 

He cometh nigh, and towereth ceaselessly, — 
The soul beholds the boundary of its way ; 
Already ’neath the stooping shadow it depart- 

eth, 
The dying light of eve without another day! 
The weight of age upon our neck doth hang : 
Death is there! by years and sorrow bowed, 
While we are kneeling at his dreadful feet, 
His face is hidden in a cloud; 
But if the darkness from our sight the spectre 
hide, 
We feel its presence all around,—on every side. 


And I shall die! yea, time shall bring 
The sad and lonely day, — 
A day of silence, whence returns not 
The music of my bosom’s lay : 
Yea, when the joys the future keepeth 
Shall seek me, earth will know me not; 


er 


| A fire-palace she must find.» 


PD otic merieerl Ts 


A flower, a lonely flower, that dieth 
In some green woodland spot ; 

A little perfume, and a few pale leaves, 
To keep my memory unforgot. 


THE ECHO OF THE HARP. 


Poor poet-harp ! upon the wall suspended, 
Thou sleepest, in that silence long unbroke! 
The night-wind, with its cold and wandering 
breath, 
Upon thy chord a whisper hath awoke. 

So sleepeth in my breast this hidden lyre, 
Untouched save by the Muse’s hand alone ; 
Then, when a mighty word, a dream, a thought, 

A pilgrim fancy, lovely in its tone, 
Shaketh the flowers from its passing wing, 
It vibrates suddenly: the sound that leapeth 
Into the clouds my bosom doth not hear, — 
The echo of that sound alone it keepeth. 


——$o——— 


AUGUSTE BARBIER. 


Or this young poet, a writer in the “ Foreign 
Quarterly Review’? (No. LXI.) says,— “It 
was shortly after the Revolution of July, that 
Auguste Barbier, then a very young man, 
brought out the poem, which, his contempora- 
ries agree, at once raised him to the rank he 
has since held. This poem was ‘La Curée.’ 
He followed up his success by other volumes, 
which had also the seal of originality upon them. 
Barbier is not what is ordinarily called a de- 
scriptive poet, and seldom a poet of tenderness. 
His inspiration is not of the mountain or the 
forest ; the outward forms of the grand and the 
beautiful are not necessary to its awakening ; 
he has found it most in the thick of cities, — in 
truth, always. He is not a bard of soft num- 
bers, but to be noted chiefly for the characteris- 
tic boldness and manly vigor he has thrown 
into a form of verse not commonly deemed sus- 
ceptible of either. Always harmonious he is 
not, but for the most part he is something bet- 
ter. He selects the word of his thought; it 
veils slightly, or lays wholly bare; but it is 
truth which is below, and sometimes in her 
rudest nakedness. He isa child of the Paris 
he knows so well and has portrayed so truly.” 


THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON. 


Come, stoker, come, more coal, more fuel, heap 
Iron and copper at our need, — 
Come, your broad shovel and your long arms 
steep, 
Old Vulcan, in the forge you feed ! 
To your wide furnace be full portion thrown,— 
To bid her sluggish teeth to grind, 
Tear, and devour the weight which she doth 
own, 


a ea SS A Soa La inte A ta ie 


BARBIER. 


’'T is well, —’t is here! the flame, wide, wild, 
intensé, : 
Unsparing, and blood-colored, flung 
From the vault down, where the assaults com- 
mence 
With lingot up to lingot clung, 
And bounds and howlings of delirium born, — 
Lead, copper, iron, mingled well, 
All twisting, lengthening, and embraced, and 
torn, 
And tortured, like the danined in hell. 
The work is done! the spent flame burns no 
more, 
The furnace fires smoke and die, 
The iron flood boils over. Ope the door, 
And let the haughty one pass by ! 
Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course, 
A bound, — and, from your dwelling past, 
Dash forward, like a torrent from its source, 
A flame from the volcano cast ! 
To gulp your lava-waves earth’s jaws extend, 
Your fury in one mass fling forth, — 
In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend, 
An emperor return to earth! 
Again Narotzon, —’t is his form appears ! 
Hard soldier in unending quarrel, 
Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears, 
For only a few boughs of laurel! 


For mourning France it was a day of grief, 
When, down from its high station flung, 
His mighty statue, like some shameful thief, 
In coils of a vile rope was hung ; 
When we beheld at the grand column’s base, 
And o’er a shrieking cable bowed, 
The stranger’s strength that mighty bronze dis- 
place 
To hurrahs of. a foreign crowd ; 
When, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost 
thrown, 
The proud mass cast in monarch mould 
Made sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stone 
Its iron carcass sternly rolled. 
The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin, 
Ignoble fury in his glance, 
The emperor’s form the kennel’s filth within 
Drew after him, in face of France ! 
On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign, 
That hour like remorse must weigh 
On each French brow, —’t is the eternal stain, 
Which only death can wash away ! 
I saw, where palace-walls gave shade and ease, 
The wagons of the foreign force ; 
I saw them strip the bark which clothed our 
trees, 
To cast it to their hungry horse. 
I saw the Northman, with his savage lip, 
Bruising our flesh till black with gore, 
Our bread devour, — on our nostrils sip 
The air which was our own before ' 


In the abasement and the pain, — the weight 
Of outrages no words make known, — 

I charged one only being with my hate : 
Be thou accursed, Napoleon ! 


SSS ees 


499 | 


ne 


EPA in Ro Rare nd ne RINE an A ONE ath AT aa Stal Lal LT asthe te bee 
az 


O lank-haired Corsican, your France was fair, 
In the full sun of Messidor! 
She was a tameless and a rebel mare, 
Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore ; 
Wild steed with rustic flank ;— yet, while she 
trod, — 
Reeking with blood of royalty, 
But proud with strong foot striking the old 
sod, 
At last, and for the first time, free, — 
Never a hand, her virgin form passed o’er, 
Left blemish nor affront essayed ; 
And never her broad sides the saddle bore, 
Nor harness by the stranger made. 
A noble vagrant,—with coat smooth and bright, 
And nostril red, and action proud, — 
As high she reared, she did the world affright 
With neighings which rang long and loud. 


You came ; her mighty loins, her paces scanned, | 


Pliant and eager for the track ; 
Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand, 
You sprang all booted to her back. 
Then, as she loved the war’s exciting sound, 
The smell of powder and the drum, 
You gave her Earth for exercising ground, 
Bade Battles as her pastimes come ! 
Then, no repose for her, —no nights, no sleep! 
The air and toil for evermore ! 
And human forms like unto sand crushed deep, 
And blood which rose her chest before ! 
Through fifteen years her hard hoofs’ rapid 
course 
So ground the generations, 
And she passed smoking in her speed and 
force 
Over the breast of nations ; 
Till, —tired in ne’er earned goal to place vain 
trust, 
To tread a path ne’er left behind, 
To knead the universe and like a dust 
To uplift scattered human kind, — 
Feebly and worn, and gasping as she trode, 
Stumbling each step of her career, 
She craved for rest the Corsican who rode. 
But, torturer! you would not hear; 
You pressed her harder with your nervous 
thigh, 
You tightened more the goading bit, 
Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry, 
And brake her teeth in fury-fit. 
She rose, — but the strife came. 
fall 
Saved not the curb she could not know, — 
She went down, pillowed on the cannon-ball, 
And thou wert broken by the blow ! 


From farther 


Now born again, from depths where thou wert 
hurled, ; 

A radiant eagle dost thou rise ; 

Winging thy flight again to rule the world, 
Thine image reascends the skies. 

No longer now the robber of a crown, —. 
The insolent usurper, + he, 

With cushions of a throne, unpitying, down 
Who pressed the throat of Liberty, — 


FRENCH POETRY. | 


| Old slave of the Alliance, sad and lone, 

Who died upon a sombre rock, 

And France’s image until death dragged on 
For chain, beneath the stranger’s stroke, — 

Naporeon stands, unsullied by a stain ! 
Thanks to the flatterer’s tuneful race, 

The lying poets who ring praises vain, 
Has Ceesar ’mong the gods found place ! 

His image to the city-walls gives light; 
His name has made the city’s hum, — 

Still sounded ceaselessly, as through the fight 
It echoed farther than the drum. 

From the high suburbs, where the people crowd 
Doth Paris, an old pilgrim now, 

Each day descend to greet the pillar proud, 
And humble there his monarch brow ;— 

The arms encumbered with a mortal wreath, 
With flowers for that bronze’s pall, | 

(No mothers look on, as they pass beneath, — 
It grew beneath their tears so tall !) — 

In working-vest, in drunkenness of soul, 
Unto the fife’s and trumpet’s tone, 

Doth joyous Paris dance the Carmagnole 
Around the great Napoleon, 


? 


Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on! 
Mild Pastors of Mankind, away ! 

Sages, depart, as common brows have gone, 
Devoid of the immortal ray ! 

For vainly you make light the people’s chain ; 
And vainly, like a calm flock, come 

On your own footsteps, without sweat or pain 
The people, — treading towards their tomb. 

Soon as your star doth to its setting glide, 
And its last lustre shall be given 

By your quenched name,— upon the popular tide 
Scarce a faint furrow shall be riven. 

Pass, pass ye on! For you no statue high! 
Your names shall vanish from the horde: 

-Their memory is for those who lead to die 
Beneath the cannon and the sword ; 

Their love, for him. who on the humid field 
By thousands lays to rot their bones; 

For him, who bids them pyramids to build, — 
And bear upon their backs the stones! 


? 


i 


SONNET TO MADAME ROLAND. 


"T 1s well to hold in Good our faith entire, 
Rejecting doubt, refusing to despond, 
Believing, beneath skies of gloom and fire, 
In splendors of aérial worlds beyond : 
As erst, when gangs of infamy inhuman, 
At Freedom striking still through freemen’s 
lives, 
Her great support devoted to their knives, 
The Soul of Gironde, an inspired woman ! 


Serene of aspect, and unmoved of eye, 

Round the stern car which bare her on to die, 
A brutal mob applauded to the crime. 

But vain beside the pure the vile might be ! 
Her heart despaired not; and her lip sublime 

Blessed thee unto the last, O sainted Liberty ! 


a 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Lixe the French and Spanish, the Italian is 
a branch of that wide-spread and not very uni- 
form Romana Rustica, which was formed by 
the intermingling of barbaric words and idioms 
with the Lower Latinity of Italy, France, and 
Spain, and which prevailed in the earlier part 
of the Middle Ages, with many local forms and 
peculiarities, through a large portion of the 
South of Europe.* 


* In regard to the origin of the Italian language, three 
different theories have been brought forward by Italian 
writers. 

I. Leonardo Bruni, surnamed 7’ Aretino, from Arezzo, the 
place of his birth, a writer of the fifteenth century, and the 
first among his countrymen who treated of this subject, 
maintains that the Italian language is coeval with the 
Latin; that both were used at the same time in ancient 
Rome,—the Latin by the learned in their writings and 
public discourses, and the Italian by the populace, and in 
familiar conversation. Cardinal Bembo and Francesco Sa- 
verio Quadrio have since maintained the same opinion. 
In proof of their theory, these writers cite the language of 
the plebeian personages in the comedies of Plautus and 
Terence. There they find many words and expressions, 
which bear some resemblance to the modern Italian, and 
which have never gained admittance into the works of 
other classic writers ;.and from these, and some interchange 
of letters, such as the use of o for e, as in vostris for ves- 
tris, and v for 6, as in vellum for bellum, they, draw the 
conclusion, that, as the vulgar Latin was not classic Latin, 
it must have been Italian. 

II. The next theory is that of the Marquis Scipio Maffei. 
He rejects the opinion of Bruni and his disciples, because,’ 
in his own words, ‘‘ vulgarisms are not sufficient to form 
a language, nor to render it adequate to literary uses.’? He 
also rejects the general opinion, which we shall next con- 
sider, that the Italian was formed by the corruptions intro- 
duced into the Latin by the Northern conquerors ; asserting 
that ‘“‘neither the Lombards nor the Goths had any part 
whatever in the formation of the Italian language.’”’ The 
theory he advances is, that the Italian was formed from 
the gradual corruption of the classic Latin, without the 
intervention of any foreign influence; or, to use his own 
words, that ‘‘it originated from abandoning in common 
conversation the classic, grammatical, and correct Latin, 
and generally adopting, in its stead, a vulgar mode of 
speech, incorrect in structure and vicious in pronuncia- 
tion.”? In proof of this, he asserts, that many words and 
forms of expression, which are generally supposed to have 
been derived from the barbarians of the North, were in use 
in Italy before their invasions. ‘The examples he brings in 
evidence are taken chiefly from the writings of Aulus Gel- 
lius, Cassiodorus, Saint Jerome, and others, who wrote 
when the Latin had already lost much of its purity; and 
we believe it to bea fact very generally acknowledged by 
literary historians, that this first corruption of the Latin 
was produced by the crowds of strangers that filled the 
city of Rome, during the reigns of the foreign emperors. 
How much greater must that corruption have become, 
when the Goths and Lombards filled, not only the city of 
Rome, but the whole of Italy northward! But Maffei sup: 
poses that the numbers of the barbarian conquerors were 


The earliest well authenticated specimen of 
the Italian language belongs to the close of the 
twelfth century. It is the ‘‘ Canzone ” of Ciullo 
d’ Alcamo, by birth a Sicilian, and the earliest 
Italian poet whose name is on record. He 
wrote about the year 1197. The song consists 
of thirty-two stanzas, some of which are not 
entire, and is written in the form of a colloquy 
between the poet and a lady. The language is 
a rude Sicilian. dialect, and in many places un- 
intelligible. ; 

Before proceeding farther, it will be neces- 
sary to throw a passing glance upon the various 
dialects which divide the Italian language. 
These are all of greater antiquity than the 
classic Italian, the Parlare f[llustre, Cardinale, 
Aulico, e Cortigiano; and many of them dis- 
pute the honor of having given birth to it. 
Dante enumerates fifteen dialects existing in 
his day, and gives their names. He then ob- 
serves farther: “From this it appears, that 


too small to have produced any changes in the language of 
the conquered people. Can this be so? Muratori, in a 
dissertation upon this subject, says, that, in the Gothic 
invasion of the year 405, King Radagaiso entered Italy 
with an army of two hundred thousand men; and it is 
well known, that, at a later period, whole nations, rather 
than armies, followed the Lombard banners towards the 
South. 

Ill. The oldest and most generally received opinion in 
regard to the formation of the Italian language is that 
which is advocated by Muratori, Fontanini, Tiraboschi, 
Denina, Ginguené, Sismondi, and most of the philologers of 
the present day. All these writers recognize the immediate 
codperation of the Northern languages in the formation of 
the Italian. Their theory is briefly this. Before the North- 
ern invasions, the Latin language had lost much of its 
elegance even in the writings of the learned, and in the 
mouths of the illiterate had become exceedingly corrupt ; 
but still it was Latin. When these invasions took place, 
the conquerors found themselves under the necessity of 
learning, to a certain extent, the language of the conquered. 
This, however, was a task not easily accomplished by un- 
lettered men, who, in their efforts to speak the Latin, in- 
troduced a vicious pronunciation, and many of the familiar 
forms and idioms of their native languages. Thus the 
articles came into use; prepositions were substituted for 
the various terminations of the Latin declensions ; and the 
auxiliary verbs crept into the conjugations. Though the 
great mass of words remained virtually the same, yet most 
of them were more or less mutilated, and a great number 
of Gothic and Lombard words were naturalized in Italy, by 
giving them a Latin termination. To the conquered people, 
the gradual transition from one degree of corruption in 
their language to another still lower was both natural and 
easy ; and thus a conventional language was formed, which 
very naturally divided itself into numerous dialects, and 
was denominated Volgare in contradistinction to the Latin; 
for the Latin still continued to be the written language of 
the studious and the learned. 


SS 


LNT OL RPI EET 


the Italian language alone is divided into at 
least fourteen dialects, each of which is again 
subdivided into under-dialects, —as, the Tuscan 
into the Sienese and Aretine, the Lombard 
into the dialects of Ferrara and Piacenza; and 
even in the same city some varieties of lan- 
guage may be found. Henge, if we include the 
leading dialects of the Italian Volgare with the 
under-dialects and their subdivisions, the varie- 
ties of language common in this little corner of 
the world will amount to a thousand, and even 
more.’ * This diversity of the Italian dialects 
is doubtless to be attributed in a great measure 
to the varieties of dialect existing in the vulgar 
Latin at the time of the Northern invasions, 
and to similar varieties in the original dialects 
of the invaders themselves, who, it will be 
recollected, were of different tribes of the vast 
family of the Gotho-Germans, among which 
were the Ostrogoths, the Visigoths, the Lom- 
bards, the Gepidi, the Bulgari, the Sarmati, the 
Pannonii, the Suevi, and the Norici. Much, 
too, must be attributed to the accidental but 
inevitable changes wrought in a language by the 
gradual progress of its history, and the contin- 
gencies of time and place; and something to 
the new development of national character pro- 
duced by the admixture of the Roman and 
Teutonic races.t 

After enumerating the dialects which pre- 
vailed in his day, Dante goes into a discussion 
of the beauties and defects of some of the more 
prominent. He disposes of all these by observ- 
ing that neither of them is the Volgare Illustre, 
to discover which he had instituted the inquiry ; 
and hence draws the conclusion, “that the Vol- 
gare Ilustre, Cardinale, Aulico, e Cortigiano of 
Italy is the language common to all the Italian 
cities, but peculiar to none.’ In other words, 
it exists everywhere in parts, but nowhere as 
a whole, save in the pages of the classic writer. 
This opinion, however, has been warmly con- 
tested, and the champions of four or five parties 
have taken the field. The first, with Machia- 
velli and the host of the Florentine Academy 
at their head, have asserted the supremacy of 


a eeeeeeeeSSSSSSSsSsFS 

* De Vulgari Eloquentia. Cap. X. 

1 Each of the Italian cities is marked by peculiar traits 
of character in its inhabitants, which bear in the mouths 
of the populace some epithet of praise, or are the subject 
of gibe and ribaldry. For example, the Milanese have the 
sobriquet of buont buzziconi ; and in the following lines, 
quoted in Howell’s ‘‘Signorie of Venice,” p. 55, numerous 
epithets are applied. 

‘Fama tra noi; Roma pomposa e santa ; 
Venetia saggia, rica, signorile ; 
Napoli odorifera e gentile ; 
Fiorenza bella, tutto il mondo canta; 
Grande Milano in Italia si vanta ; 
Bologna grassa ; Ferrara civile ; 
Padoua dotta, e Bergamo sottile ; 
Genoa di superbia altiera pianta ; 
Verona degna, e Perugia sanguigna ; 
Brescia l’ armata, e Mantoa gloriosa ; 
Rimini buona, e Pistoia ferrigna ; 
Cremona antica, e Luca industriosa ; 
Furli 4izarro, e Ravenna benigna ;” &c. 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


the language of the city of Florence ; and, ac- 
tuated, it would seem, more by the zeal of local 
prejudice, than any generous feeling of national 
pride, have contended, that the classic language 
of that literature, in whose ample field the 
name of their whole country was already so 
proudly emblazoned, was the dialect of Flor- 
ence, and should be called, not Italian, not 
even Tuscan, — but Florentine. In the bitter- 
ness of dispute, Machiavelli exclaims against 
the author of the “* Divina Commedia,’—* In 
every thing he has brought infamy upon his 
country ; and now, even in her language, he 
would tear from her that reputation which he 
imagines his own writings have conferred upon 
her.” * There spake the politician, not the 
scholar. Machiavelli’s own writings are the 
best refutation of his theory. Bembo, though 
a Venetian, and Varchi, the historian of the 
wars of the Florentine Republic, were also ad- 
vocates of the same opinion. In humble imi- 
tation of these, some members of the Academy 
of the Intronati in Siena put in’ their claims in 
favor of their native Sienese; and one writer, 
at least, of Bologna asserted the supremacy of 
the Bolognese. Their pretensions, however, 
seem neither to have caused alarm, nor even to 
have excited attention. The champions of the 
name and glory of the Tuscan show a more 
liberal spirit, inasmuch as they extend to a 
whole province what the Florentine and Sie- 
nese academicians would have shut up within 
the walls of a single city. Among those who 
have enlisted’ beneath this banner are Dolce 
and Tolomei. But far more of the high and 
liberal spirit of the scholar is shown by those 
writers who do not arrogate to their own native 
city or province that glory which rightly be- 
longs to their whole country. Among those 
who assert the common right of all the provin- 
ces of Italy to share in the honor of having 
contributed- something to the classic Italian, 
and, consequently, say that it should bear the 
name of Italian, rather than that of Florentine, 
Sienese, or Tuscan, after Dante, are Castelvetro, 
Muzio, and Cesarotti. Now, as is almost uni- 
versally the case in literary warfare, an exclu- 
sive and uncompromising spirit has urged the 
combatants onward, and they have contended 
for victory rather than for truth, which seems 
to lie prostrate in the field midway between 
the contending parties, unseen and trampled 
upon by all. The facts which may be gathered 
from the contending arguments lead one to 
embrace the opinion, that the classic Italian is 
founded upon the Tuscan, but adorned and en- 
riched by words and idioms from all the prov- 
inces of Italy. In other words, each of the 
Italian dialects has contributed something to 
its formation, but most of all the Tuscan; and 
the language thus formed belongs not to a single 


* Discorso in cui si esamina se la lingua in cui scrissero 
Dante, il Boccaccio, e il Petrarca si debba chiamare Ita- 
liana, Toscana, o Fiorentina. MacHtavELui. Opere. Tomo 
XN, pearl, 


prac Ste en 


dietintndnniahatt 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 503 


city, nor a single province, but is the common 
possession of the whole of 
‘<T] bel paese 14 dove il si suona.”’ 

Such is the language, which in the fourteenth 
century was carried to its highest state of per- 
fection in the writings of Dante, Petrarch, and 
Boccaccio. Beneath their culture, the tree, 
whose far-spreading roots drew nourishment 
from the soil of every province, reared aloft its 
leafy branches to the sky, vocal with song, and 
proffered shelter to all who came to sit be- 
neath its shadow and listen to the laughing 
tale, the amorous lay, or the awful mysteries 
of another life. Dante Alighieri was born at 
Florence in 1265, and died at Ravenna in 
1321. As an author, he belongs to the four- 
teenth century. Boccaccio says, that he wrote 
in his native dialect; but it is conceded on all 
hands, and all his writings prove the fact, that 
he did not confine himself exclusively to any 
one dialect, but drew from all whatever they 
contained of force and beauty. In the words 
of Cesarotti, in his *¢ Essay on the Philosophy 
of Language,” “The genius of Dante was not 
the slave of his native idiom. His zeal was 
rather national than simply patriotic. The cre- 
ator of a philosophic language, he sacrifices all 
conventional elegance to expressiveness and 
force; and, far from flattering a particular dia- 
lect, lords it over the whole language, which 
he seems at times to rule with despotic sway.” 
In this way, Dante advanced the Italian to a 
high rank among the living languages of his 
age. Posterity has not withheld the honor, 
then bestowed upon him, of being the most 
perfect master of the vulgar tongue, that had 
appeared: and this seems to strengthen and 
establish the argument, that the Italian language 
consists of the gems of various dialects enchas- 
ed in the pure gold of the Tuscan. 

Francesco Petrarca was born in 1304, and 
died in 1374. During his residence at Vau- 
cluse, he made the Provencal language and the 
poetry of the Troubadours his study. From 
the former he enriched the vocabulary of his 
native tongue, and from the latter his own son- 
nets and canzoni ; but we are inclined to think, 
that, in both these, critics have much exaggerated 
the amount. Many Italian words supposed to 
have been introduced by him from the Proven- 
cal are of native origin; and in regard to the 
plagiarisms from Mossen Jordi, those cited are 
few in number, and may be in part accounted 
for by regarding them as simple coincidences 
of thought, or by referring them to that myste- 
rious principle of the mind, by which the ideas 
we have gathered from books or from those 
around us start up like the spontaneous off- 
spring of our own powers. But Petrarch’s res- 
idence at Avignon, and his study of the Trou- 
badours of Provence, were productive of more 
real advantages than these ; for there the poet 
caught the cunning art of his melodious peri- 
ods, and thus infused into his native language 
all the softness and flexibility of the dialect of 


the South of France. Dante had already given 
majesty and force to the Italian; Petrarch im- 
parted to it elegance and refinement. ‘To use 
the language of an Italian author, — “ He wrote 
with so great elegance, and such a delicate 
choice of words and phrases, that for the space 
of four hundred years no one has appeared who 
can boast of having carried to greater perfec- 
tion, or refined in any degree, the style of his 
«¢Canzoniere.’’ On the contrary, he stands so 
sovereign and unrivalled a master of this lan- 
guage, particularly in poetry, that perhaps no 
author exists in any tongue, whose expressions 
may be so freely and unhesitatingly imitated 
both in verse and in prose, as those of Petrarch, 
although he wrote four centuries ago, and the 
language has still continued a living language, 
subject to the continual changes of time.” * 
Giovanni Boccaccio was born in Paris, in 
1313, and died in 1375. Italian critics do not 
bestow the same- unqualified praise upon his 
language as upon that of Petrarch. They find 
him something old and musty; and complain 
of his Latin inversions, and that Ciceronian 
fulness of periods, which characterizes the style 
of the Tuscan novelist. And yet they all agree 
in awarding him the praise of being a strong and 
energetic writer, and are willing to confess, that, 
single-handed, he did for Italian prose what 
Dante and Petrarch had done for its poetry. 
«The ‘Decameron’ of Boccaccio,” says the au- 
thor just quoted, “is by far the best model of 
eloquence which Italian literature can boast. 
There are other writings whose style may be 
more elegant and pure, others more useful on 
account of a more obvious and perhaps greater 
abundance of important information ; but with- 
out reading the ‘ Decameron’ of Boccaccio, no 
one can know the true spirit of our language.” 
By such writers was the Italian language 
brought to its highest point of literary culture, 
before the close of the fourteenth century. Dur- 
ing the fifteenth, there is nothing remarkable in 
its history; but at the commencement of the 
sixteenth, a literary contest arose concerning it, 
which terminated in results most favorable to 
its prevalence and permanence. The writings 
of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio in the vulgar 
tongue produced so great a revolution in public 
taste, and raised the language in which they 
were composed into such repute, that those 
uninitiated in the mysteries of learning began 
to jeer the wisdom of the schools, and to point 
the finger of ridicule at all who walked be- 
fore them in the strange and antiquated garb 
of the Latin. The Academies, too, of which 
such a vast number saw the light at the com- 
mencement of the sixteenth century, began to 
occupy themselves seriously with the study of 
the vulgar tongue, examining the works of its 
classic writers in order to draw from them ex- 
amples and authorities whereon to rest its 
philosophical principles, and thus reducing to a 


* Denna. Saggio sopra la Letteratura Italiana. 


) 


regular system what had previously been the 
result of usage or caprice. This progress in 
the Italian Janguage excited the jealousy of all 
the devotees of the Latin, and they soon de- 
clared an exterminating warfare against the in- 
truding dialect. Romolo Amaseo, Professor of 
Eloquence and Belles-lettres at Bologna, was 
Peter-the-Hermit in this literary crusade; and 
in the year 1529, in the presence of the Em- 
peror Charles the Fifth and Pope Clement the 
Seventh, he harangued for two successive days 
against the Italian language, maintaining with 
eloquence that the Latin ought to reign su- 
preme, and the Italian be degraded to a patois, 
and confined to the peasant’s hut, and the 
shambles and market-places of the city. Many 
other learned men of the age followed him to 
the field, and contended with much zeal for 
the cause of the Latin; some even went so far 
as to wish the Italian banished entirely from 
the world. But stalwart champions were not 
wanting on the other side; and, to be brief, 
the impulse of public opinion soon swept away 
all opposition, and the popular cause was trium- 
phant.* The effect of this was to establish the 
Italian upon a firmer foundation. One noble 
monument of the literary labors of this century 
in behalf of the Italian is the ‘“ Vocabulary ” 
of the renowned Accademia della Crusca, which 
was first published in 1612, and has ever since 
remained the irrefragable code of pure and 
classic language. 

It is unnecessary to pursue the history of the 
Italian more in detail, or to bring it down to a 
later period. What changes have since taken 
place are the gradual and inevitable changes 
which time works in all things, and which are 
so picturesquely described by the Roman poet : 


“Ut sylve foliis pronos mutantur in annos, 
Prima cadunt; ita verborum vetus interit ztas, 
Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque. 


Multa renascentur que jam cecidere, cadentque 
Que nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus: 
Quem penes arbitrium est, et jus et norma loquendi.’’ 


The principal dialects of the Italian are: 
1. The Sicilian; 2. The Calabrian; 3. The 
Neapolitan ; 4. The Roman; 5. The Norcian; 
6. The Tuscan; 7. The Bolognese; 8. The 
Venetian; 9. The Friulian; 10. The Paduan; 
11. The Lombard; 12. The Milanese ; 13. The 
Bergamask; 14. The Piedmontese; 15. The 
Genoese ; 16. The Corsican; 17. The Sardin- 
ian. 

] Tur Sicizian. This was the first of the 
Italian dialects, which was converted to literary 
uses. So far, at least, it may be called the 
inother-tongue of the Italian Muse, as Sicily 
itself has often been called her cradle. It ex- 
hibits vestiges, more or less distinct, of all the 
ancient and successive lords of the island, 
Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantines, 
Arabs, Normans, Germans, French, and Span- 


—-.. 
* For a more detailed account of this literary contest, see 


Gincveng, Hist. Litt. d’Italie, Tom. VIL, pp. 387, et seq. 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
FO en ee Re NO 


iards. Its best form is that spoken at Palermo; 
though but slight local varieties are to be found 
in any part of the island. One circumstance, 
however, is worthy of remark ; which is, that 
in the towns and villages on the southern coast 
Arabic words predominate, whereas in all other 
parts the Greek and Proveneal prevail. 

Il. Tur Carasrian. The Calabrian dialect 
is a connecting link between the Sicilian and 
the Neapolitan. It possesses many of the pecu- 
liarities of each of these, and a few which are 
found in neither of them. 

III. Tar Neaporiran. The Neapolitan is one 
of the principal dialects of Italy. In its train it 
counts several subordinate dialects, such as the 
Pugliese or Apulian, the Sabine, and that of the 
island of Capri. Even in Naples, the different 
quarters of the city are marked by different 
jargons, though it is not to be supposed that 
these subdivisions exhibit any varieties so strik- 
ing as to diminish the universal sway of Pulci- 
nella, or to prevent that monarch’s voice from 
being understood in every nook and corner of 
his own peculiar dominion. 

IV. Tur Raman. The Roman is by far the 
most easily understood of all the Italian dia- 
lects, though at the same time neither the most 
beautiful nor the most cultivated. At its origin, 
it seems to have been the rudest of all.* But 
this was while the papal court resided at Avig- 
non. Its removal to‘ Rome produced, doubtless, 
a great change in the language of that city ; and 
the large concourse of strangers, and particu- 
larly of ecclesiastics, from all quarters of Italy, 
must have had a tendency to deprive it of local 
and provincial peculiarities, and to give it a 
character more conformable to the written lan- 
guage of Italy ; for all who resorted thither from 
the remoter towns and provinces would natu- 
rally, in their daily intercourse, divest their 
speech of the grosser peculiarities of their re- 
spective dialects. 

The Roman populace is divided into three 
distinct and well defined classes ;—the Mon- 
teggiani, who inhabit the region of the Es- 
quiline, Quirinal, and Capitoline hills; the 
Popolanti, who reside in the neighbourhood of 
the Porta del Popolo, both within and without 
the gate; and the Trasteverini, who live on 
the western bank of the Tiber, toward Saint 
Peter’s and the Janiculum. Each of these 
classes has some distinguishing peculiarities in 
its dialect, and to these three divisions of the 
linguaggio Romanesco may be added a fourth, 
that of the Ghetto, or Jewish quarter of Rome. 
This last is rather a dialect of a dialect, and 
may be found in most of the Italian cities. 

V. Tue Norcian. Proceeding northward 
from the Eternal City, the next dialect we en- 
counter is the Romana Rustica of Norcia; the 


* Dante, in his treatise ‘“De Vulgari Eloquentia,’” ob- 
serves; ‘“Dicimus ergo Romanorum non vulgare, sed po- 
tius tristiloquium, Italorum vulgarium omnium esse tur- 
pissimum ; nec mirum, cum etiam morum habituumque 
deformitate pre cunctis videantur fcetere.’’ 


Cap. XI. 


a a TL SDE 


dialect which Dante designates as the Spoletano. 
Norcia is a small city in the duchy of Spoleto, 
about fifty miles north-east from Rome. The 
language spoken there and in the surrounding 
country is called the dialetto Norcino. 

VI. Tur Tuscan. The dialect of Tuscany 
sends forth six distinct branches. Each of these 
divisions is marked by its peculiarities. They 
are: 1. Toscano Fiorentino, spoken at Florence ; 
2. Toscano Sanese, spoken at Siena ; 3. Toscano 
Pistojano, spoken at Pistoja; 4. Toscano Pisano, 
spoken at Pisa; 5. Toscano Lucchese, spoken at 
Lucca; 6. Toscano Aretino, spoken at Arezzo. 

In the Florentine dialect, a distinction is also 
made between the lingua Fiorentina di cittda, 
or the language of the lower classes in the city, 
and the lingua Fiorentina rustica di contado, or 
the language of the peasantry in the vicinity. 
The Florentine di cittd is also subdivided, with- 
in the very walls of the city, into the two dia- 
lects of the Mercato Vecchio and the Mercato 
Nuovo, and the riboboli or pithy sayings of either 
of these quarters of the city would not be fully 
understood and felt by the inhabitants of the 
other. 

The Toscano Sanese is the same, in the main, 
as the Florentine. 

Among all the Tuscan dialects, the Pistoian 
has the least of the disagreeable gorgia Fioren- 
tina, or guttural aspirate of Florence. 

The dialect of Pisa is more strongly marked 
with the Florentine aspirate. 

The dialect of Lucca has the reputation of 
being as pure as any, if not the purest, among 
the Tuscan dialects. Still, it is not without its 
vulgarisms and plebeian peculiarities. 

VII. Tur Botoanesz. The Bolognese is the 
most southern of the barsh Lombard dialects 
of the North of Italy. In this dialect, not only 
are the vowels cut off at the termination of 
words, but, generally speaking, a word loses all 
its vowels, saving that which bears the accent. 
Indeed, its elements may be considered — we 
use the forcible, but very inelegant, metaphor of 
a modern English traveller*™ —as “ Tuscan vo- 
cables gutted and trussed.” This condensation 
of words by the suppression of their vowels 
constitutes the chief peculiarity of the Bolog- 
nese dialect; as, for example, asn for asino ; 
lagrm for lagrime; de volt for delle volte; pr 
for per; st for questo ; bj for belli ; &e. 

Dante speaks in praise of the Bolognese dia- 
lect.t He calls it a beautiful language, ‘ad lau- 
dabilem suavitatem temperata.”’ 

VIII. Tur Venetian. The Venetian is the 
most beautiful of all the Italian dialects. Its 
pronunciation is remarkably soft and pleasant; 

the sound of the sch and tsch, so frequent in 
the Tuscan and Southern dialects, being chang- 
ed. into the softs and ts. This peculiarity of 
the Venetian, surrounded as it is by the harsh, 


* Letters from the North of Italy: addressed to Henry 
Hallam, Esq., Vol. II, p. 12. 
+ De Vulg. Eloq., Lib. I., Cap. XV. 
64 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
aa RES. 8 Alle lb tll Billi Ao STE A OS earn eeE DC SRR TRIE TT 


unmusical dialects of the North, can be attrib- 
uted to no other cause than the local situation 
of the city. Sheltered in the bosom of the 
Adriatic, it lay beyond the reach of those bar- 
barous hordes which ever and anon with deso- 
lating blast swept the North of Italy like a 
mountain wind. Hence, it grew up soft, flexi- 
ble, and melodious, and unencumbered with 
those harsh and barbarous sounds which so 
strikingly deform the neighbouring dialects of 
the North of Italy. ' 

IX. Tue Frivuian. The Friulian, or dzaletto 
Furlano, is the language of the province of 
Friuli, lying north of the Venetian Gulf, and 
bounded westward by the Trevisan, the Feltrin, 
and the Bellunese. It is a mixture of corrupt 
Italian with the Sclavonic and Southern French. 
The French admixture must have taken place 
in the fourteenth century, when Bertrand de 
Querci and Cardinal Philip went to that prov- 
ince with great numbers of Gascons and Pro- 
vencals.* The dialect is not uniform through- 
out the province of Friuli. 

X. Tus Papuan. The Paduan dialect, or 
lingua rustica Pavana, is a stepping-stone from 
the Venetian to the Lombard. It is composed 
of an admixture of these two, and is one of the 
most unintelligible of the Italian dialects. 

XI. Tur Lomparp. This is the dialect spo- 
ken in that fertile country watered by the river 
Po, and stretching westward from the Adige 
to the Bergamasco and the Milanese, and south- 
ward till it includes the duchies of Parma and 
Modena. The wide territory, over which this 
dialect may be said to sway the sceptre of the 
tongue, includes the cities of Mantua, Cremona, 
and Brescia on the northern side of the Po, and 
Ferrara, Modena, Piacenza, and Parma on the 
southern. Of course, no great uniformity of 
language prevails, inasmuch as each of these 
cities has its peculiarities and modifications of 
the general dialect. Besides, the line of de- 
marcation which separates one dialect from 
another can never be perfectly distinct and 
well defined. On the borders of each province, 
the various and fluctuating tides of language 
must meet and mingle. Thus, in its northern 
districts, the Lombard has much in common 
with the Bergamask and the Milanese, the 
Paduan connects it with the Venetian, and in 
Modena and Ferrara it is so closely connected 
with the Bolognese as to be almost the same 
language. 

XII. Tux Mizanzsx. Like all the rest of 
the Lombard dialects, the dialetto Milanese ex- 


* West of Friuli. in the southern portion of the Tyro- 
lese, two dialects of German origin are spoken. They are, 
the dialect of the Sette Comuni, spoken in the country 
round “Vicenza, and that of the J’redict Comuni in the 


neighbourhood of Verona. They are remnants of the Up- | |} 


per German, or Ober-Deutsch. As these are not dialects 
of the Italian language, though spoken within the territory 
of Italy, we shall not notice them more particularly, but 
refer the reader to Adelung’s ‘‘ Mithridates,”’ Vol. II., p. 215, 
for a more minute account of them. 


506 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Ee EEE eee 


hibits, in its mutilated syllables and harsh con- 

sonant terminations, strong marks of the march 
| and empire of Northern invaders. It is di- 
_ vided into a city and a country dialect. Near 
' the Lago di Lugano and the Lago di Como 
| this dialect is more unintelligible than else- 
| where, on accuunt of the intercourse of the 
| people with their German neighbours, and the 
necessary admixture of their language; and 
westward, upon the shores of the Lago Maggi- 
ore, the Milanese passes gradually into the 
|| Piedmontese. 
| XIII. Tur Bercamasx. This is the dialect 
|| of the province of Bergamasco, lying north-east 
|| of the Milanese, among the lakes and moun- 
tains which 
Italy. It is the harshest of all the Italian dia- 
lects, and the most remarkable for its contrac- 
tions and mutilations. 

XIV. Tue Pirpmonress. This dialect very 
clearly declares the neighbourhood of the French 
frontier. In the province of Piedmont, two 
great branches of the old Romance, the French 
and Italian, may be said to meet and mingle ; 
or rather, amid its snowy hills to have had a 
common fountain, the one flowing westward to 
the plains of France, and the other pouring its 


the Alps. 

XV. Tur Genoxsr. The dialect of Genoa 
is called the dialetto Zeneize, from Zena, the 
name of the city in the popular tongue. Like 
the Piedmontese, it possesses much in common 
with the French. 

This dialect has several subdivisions, both 
within the city of Genoa and in the surround- 
ing country. Westward, towards the French 
frontier, it assimilates itself more and more to 
the French; and towards the south and east, 
becomes more nearly allied to the Italian. 

Along the seaboard, in Mentone and Mo- 
naco, a kind of frontier dialect is spoken. It 
is a mixture of Genoese, Piedmontese, and Pro- 
vencal ; the first two predominating. Many 
Spanish words are also intermingled, Monaco 


having formerly been under the government of 


Spain. Though Monaco and Mentone are but 
a few miles distant from each other, some mark- 
ed peculiarities of dialect may be observed in 
the two places. At Nice the Provengal is spok- 
en, though mixed with many Italian words. 
XVI. Tue Corsican. The dialect of the 
island of Corsica seems never to have attract- 
ed very strongly the attention of Italian schol- 
ars. Travellers have seldom penetrated beyond 
the cities of the seashore, so that no accounts 
are given of the dialect of the Interior; and as 
literary curiosity has never been excited upon 
the subject, no work, we believe, has begn pub- 
lished in the dialect, or dialects, of the island. 
Denina says, in his “Clef des Langues,” that 
the language of the higher classes bears a strong- 
er resemblance to the Tuscan than do the dia- 
| lects of the other islands of the Gulf of Genoa, 
commerce opened a 


| 


mark the northern boundary of 


tributary stream down the southern declivity of 


constant intercourse between Leghorn and the 
Corsican seaboard. Some remarks upon this 
dialect may be found in the « Voyage de Lyco- 
méde en Corse.”’ 

XVII. Tur Sarpinian. The island of Sar- 
dinia has been inhabited and governed by a va- 
rious succession of colonists. Huns, Greeks, 
Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, 
Ostrogoths, Lombards, Franks, Arabians, Pisans, 
and Aragonese,—all these have at various 
epochs dwelt within its territory. Hence the 
variety of the dialects which checker the lan- 
guage of the island, or rather the variety of lan- 
guages there spoken. The first and principal 
division of these is into the lingua Sarda, the 
vernacular Sardinian, and the lingue Forestiert, 
or the foreign dialects spoken in some parts of 
the island. Each of these has its subdivisions. 

1. The lingua Sarda is divided into the dia- 
letto Campidanese and the dialetto Logodoro, 
and contains a great number of Greek, French, 
German, and Spanish words. 

The dialetto Campidanese is the language 
spoken in the southern part of the island. On 
the eastern shore it has much in common with 
the Sicilian, and on the western with the Cata- 
Jonian dialect of Spain. 

The dialetto Logodoro is the language of the 
North of Sardinia, though it does not universal- 
ly prevail there. It partakes of the various pe- 
culiarities which we have mentioned as helong- 
ing to the Campidanese, and the main distinc- 
tion between these two dialects seems to be, 
that the Logodoro is not so uniform in the use 
of these peculiarities as the Campidanese. This, 
without doubt, must be attributed to the influ- 
ence of the Tuscan, which is spoken in many 
of the principal cities and villages of the North. 
Indeed, the dialetto Logodoro seems to be a mix- 
ture of the Tuscan and Campidanese. 

2. Lingue Forestieri of Sardinia. The Cat- 
alonian and the Tuscan are the two principal 
foreign dialects spoken in the island. As dia- 
lects, these are confined to the North, though 
their influence seems to extend through the 
whole country. The Catalonian is spoken in 
the city of Alghieri, which is a Spanish colony 
on the western coast. The Tuscan has a more 
extended sway, and is the language of Sassari, 
Castel-Sardo, Tempio, and the surrounding 
country ; though, of course, with many local 
modifications.* 

The history of Italian poetry may be con- 
veniently divided into four periods. JI. From 
1200 to 1400. II. From 1400 to 1500. III. 
From 1500 to 1600. IV. From 1600 to the 
present time. 

I, From 1200 to 1400. The earliest of the 
Italian poets is Ciullo d’ Alcamo, the Sicilian, 
who flourished at the close of the twelfth cen- 
tury, about 1197. From his day to that of 


a EE ee 


* For a more elaborate account of the Italian dialects 
and their literature, see ‘‘North American Review,” for 
October, 1832. 


I us formerly a very lively 


| 


a 


Dante, flourished some thirty rhyme-smiths, 
among whom Brunetto Latini wrote the most, 
and Beato Benedetti, Guido Guinicelli, and Fra 
Guittone d@’ Arezzo the best. Beato Benedetti 
is the reputed author of the beautiful Latin 
hymn of ‘“ Stabat Mater’’; and Guido Guini- 
celli is the bard whom Dante eulogizes as the 
writer of 
“Those dulcet lays, all which, as long 

As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, 

Shall make us love the very ink that wrote them.” 

The age of Dante was an age of violence, 
when the law of force prevailed. The Floren- 
tines were a heroic people. They declared 
war by sending a bloody glove to their enemy ; 
and the onset of battle was sounded, not by 
the blast of trumpets, but by the ringing of a 
great bell, which was wheeled about the field. 
Florence was then a republic. So were all the 
neighbouring states. The spirit of liberty was 
wild, not easily tamed, not easily subjected to 
laws. Amid civil discords, family feuds, tavern 
quarrels, street broils, and the disaffection of 
the poor towards the rich, it was in vain for 
Fra Giovanni to preach the ‘“ Kiss of Peace.” 
Buondelmonte was dragged from his horse and 
murdered at the base of Mars’s statue, in broad 
day; Ricoverino de’ Cerchi had his nose cut 
off in a ball-room; and the exile of Dante 
can be traced back to a drunken quarrel be- 
tween Godfrey Cancellieri and his cousin Ama- 
doro in a tavern at Pistoja. 

The pride of human intellect in that age was 
displayed in the scholastic philosophy. Peter 
Lombard, the Wise Master of Sentences, had 
been mouldering in his grave just one hundred 
years when Dante was born; and the mystic 
poet was still a child, when the Angelic Doctor, 
Thomas Aquinas, — called by his schoolmates, 
at Cologne, the Dumb Ox, — having at length 
fulfilled the prophecy of his master, Albertus 
Magnus, and given “such a bellow in learning 
as was heard all over the world,” had fallen 
asleep in the Cistercian convent at Terracina, 
saying, ‘¢ This is my rest for ages without end.” 
These great masters were gone ; but others had 
arisen to take their places, and to teach that the 
true religion is the true philosophy, and the true 
philosophy the true religion. Among these 
were Henry of Géthils, the Doctor Solemnis, 
and Richard of Middletown, the Doctor Solidus, 
and Giles of Cologne, the Doctor Fundatissi- 
mus, and John Duns Scotus, the Doctor Subtilis, 
and founder of the Formalists, —who taught that 
the end of philosophy is, to find out the quid- 
dity of things, — that every thing has a kind of 
quiddity or quidditive existence, — and that noth- 
ingness is divided into absolute nothingness, 
which has no quiddity or thingness, and rela- 
tive nothingness, which has no existence out of 
the understanding. Side by side with these 
stood Raymond Lully, the Doctor Illuminatus, 
and Francis of Mayence, the Magister Acutus 
Abstractionum, and William Durand, the Doctor 
Resolutissimus, and Walter Burleigh, the Doctor 


a an ee 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 507 


Planus et Perspicuus, and William Occam, the 
Doctor Invincibilis, Singularis, et Venerabilis. 
These were men of acute and masculine mtel- 
lect: 

For in those dark and iron days of old, 

Arose, amid the pigmies of their age, 
Minds of a massive and gigantic mould, 
) Whom we must measure as the Cretan sage 
Measured the pyramids of ages past ; — 
By the far-reaching shadows that they cast. 


These philosophic studies are here alluded to 
because they exercised a powerful influence 
upon the poetry of Dante and of his age. As 
we look back upon that age with reference 
to the theme before us, from the confused group- 
ing of history a few figures stand forth in strong- 
er light and shade. The first is a tall, thin 
personage, clothed in black. His face is that 
of a scholar; his manners are grave and mod- 
est; he has a pleasant, humorous mouth, and a 
jesting eye, which somewhat temper his modest 
gravity. In his whole appearance there is a 
strange mixture of the schoolmaster, philoso- 
pher, and notary public. He has been a trav- 
eller, and a soldier, and the author of much 
rhyme. He fought in the campaign of Siena, 
and, after the war, wrote with his own hand 
the treaty of peace between the two republics, 
which, it is to be hoped, was better written 
than his rhymes. This is Brunetto Latini, the 
instructer of Dante in his youth,—who rewards 
his services with a place in the ‘ Inferno,’’ — 
grammarian, theologian, politician, poet, and 
Grand-Master of Rhetoric in Florence. His 
principal work is the poem of the ‘¢ Tesoro,” 
which he wrote in France and in the French 
language. Itisa kind of doggerel encyclopedia, 
containing, among other matters, the History 
of the Old and New Testament, to which is 
appended an abridgment of Pliny’s ‘ Natural 
History,” the “Ethics” of Aristotle, and a 
treatise on the Virtues and Vices; together 
with the Art of Speaking with Propriety, and 
the Manner of Governing the Republic! He 
wrote, likewise, a poem called the ‘* Tesoret- 
to,’ —a small treasury of moral precepts ; 
also a satirical poem called “ Il Pataffio,” in the 
vulgar Florentine street-jargon, very difficult of 
comprehension. 

He is followed by a nobler figure; a youth 
of beautiful but melancholy countenance, cour- 
teous in manner, yet proud and solitary. He 
seems lost in thought, and is much alone among 
the old tombs,— the marble sepulchres about 
the church of Saint John. In vain do Betto 
Bruneleschi and his boon companions come 
dashing up on horseback, and make a jest of 
his dreams and reveries. He turns away and 
disappears among the tombs. This is Guido 
Cavaléanti, the bosom friend of Dante, and no 
mean poet. But he loves the dreams of phi- 
losophy better than -the dreams of poetry, and 
the popular belief is, that all his solitary studies 
and meditations have no other object than to 


prove that there is no God. It is of this Guido | 


foetal 


SSS ee 


ee 


| 


508 
that the poet speaks in the tenth canto of the 
“Inferno,”’ where a form looks out of its fiery 
sepulchre and asks, “ Where is my son? and 
why is he not with thee?” 

And now, attended by two courtly dames, a 
maiden clad in white approaches. She is veil- 
ed; but from beneath the veil look forth soft 
emerald eyes, —eyes of the color of the sea.* 
Well might it be said of her, 


** An eagle 
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye.” 


So beautiful is she, that many in the crowd 
exclaim, as she passes, “‘ This is no mortal, but 
one of God’s angels.”’ And this is Beatrice ; 
and she walks all crowned and garmented with 
humility, showing no vain-glory of that which 
she beholds and ,hears.t 

The figure that advances to meet her is that 
of a young man of middle stature, with a dark, 
melancholy, thoughtful face. His eyes are 
large, his nose aquiline, his lower lip project- 
ing, his hair and beard thick, black, and curled. 
His step is quiet and solemn. He is clothed 
in long, flowing garments, and wears sandals 
on his feet, and on his head a cap, from which 
two broad bands descend upon the shoulders. 
This is Dante. 

But the crowd throng around us, and we 
behold but indistinctly the shadowy images of 
Guido Novello, and Francesco Malaspina, and 
the great Lombard, Can Grande della Scala, 
and Giano della Bella, the friend of the Flo- 
rentine populace ; and the superb Philippo Ar- 
genti, his horse’s hoofs shod with silver; and 
Corso Donati, the proud, bad man, but valiant 
cavalier and eloquent orator, dragged at his 
horse’s heels, and murdered at the gate of a 
convent; and Monferrato, exposed, like a wild 
beast, in a wooden cage in the market-place, 
and dying broken-hearted with rage and hu- 
miliation. 

After Dante, the principal poets of this pe- 
riod are Giovanni Boccaccio, whose prose is 
more splendid than his verse, and Francesco 
Petrarca, of whom Chaucer says, 


‘His rhetoric sweet 
Enlumined all Italy of poetry.”’ 


II. From 1400 to 1500. This period em- 
braces the age of Lorenzo de’ Medici, surnamed 
the Magnificent. He was the friend of poets, 
and himself a poet of no mean pretension. 
Speaking of him and his times, Macaulay says: t 

“« Knowledge and public prosperity continued 
to advance together. Both attained their me- 
ridian in the age of Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
We cannot refrain from quoting the splendid 
passage in which the Tuscan Thucydides de- 


* Erano i suoi occhi d’ un turchino verdiccio, simile a 
quel del mare.— Lani. Annotazioni. 

t Ella, coronata e vestita d’ umilta, s’ andava, nulla glo- 
ria mostrando di cid ch’ ella vedeva ed udiva.—Danrs, Vi: 
ta Nuova. 

! Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, by T. B. Macaunay 


| (Philadelphia, 1843, 4 vols., 12mo.), Vol. I., p. 77. 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


scribes the state of Italy at that period :— 
‘Restored to supreme peace and tranquillity, 
cultivated no less in her most mountainous and 
sterile places than in her plains and more fer- 
tile regions, and subject to no other empire 
than her own, not only was she most abundant 
in inhabitants and wealth, but, in the highest 
degree illustrious by the magnificence of many 
princes, by the splendor of many most noble and 
beautiful cities, and by the seat and majesty of 
religion, she flourished with men preéminent in 
the administration of public affairs, and with 
geniuses skilled in all the sciences, and in every 
elegant and useful art.’* When we peruse this 
just and splendid description, we can scarcely 
persuade ourselves that we are reading of times 
in which the annals of England and France 
present us only with a frightful spectacle of 
poverty, barbarity, and ignorance. From the 
oppressions of illiterate masters, and the suffer- 
ings of a brutalized peasantry, it is delightful to 
turn to the opulent and enlightened States of 
Italy, —to the vast and magnificent cities, the 
ports, the arsenals, the villas, the museums, the 
libraries, the marts filled with every article of 
comfort or luxury, the manufactories swarming 
with artisans, the Apennines covered with rich 
cultivation up to their very summits, the Po 
wafting the harvests of Lombardy to the grana- 
ries of Venice, and carrying back the silks of 
Bengal and the furs of Siberia to the palaces of 
Milan. With peculiar pleasure every culti- 
vated mind must repose on the fair, the happy, 
the glorious Florence, —on the halls which 
rung with the mirth of Pulci, —the cell where 
twinkled the midnight lamp of Politian, — the 
statues on which the young eye of Michel 
Angelo glared with the frenzy of a kindred 
inspiration, —the gardens in which Lorenzo 
meditated some sparkling song for the May-day 
dance of the Etrurian virgins. Alas for the 
beautiful city! Alas for the wit and the learn- 
ing, the genius and the love! 


‘*« Le donne e i cavalier, gli affanni e gli agi, 
Che ne ’nvogliava amore e curtesia, 
La dove i cuor son fatti si malvagi.’ ” f 


The principal poets of this period are Angelo 
Poliziano, author of the “ Orfeo,” the earliest 
classic drama of the Italians; and Luigi Pulci, 
author of the ‘* Morgante Maggiore,” the first of 
that series of romantic fictions, —those mag- 
nanime menzogne, —of which Bojardo’s * Or- 
lando Innamorato ” was the second, and which 
in the following century made Jtalian song so 
illustrious. To these may be added Andrea del 
Basso, a priest of Ferrara, and author of a re- 
markable “Ode to a Dead Body,’ which will 
be found among our extracts. 

To this period belongs the origin of the Ital- 
ian drama. The dark night which descended 
upon the Roman empire enveloped the theatre 


* GuicciaRDINI. Lib. IT. 
t Dante. Purgatorio, XIV. 


EET eT 


2 ——— 


— 


ITALIAN LANGU 


with its shadows; and it is only in times com- 
paratively modern that we are able to discern 
with distinctness the reviving drama of Italy. 
There is the testimony of Cassiodorus, that pan- 
tomimic plays were performed as early as the 
sixth century,* and it appears that from this 
time they flourished among the people of 
Italy. These spectacles, however, required 
and received but slight support from literature. 
Afterwards, in the thirteenth century, Thomas 
Aquinas. speaks of the comedy of his times as 
having already subsisted many centuries. To 
him, who was revered as the Angel of the 
Schools, and the arbiter in difficult questions of 
duty, was submitted.the doubt, whether the art 
of the theatre could be practised without sin. 
The Angelic Doctor replied, that it was to be 
regarded as a pleasure necessary for the recrea- 
tion of the life of man, due regard being had 
to circumstances of place, time, and person. 

It seems that the pantomimic representations 
in the earliest days were confined to profane 
subjects; but, in process of time, things spirit- 
ual were brought on the stage, and the churches 
became the theatres. Finally, the archbish- 
op of Florence, Antoninus, at the same time 
that he affirmed the opinion of Aquinas, add- 
ed this decree: ‘¢ Whereas the representations 
which are now made of things spiritual are 
mixed with buffooneries, with ludicrous words 
and conduct, and with masks; therefore they 
ought no longer to be performed in the church- 
es, nor by the clergy in any manner.” 

The earliest specimens of dramatic composi- 


tion in Italy, which have been preserved, are 
in the Latin tongue. In the beginning of the 
fourteenth century, the historian Albertino Mus- 
sato wrote two tragedies in Latin, after the 
manner of Seneca. They are divided into 
five acts, with a chorus at the end of each act. 
In the same century, we find, also, a tragedy 
by Giovanni Manzoni, and some comedies by 
Petrarch, both of whom scorned the vulgar 
|| tongue, though the latter owes his immortality 
to his Italian poems. Still later, among many 


other plays in the Latin language, we find a 
tragedy by Bernardino, on the Passion of Christ, 
which was dedicated to Pope Sixtus the Fourth. 
This use of the language and form of antiquity 
resembled the practice of the Catholic Church, 
which melted the statues of the heathen gods to 
fashion the images of Christian saints. 

The Latin continued to be exclusively used 
in dramatic poetry till after the. middle of the 
fifteenth century. Only at this late period, 
more than a hundred and fifty years after the 
|| verse of Dante, more than a hundred years 
|| after the prose of Boccaccio had refined and 
| matured the Italian tongue, it was thought wor- 
|| thy to be employed in the drama. Quadrio, on 
the authority of other writers, mentions the 
|| Floriana,’ a comedy, or farce, in terza rima, 
by an unknown author, who was supposed to 


fo 


* Quaprio. Lib. 2, Dist. 3, Cap. 2. 


AGE 


AND POETRY. 


have lived at the beginning of the fifteenth 
century, or, perhaps, even earlier; but this play 
was not printed till 1523, and Tiraboschi, whose 
authority in questions of Italian letters is almost 
supreme, does not seem to consider it so ancient 
as was supposed by others. To the rich and 
precocious genius of Angelo Poliziano- belongs 
the honor of producing the first Italian play 
which can be considered as entitled to a place 
in the regular drama. his is the ** Orfeo,” 
which, though sometimes regarded as a pastoral 
fable, and partaking somewhat of this charac- 
ter, may, on account of its action, and the tragic 
nature of its close, be treated as of the legiti- 
mate drama. It is difficult to determine the 
exact date when the Muse of Tragedy first lis- 
tened to the sweet Italian words of this piece. 
It is supposed that it was represented in 1472, 
at Mantua, when the Cardinal Francesco Gon- 
zaga made a solemn entry into his native city. 
At this time Poliziano was only eighteen years 
old. At this tender age he opened for his coun- 
try the fountain of new delights, whose waters 
in the next century refreshed the whole land.* 

Satisfied with the brilliant success of his 
«“ Orfeo’ and his ‘Stanze,’’ Poliziano ceased 
to write in his native tongue. In so doing, he 
followed the suggestions of the age in which he 
lived, which was overshadowed still by the 
mighty spirit of antiquity. His genius was now 
applied to the cultivation of the Latin language, 
which he employed in the copious works of his 
maturer life. In the excess of his care, he re- 
fused to read the Bible, in the Latin Vulgate, 
‘for fear of spoiling his style”? ; on which our 
English Doctor South has remarked, that ‘“ he 
showed himself no, less a blockhead than an in- 
fidel.”’ It has, indeed, been insinuated, that the 
Latin Muses were reserved and coy to one who 
had obtained the favor of their sisters at so 
early an age. But a Latin poem, to which he 
gave the title of ‘‘ Rusticus,” is pronounced by 
Mr. Roscoet “inferior in its kind only to the 
‘ Georgics’ of Virgil’’; and he is said, by the 
same high authority, ‘* to approach nearer to the 
standard of the ancients than any man of his 
time.” 

Among the writers of this age, whose genius 
may still be recognized in the unnatural trans- 
formation to which they voluntarily subjected 
themselves, are Landino, Naldo Naldio, Ugolino 
Verini, Michel Verini, Pontano, and Sannazza- 
ro, the last of whom found repose for his mortal 
remains in the classic Parthenope, near the 
tomb of Virgil, whom he had revered as his 
master in song. Vain effort to revive the extin- 
guished glories of a language which has ceased 
to be animated by the breath of living men! 


* On this subject see Rrcconont, Histoire du Théatre 
Italien, depuis la décadence de la Comédie Latine ; also, 
Histoire du ThéAtre Italien, depuis son Rétablissement en 
France, 7 vols., Paris, 1769, 12mo. ; and Sr@NORELLI, Storia 
Critica de’ Teatri Antichi e Moderni, 6 vols., Napoli, 1787 
-— 90, 8vo. 
+ Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Vol. I., Ch. 8, p. 175, 

aa2 


509 


| 


510 


It is not among the powers of genius, magical 
though they be, to infuse into a dead tongue 
the Promethean heat which shall its former light 
' relume! 

III. From 1500 to 1600. This is a golden 
period in the history of Italian poetry, and sec- 
ond only to the age of Dante. It is true, there 
appeared in it no one production that can bear 
a moment’s comparison with 

‘The Poem Sacred, 

To which both heaven and earth have set their hands ne 
but it produced more great poems than any 
other period. Then in the halls of Este Ariosto 
sang, in copious and flowing numbers, the beau- 
ty of Angelica, and Orlando’s madness; then 
Berni told his tale of love to the illustrious Ga- 
briella Gonzaga, and Vittoria Colonna, the glo- 
rious Marchesa di Pescara, wrapped in her sable 
gown, and lamenting ‘the naked spirit and little 
earth’? of him who was her husband; then 
Guarini found in princes’ courts how cold may 
| be “the best enamel of nobility ’’?; then Tas- 

so’s songs resounded in the palaces of Ferra- 
ra, and his groans in its dungeons ; then Michel 
Angelo crowded a long life, embracing three 
generations of men, with noble works in sculp- 
ture, in painting, and in song, so that Ariosto 
fitly called him, 

“Michel, pit ch’ Angelo divino”’; 

and then, too, Machiavelli, whose soul was 
fretted by the cares of state and by the burdens 
of embassies, and who was forced to “eat his 
heart’ through comfortless despairs”’ of poverty 
and neglect, enriched his native Tuscan with 
some of its most nervous prose, and diverted 
himself with the Muses of Poetry and the Drama. 

In the brilliant troop of Italian poets which 
swarmed through this period, these names are 
the most conspicuous. Separated from all these 
by her sex, and superior to most of them, in the 
beauty and elevation of her genius, stands Vit- 
toria Colonna, faithful in an age of falsehood, 
pure in an age of licentiousness, the greatest po- 
etess of Italy, to whom her contemporaries gave, 
by acclamation, the title of Divine. Other dis- 
tinguished authors of the time will be noticed 
hereafter, in connection with extracts from their 
writings. 

The Italian had now arrived at its highest 
excellence. It had become familiar to the peo- 
ple through the works of poets, of historians, 
and philosophers; and was employed by the 
learned in writings, which, in another age, would 
have been locked in a dead tongue. Galileo, 
whose glorious career extends into the next 
century, being asked by what means he had ac. 
quired the remarkable talent of giving perspicu- 
ity and grace to his philosophical writings, re- 
ferred it to the continual study of Ariosto. But 
while the native language obtained such favor, 


EO es FN, ty 


the Latin continued during the early part of 


this century to hold with it a divided empire 


over the realm of poetry. The great poets of 


the Augustan age were thought to be revived in 


a a a a nn is oA TA aces hoon de ee Ee a ve 


Parpcmpevsadoosnmennerene ee ee eee 
foo nine sitvernnarareve nn Mite. eng, 


ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


aor SUEUR aon inescrarermerraemcee ee eC LURE EN 


the productions of Fracastoro, Vida, Naugerio, 
and Flaminio, who have been vaunted as the 
rivals of Virgil, of Ovid, and of Catullus. The 
admiration which they received in their own 
age has ceased, and the attention of the curious 
scholar is arrested only for a moment by the 
inanimate beauty of their verse : — 


“So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
We start, for soul is wanting there.” 


IV. From 1600 to the present time. To the 
golden age of the cinquecentisti, succeeded the 
affected productions of the seicentistt, which 
usher in the present period. The Italian mind, 
contented or weary with the triumphs of the 
previous century, now found its chief expression 
in odes and sonnets, marked by conceits and 
exaggerated refinements of style. The leader 
in this corruption of the national taste was Gi- 
ambattista Marini, whose acknowledged genius 
increased the influence of his vicious style. 
The greatest poetic names of this period are Ma- 
rini, Chiabrera, Redi, Filicaja, Maffei, Goldoni, 
Gozzi, Metastasio, Alfieri, Monti, Pindemonte, 
Foscolo, Manzoni, Parini, Niccolini, Pellico, 
Grossi, and Berchet. Mightiest among these 
stands Alfieri, a glorious example of the power 
of a strong will and a fixed purpose. He is the 
last great sign in that celestial zodiac of Italian 
song, which encircles the earth with its glory, 
and of which Dante, in the majestic procession 
of the ages, was the first to appear above the 
horizon, chasing the darkness before him, and, 
like Sagittarius, filling the whole heaven with 
his golden arrows. 


On the subject of Italian poetry the reader is 
referred to the following works :— « Italy : Gen- 
eral Views of its History and Literature,” by L. 
Mariotti, 2 vols., London, 1841, 8vo.; an admi- 
rable work, written with great power and beauty ; 
— “Storia della Letteratura Italiana,” del Cav. 
Abate Girolamo Tiraboschi, 9 vols., Firenze, 
1805 — 13, 8vo.;—“ Della Storia e della Ragione 
d’ ogni Poesia,”’ di Francesco Saverio Quadrio, 
7 vols., Bologna e Milano, 1739 —52, Ato. ; — 
“L’ Istoria della Volgar Poesia,” da Gio. Mario 
Crescimbeni, 5 vols., Venezia, 1730, 4to. ; — 
‘‘ Discorso sopra le Vicende della Letteratura,”’ 
dell’ Ab. Carlo Denina, 2 vols., Napoli, 1792, 
8vo. ; —“ Saggi di Prose e Poesie de’ piu celebri 
Scrittori d’ ogni Secolo,’’ da L. Nardini e S. 
Buonaiuti, 6 vols., London, 1796 —98, 8vo. ; — 
‘‘ Geschichte der Italienischen Poesie und Be- 
redsamkeit,”’ von Friedrich Bouterwek, 2 vols., 
Gottingen, 1801, 8vo.; —* Historical View of 
the Literature of the South of Europe,” by J.C. 
L. Simonde de Sismondi, translated by Thomas 
Roscoe, Esq., 2 vols., New York, 1827, 8vo. ; — 
“Introduction to the Literature of Europe,” by 
Henry Hallam, 4 vols., London, 1840, 8vo. ; — 
‘‘ Lives of the Italian Poets,” by Henry Steb- 
bing, 3 vols., London, 1837, 8vo. ;— and “ His- 
toire Littéraire d’Italie,” par P. L. Ginguené, 
9 vols., Paris, 1824, 8vo. 


FIRST PERIOD.—CENTURIES XIII, XIV. 


GUIDO GUINICELLI. 


Guipo Gurnicetii of Bologna, to whom by 
acclamation is given the honor of being the 
first among the Italian poets who embodied in 
verse the subtilties of philosophy, and gave 
terseness, force, and,elevation to poetic style, 
flourished about 1250. Dante has recorded his 
fame in the twenty-sixth canto of the “ Purga- 
torio,” where he speaks of his dolct detti, and 
calls him 

“Tl padre 
Mio e degli altri miei miglior che mai 
Rime d’ amore usar dolci e leggiadre.”’ 

The praise of sweet-flowing language is cer- 
tainly merited by this ancient poet, as may be 
seen from the following extract. It is the com- 
mencement of the most beautiful of the author’s 
canzont. 

The writings of Guido Guinicelli exhibit the 
Italian language under the best form it wore 
during the first half of the thirteenth century. 
Otherwise, they would not have been so highly 
extolled by Dante, who never loses an oppor- 
tunity of setting forth their merit, and who still 
more plainly shows the esteem in which he 
held the quaint language of his poetic father, 
by appropriating one of his lines. 

‘‘ Amor ch’ al cor gentil ratto s’ apprende,”’ 


in the description of Francesca da Rimini, in | 


the fifth canto of the “Inferno,’’ was doubtless 
suggested by Guinicelli’s 
‘Fuoco d@’ Amore in gentil cor s’ apprende.”’ 
Dante places the spirit of Guinicelli in the 
seventh circle of the ‘ Purgatorio.” 


—= 


THE NATURE OF LOVE. 


To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, 

As seeks the bird the forest’s leafy shade ; 
Love was not felt till noble heart beat high, 
Nor before love the noble heart was made. 
Soon as the sun’s broad flame 

Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air; 
Yet was not till he came: 

So love springs up in noble breasts, and there 
Has its appointed space, 

As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place. 


Kindles in noble heart the fire of love, 

As hidden virtue in the precious stone : 

This virtue comes not from the stars above, 
Till round it the ennobling sun has shone ; 

But when his powerful blaze 

Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart 


Strange virtue in their rays: 

And thus when Nature doth create the heart 

Noble and pure and high, 

Like virtue from the star, love comes from wo- 
man’s eye. 


a rae 


FRA GUITTONE D’ AREZZO. 


Guirtrone v’ Arezzo, called Fra Guittone, 
from the order of Frati Gaudenti, to which he 
belonged, was born in Arezzo, near the middle 
of the thirteenth century. He is distinguished 
in literary history for having brought the Italian 
sonnet to its present form. Many of his pieces 
are found in the collection of ancient poets by the 
Giunti. There are also remaining forty letters 
by him, in Italian, published in Rome in 1745. 
They are remarkable for being the most ancient 
example of Italian letters extant. In 1293, 
Fra Guittone founded the order of Camaldolt, 
and died in the following year. 


SONNETS. 


I 


Unuarry is my star and hard my fate ; 

For bitter life e’en from the stars may come, 

And prudence seldom can repair the doom 

That by the stars is moulded for our state. 

From the first day I was predestinate 

To Love’s fell sport, where so much woe hath 
room, 

As maketh life less precious than the tomb: 

Wretch, whom the skies did for such hap create ! 

And yet to shun this fatal star of love, 

A thousand times to Athens have I run, 

Addressing to each school my steps in turn; 

And then I fled for help to Heaven above, 

That I these keen and gilded shafts might shun: 

But naught avails; whence, reft of hope, I 
mourn. 


II. 


Tux more I am destroyed by my thought, 
Which doth its birth from others’ hardness date, 
So much the lower falls my sad estate, 

And hope in me with flight of hope is wrought: 
For to this end are all my reasonings brought, 
That I shall sink under so heavy weight, 
Though still desire maintains the firm debate, 
And I pursue what bringeth me to naught. 
This hour, perchance, the mortal may be born, 
Who, when he reads my doleful sighs in rhyme, 
Shall sorrow for a lot as mine severe. 


——————— 


a ar ee ee reer 4a 
512 


| 


Who knows but she that holds me now in scorn, 
Seeing her loss linked to my ill, in time 
May for my death shed one compunctious tear ? 


— 


LAPO GIANNI. 


Tuts poet is supposed by Crescimheni to have 
lived about the time of Guittone. He was a 
Florentine by birth, and a notary by profession. 
Muratori argued, from the character of his style, 
that he must have belonged to the fourteenth 
century. 


CANZONE, 


Tus new-born rose, 

That pleaseth in its early blossom so, 

O Love, doth show 

What rare perfection from her virtue flows. 

Were I with power endued 

To make report of this new miracle, 

How Nature hath adorned her I might tell : 

But if my speech be rude, 

Nor of her worth able to sum the proof, 

Speak, Love, in my behoof, — 

For thou alone mayst fitly speak her praise, 

Yet this I tell, — how, lifting once my sight 

On her te gaze, 

Her sweet smile won me, and the rays 

That trembled in her eyes with star-like light. 

Mine straightway veiled to thee, 

Not powerful to hold up against the beam 

That in an instant to my heart did stream. 

‘And this,” saidst thou, “is she 

Must rule thee; long as she her life shall have, 

Thou art ordained her slave.” 

Wherefore, sweet Lord, I thank thy sovereign 
might, 

That to such bondage hath my spirit swayed ; 

For in delight 

Henceforth live I, a blissful wight, 

Thinking whose vassal thou iny soul hast made. 

Go, stripling song, 

Tell her that hath the flaxen tresses free, 

That I, so long 

As Love hath told, her servitor must be. 


—_~> — 


DANTE AILIGHIERI. 


Dante was the son of Alighiero degli Alighi- 
eri, and was christened in the church of Saint 
John the Baptist by the name of Durante 5 
which name was playfully changed in child- 
hood to Dante. He was born at Florence, in 
May, 1265, and died at Ravenna, in September, 
1321. 

The life of Dante naturally divides itself into 
three epochs, each of which is very distinctly 
marked, The first is that of his early youth, 
—from his birth to the time when Beatrice 
died;—Aa period of twenty-five years (1265- 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


1290). The second, his public and political 
life ;——a period of twelve years, in the prime 
of early manhood, from the age of twenty-five 
to that of thirty-seven, when he was banished 
from Florence (1290 1302). And the. third, 
his exile and wanderings, and death ;—a period 
of nineteen years ; namely, from the age of 
thirty-seven to that of fifty-six (1302-1321). 

What Dante’s youth was we know from his 
own lips,* and from the busy pens of many 
biographers. It was a quiet, peaceful youth, 
passed in the study of philosophy, and music, 
and painting, and verse; and in the compan- 
ionship of learned men and artists, such as 
Latini, Cavalcante, Giotto, and Casella, Into 
this perhaps sober-colored warp of life was 
early woven the bright, dream-like figure of 
Beatrice. As he himself tells us, he had not 
yet completed his ninth year, when he beheld 
her for the first time; and, to use his own 
words, “ The spirit of life, that dwelleth in the 
most secret chambers of the heart, all-trembling, 
spake these words: ‘ Behold a god more pow- 
erful than I!’”’ Boccaccio says that this was 
at a May-day festival, — “In that season, when 
the mildness of heaven reclothes the earth 
with its own ornaments, and all with manifold 
flowers mingled among the verdant leaves mak- 
eth her to laugh.” t 

Beatrice died in youth. She had not yet 
completed her twenty-fourth year.t» Soon after- 
wards, Dante was unhappily married to Madon- 
na Gemma de’ Donati. 

Such was the first epoch of Dante’s life. 
The second, which embraces his public and 
political career, was as ful? of trouble as the 
first was full of peace. Now came the clash 
of parties, and the battles of Campaldino and 
Pisa, and the fourteen embassies treading close 
upon each other’s heels. So much astir were 
all men,—-and Dante, in the midst of all, so 
busy with the affairs of state, so necessary at 
home and abroad,—that he exclaims, despairing 
of the power of others to govern the republic, — 
“If I stay, who is there to go? If] go, who 
is there to stay?” 

It was on one of these political pilgrimages 
that he left Florence for Rome, never more to 
enter the gates of his native city. They were 
closed against him for ever. But, in the words 
of Miche! Angelo, . 


‘Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates, 
To whom his country hers refused to ope.” 
Being at Rome, he heard the sentence pro- 
nounced against him; perpetual exile, confis- 
cation of his property, —and death by fire, should 
he ever again set foot in Florence, 


* Vita Nuova. ¥ 

t Nel tempe, nel quale la dolcezza del cielo riveste de’ 
suoi ornamenti la terra, é tutta per la varieta de’ fiori me- 
scolati palle verde frondi la fa ridente. — Vita di Dante. 

1 Boccaccio says, that Beatrice was married to Simone 
de’ Bardi; and of Dante’s marriage he says, —‘‘O incon- 
ceivable torture! to live, and converse, and grow old, and 
die With such a jealous ¢reature!»? 


SUE ELE TEES SSE ISTE TS 


A 


DANTE A 


Thus, in the life of Dante, closes the second 
epoch, and the third begins ;— a long and sor- 
rowful period of nineteen years, closing with 
his death. The prior of Florence was now a 
poor and homeless man. The companion of 
the rich and great was now their pensioner. 
Their roofs sheltered him,—their hands gave 
him bread. Well might he exclaim, in piteous 
accents, — “I am sorry for all who suffer ; but I 
have greater pity for those, who, being in exile 
and affliction, behold their native land in dreams 
only.” * One may easily believe, that to the lips 
of those “who have drunk the waters of the 
Arno before they had teeth’ t the waters of all 
other streams should have a bitter taste. 

We need not follow the poet in his wander- 


-ings, blown to and fro “by the sharp wind that 


springs from sad poverty.” There are, how- 
ever, one or two scenes in this last mournful 
period of his life, which cannot be passed over 
in silence. They are too striking and charac- 
teristic, not to find a place here. The first is 
an interview of the exiled poet with Frate 
Tlario in the convent of the Corvo alle Foci 
della Marea. We copy the monk’s own words, 
as he wrote them down at the time, in a letter 
to Uguccione della Faggiuola, one of Dante's 
fast and faithful friends. 

“Hither he came, passing through the dio- 
cese of Luni, moved either by the religion of 
the place, or by some other feeling. And see- 
ing him, as yet unknown to me and to all my 
brethren, I questioned him of his wishings and 
his seekings there. He moved not; but stood 
silently contemplating the columns and arches 
of the cloister. And again I asked him what 
he wished and whom he sought. Then, slowly 
turning his head, and looking at the friars and 
at me, he answered: ‘ Pace!’ Thence kind- 
ling more and more the wish to know him and 
who he might be, I led him aside somewhat, 
and, having spoken a few words with him, I 
knew him; for although I had never seen 
him till that hour, his fame had long since 
reached me. And when he saw that I hung 
upon his countenance, and listened to him with 
strange affection (con raro affetto), he drew from 
his bosom a book, did gently open it, and 
offered it to me, saying: ‘Sir Friar, here is a 
portion of my work, which peradventure thou 
hast not seen. This remembrance I leave with 
thee. Forget me not.’ And when he had given 
me the book, I pressed it gratefully to my ho- 
som, and in his presence fixed my eyes upon it 
with great love. But I beholding there the 
vulgar tongue, and showing by the fashion of 
my countenance my wonderment thereat, he 
asked the reason of the same. I answered, 
that I marvelled he should sing in that lan- 
guage; for it seemed a difficult thing, nay, 
incredible, that .those most high conceptions 
could be expressed in common language ; nor did 


TS eG ee i Liam 


* De Vulg. Eloq., Lib. II., Cap. 6. 


+ Ibid., Lib. I., Cap. 6. 
65 


it seem to me right, that such and so worthy a 
science should be clothed in such plebeian gar- 
ments. ‘You think aright,’ he said, ‘and I 
myself have thought so. And when at first the 
seeds of these matters, perhaps inspired by 
Heaven, began to bud, I chose that language, 
which was most worthy of them: and not alone 
chose it, but began forthwith to poetize therein, 
after this wise: 
‘Ultima regna canam fluido contermina mundo, 
Spiritibus quee lata patent; que premia solyunt 
Pro meritis cuicumque suis.’’ 
But when I recalled the condition of the pres- 
ent age, and saw the songs of the illustrious 
poets esteemed almost as naught, and knew 
that the generous men, for whom in better days 
these things were written, had abandoned (aha 
dolore!) the liberal arts unto vulgar hands, I 
threw aside the delicate lyre, which had armed 
my flank (onde armavami il fianco), and at- 
tuned another more befitting the ear of mod- 
erns;— for the food that is hard we hold in 
vain to the mouths of sucklings.’ ”’ * 
And not less striking is the closing scene of 
that eventful life; when, his work on earth 
accomplished, the great poet lay down to die, 
in the palace of Ravenna, wrapped in the cowl 
and mantle of a Franciscan friar. By his side 
was his friend Guido Novello, the nephew 
of that lovely Francesca, whose passionate de- 
sires and cruel death have become immortal in 
the poet’s song. It was the day of the Hely 
Cross; and, perhaps, a solemn anthem was the 
last sound that reached the ears of the dying 
man, when, between life and death, *“‘ he beheld 
eyes of light, that wandered like stars.” And 
after death, the cow] and mantle were removed, 
and he was clothed in the garments of a poet; 
and his friend pronounced his eulogy in the 
palace. 
Thus died the greatest of the Italian poets ; 
and it may truly be said, that the gloomy forests 
of Ravenna seem still to breathe forth the sighs 
of the dying man; so intimately associated with 
his spirit are all the places that knew him 
upon earth! 
Dante’s writings are the “ Vita Nuova,’’ a 
romantic record of his early life and love, writ- 
ten in prose, and interspersed with sonnets and 
canzoni; the *¢ Convito,’’ a prose commentary 
upon three canzoni, to which the reader is in- 
vited as to a festival; the ‘‘Canzoniere,” or 
collection of sonnets and canzoni; the two Lat- 
in treatises, ‘‘ De Monarchia,”’ and ‘ De Vulgari 
Eloquentid’”’; and the great masterpiece and 
labor of his mature life, the “¢ Divina Comme- 
dia.”’ 
The “Divina Commedia” is not what we 
understand by an allegorical poem, in the strict 
sense of the word, — in the same sense, for in- 
stance, as the ‘*Faery Queen.” And yet it is 
full of allegory; full of literal and figurative 
meanings; full of symbols and things signi- 


* Comento Storico di Ferdinando Arrivabene, p. 380. 


LIGHIERI. 


| 514 
ij. 
| fied. Dante himself says, in a letter which he 
sent with the poem to his friend Can Grande 
della Scala: “It is to be remarked, that the 
sense of this work is not simple; but, on the 
contrary, one may say, manifold. For the first 
sense is that which it derives from its language ; 
and another is that which it derives from the 
things signified by the language ; — the one, lit- 


shares : eral; the other, allegorical. ..... The subject of 

Aris the whole work, taken literally, is the condition 

ccm of the soul after death. But if you well observe 

ack dh || the express words, you will easily perceive, 
me oes that, in an allegorical sense, the poet is treating 
Bate ty 4 hy of this hell, in which, journeying onward like 
an > ne travellers, we may deserve reward or punish- 


ment.’ The machinery, then, of the poem is 
allegorical ; but the characters are real person- 
ages, in their true forms. Among these some 
masks and disguises are introduced : — the Age; 
the Church; the Empire of Rome; the Virtues, 
shining as stars, &c. Properly speaking, the 
poem is a mixture of realities and symbols, as 
best suits the author’s feeling at the moment.* 
We are to consider the Divine Poem as the 
mirror of the age in which its author lived ; 
or rather, perhaps, as a mirror of Italy in that 
age. The principal historic events and per- 
sonages, the character and learning of the time, 
are faithfully imaged and reproduced therein. 
Most of the events described had just transpir- 
ed; most of the persons were just dead; the 
memory of both was still warm in the minds 
of men. The poet did not merely imagine, as 
a possibility; but felt, as a reality. He was 
wandering about homeless, as he composed ; al- 
most borrowing the ink he wrote with. They 
who had wronged him still lived to wrong him 
further. No wonder, then, that in his troubled, 
burning soul arose great thoughts and awful, 
like Farinata, from his burning sepulchre. When 
he approached a city’s gates, he could not but 
be reminded that into the gates of Florence he 
could go no more. When he beheld the towers 
of feudal castles cresting the distant hills, he 
felt how arrogant are the strong, how much 
abused the weak. Every brook and river re- 
minded him of the Arno, and the brooklets that 
descend from Casentino. Every voice he heard 
told him, by its strange accent, that he was an 
exile; and every home he saw said to him, in 
its sympathies even, “Thou art homeless ! ” 
All these things found expression in his poem; 
and much of the beautiful description of land- 
scape, and of the morning and the evening, bears 
the freshness of that impresgion which is made 
on the mind of a foot-traveller, who sits under 
the trees at noon, and leaves or enters towns 
when the morning or evening bells are ringing, 
and he has only to hear “how many a tale 
their music tells.”’ 
Dante, in his Latin treatise “ De Monarchia,” 
says, that man is a kind of middle term be- 


Sa nape ee 
* See, upon this subject, Rossetti, Spirito Antipapale 
de’ Classici Italiani, Cap. V. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


tween the corruptible and the incorruptible, and, 
being thus twofold in his nature, is destined 
to a twofold end ; ‘namely, to happiness in this 
life, which consists in the practice of virtue, 
and is figured forth in the Terrestrial Paradise ‘ 
and eternal beatitude, which consists in the 
fruition of the divine presence; to which we 
cannot arrive by any virtue of our own, unless 
aided by divine light; and this is the Celestial 
Paradise.””* This idea forms the thread of the 
‘¢ Commedia.”’ 

Midway in life the poet finds himself lost 
in the gloomy forest of worldly cares, beset by 
Pride, Avarice, and Sensual Pleasure. Moral 
Philosophy, embodied in the form of Virgil, 
leads him forth through the hell of worldly 
sin and passion and suffering, through the pur- 
gatory of repentant feelings, to the quiet repose 
of earthly happiness. Farther than this mere 
philosophy cannot go. Here Divine Wisdom, 
or Theology, in the form of Beatrice, receives 
the pilgrim, and, ascending from planet to 
planet, brings him to the throne of God. 

Upon this slender, golden thread hangs this 
universe of a poem; in which things visible 
and invisible have their appointed place, and 
the spheres and populous stars revolye harmo- 
nious about their centre. 

Dante supposes, that, when Lucifer fell from 
heaven, he struck the earth with such violence 
as to make a vast chasm, tunnel-shaped, quite 
down to the earth’s centre, where he lies frozen 
in eternal ice. Down the sloping sides of this 
great tunnel sucks the groaning maelstrom of 
Dante’s Inferno ; through whose various eddies [| 
and whirlpools the shuddering poet is hurried 
forward, amid the shrieking shipwrecked souls. 
There sighs and lamentations and deep woes 
resounded through the air without a star: 


“And diverse languages, and horrible tongues, 
Outcries of anguish, accents of fierce wrath, 
And voices high and hoarse, and sound of hands therewith, 
Made up a tumult that goes whirling on 
For ever in that air of palpable blackness, 
Like unto sand, when the wild whirlwind breathes.’ t 


Through these several circles Dante follows 
Virgil. The first is Limbo, where are the souls 
of children and the unbaptized; the heathen 
poets and philosophers, 

‘““With slow and solemn eyes, 


| 
And great authority in their countenance, - | 
Who speak but seldom with soft, pleasant voices.” 


They are neither in pain nor glory. No groans 
are heard, but the whole air is tremulous with 
sighs. 

In the second circle the sin of lust is pun- 
ished. The spirits are tossed to and fro in a 


* De Monarchia, Cap. 92, 93. 

t Of this Inferno a certain Antonio Manetti has made - 
a “profile and plan, with measurements.’’ 

To the first seven circles he allows a thousand miles; 
and seven hundred more to the gulf of Malabolge, with 
its ten fosses. It is in the Zatta edition of Dante: Venice, 
1757, Tom. I. A still better vieW of the Infernal Tunnel 
may be found in the De Romanis edition: Rome, 1815, 4to., 


whirlwind, and dashed against each other with 
moans and blasphemies : 
‘* As cranes, 
Chanting their dolorous notes, traverse the sky, 
Stretched out in long array; so I beheld 
Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on 
By their dire doom.” 

In the third circle the miserable souls of 
gluttons lie howling like dogs under an eternal 
and accursed shower, wherein large hailstones, 
and black rain, 

‘Cand sleety flaw, 

Through the dun midnight air stream down amain.’” 

In the fourth circle the prodigal and avari- 
cious are punished by being set in eternal con- 
flict, clashing, howling, and rolling great weights 
against each other. 

In the fifth is the Stygian pool; immersed in 
whose filthy, stagnant waters, the souls of the 
irascible are smiting each other, naked and 
muddy, while others, breathing under the water, 
cover the whole pool with bubbles : 

‘How many now are mighty kings on earth, 
Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire; 
Leaving behind them horrible dispraise! ”’ 

The sixth circle is the fiery city of Dis, with 
walls of heated iron, and bale-fires flaming on 
the towers. The whole place within is like a 
vast cemetery, where the souls of heretics lie 
buried in fiery graves, which are open, and 
from which terrific groans are constantly as- 
cending. 

From high cliffs the poet looks down into 
the seventh circle, which is divided into three 
rounds, or gironi, where the violent are tor- 
mented ; those who have done violence to their 
neighbours are plunged into a river of blood ; 
those who have laid violent hands upon them- 
selves are changed to trees, and 

“« ven as a green stick, that, being kindled, 

Burns at one end, and at the other groans 

And hisses with the air that is escaping, 

So from the broken limb came out together 

Both words and blood ”’ ; 
and in the third girone, or division, those who 
have been violent against God, Nature, or Art, 
walk upon a sandy plain under a shower of fire, 
whose broad flakes come slowly wafted down, 
“like snow upon the Alps when winds are 
still.”’ 

The eighth circle is the gulf of Malabolge, 
into which the Phlegethon, the river of blood, 
falls with a hollow roar; and down into whose 
bosom the two poets are borne on the back of 
the winged monster Geryon, hearing all the 
while the horrible crash of the cataract of 
blood. Here, in ten concentric fosses, spanned 
by bridges, various sinners suffer various tor- 
ments: seducers are scourged by demons ; flat- 
terers wallow in filth; simoniacs are plunged 
head foremost into holes in the earth; sooth- 
sayers have their heads turned backwards; 
peculators seethe in a lake of boiling pitch ; 
hypocrites wear gilded hoods of lead ; robbers 
are stung by venomous serpents ; evil counsel- 
lors’ live in flames, in each flame a sinful soul ; 


th i a tela ASI aT IS RAR SST Te tea nn ts DL ao lin RSS SAS Tne BL oa 


DANTE ALIGHIERI. . 515 


Le a eee eee a weg Toe eae WNT aRDT ES aT TL = 


schismatics are maimed and cut asunder; and 
alchemists and forgers lie rotting with disease, 
as in a lazar-house, or rather, as if 
‘* Rach lazar-house 

Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 

’Twixt July and September, with the isle 

Sardinia, and Maremma’s pestilent fen, 

Had heaped their maladies all in one fosse 

Together.” 

From among the sobbing ghosts of Malabolge 
they pass onward, and the sound of a horn. is 
heard, more terrible than Orlando’s, and the 
forms of giants are seen, like the towers of a 
city, through the gross and misty atmosphere. 
Anteus takes the poets in his hands, and sets 
them down in the ninth and last circle of the 
Inferno, where the souls of traitors lie in the 
frozen lake, and in the midst Lucifer, the fallen 
archangel, in the very centre of the earth, 
“like a worm boring through the centre of the 
world.”” Down his shaggy, icy sides they slide, 
and, turning their heads round, begin to ascend 
to the earth’s surface, through a cavern, guided 
upward by the sound ofa brooklet, “‘and thence 
come forth to see the stars again.” 

The fall of Lucifer made not only the gulf 
of Hell, but threw up on the opposite surface 
of the earth a huge cone, which is the moun- 
tain of Purgatory. Seven broad terraces are 
cut into its sides, and on its summit is the Ter- 
restrial Paradise, to which the poets climb, 
ushered onward from terrace to terrace by an- 
gels. On these terraces, the seven mortal sins 
are purged away. 

On the first terrace the spirits of the proud 
are made to totter under huge stones, that are 
placed upon their shoulders; and he who had 
most patience in his looks, weeping, did seem 
to say, “¢I can no more.” 

On the second terrace sit the souls of the 
envious, having their eyelids sewed together 
with iron wire, and turning their faces up 
piteously, like blind beggars at the gates of 
churches. 

On the third terrace the sin of anger is 
purged. The souls walk enveloped in dense, 
suffocating smoke, and in darkness like that of 
a starless night. 

On the fourth terrace the sin of lukewarm- 
ness is punished. The crowd of ghosts comes 
sweeping round the hill, ridden and spurred 
onward by a righteous, though tardy zeal. 

On the fifth terrace the souls of the avari- 
cious lie with their faces in the dust, weeping 
and wailing. 

On the sixth, the souls of gluttons “drink 
the sweet wormwood of their torment,” being 
emaciated by famine, till the hollow sockets of 
their eyes seem rings, from which the gems 
have fallen. 

On the seventh and last terrace the sin of 
incontinence is purged by fire. Beyond this, 
on the summit of the mountain, stands the Ter- 
restrial Paradise, where, amid flowers, and 
leaves, and living waters, the poet meets aa 


pe. ee 


trice, who becomes his guide among the stars 
of Paradise. 

The Paradise of Dante is divided into ten 
heavens, or spheres. Through these the two 
travellers ascend, drawn upward by heavenly 
desire. 

The first sphere is that of the moon; where 
the poet learns that the story of the man in the 
moon, or, as the Italian popular tradition says, 
Cain with a pitchfork, is only a fable; and that 
in this sphere dwell the souls of those, who, 
having once taken monastic vows, were forced 
to violate them. 

The second heaven is the planet Mercury, 
where dwell the spirits of those whom the de- 
sire of fame has moved to noble enterprises. 

The third heaven is the planet Venus, where 
are those who on earth were celebrated for 
their holy passion. 

The fourth heaven is the sun, — inhabited 
by the most worthy theologians, doctors, and 
fathers of the church ; among whom is the An- 
gelic Doctor, Thomas Aquinas. 

The fifth heaven is the sphere of Mars: 
and here are the heroic souls of crusaders, and 
those who died fighting for the true faith, ar- 
ranged in the sign of a glorious cross, over 
which the spirits move in music. 

In the sixth heaven, which is Jupiter, are 
the souls of just and upright princes, who gov- 
erned their people wisely. They are arranged 
in the form of an eagle, in the centre of whose 
flaming eye sits King David. 

The seventh heaven is the planet Saturn ; 
where those reside who on earth passed their 
lives in holy retirement and contemplation. 

The eighth heaven is that of the fixed stars; 
where, sitting in the constellation of the Twins, 
the poet looks back upon his heavenly path- 
way, and beholds this little ball of earth swing- 
ing below him, a mere speck in the universe. 
In this sphere are the souls of Adam and the 
most illustrious saints ; and the forms of Christ 
triumphant and the Virgin Mary pass before 
him, and vanish far above. 

Beyond this is the ninth heaven, wherein the 
poet has a glimpse of the Divine Essence, sur- 
rounded by the nine choirs of angels, in three 
hierarchies. 

The tenth and last heaven is the vast em- 
pyrean, where Beatrice leaves Dante with 
Saint Bernard; assisted by whose prayers to 
the Virgin Mary, the poet is vouchsafed one 
fearful gaze upon the great mystery of the God- 
head. 

The “ Divina Commedia’ has been many 
times translated into English verse; by Boyd, 
Cary, and Wright, and in part by Rogers, How- 
ard, Hume, and Parsons. In introducing ex- 
tracts from such a poem into a work like this, 
we feel that we are imitating Christina of Swe- 
den, who clipped two of the finest paintings of 
Titian, in order to fit them to the panels of her 


gallery. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


SONNETS FROM THE VITA NUOVA. 


WHAT IS LOVE? 


Love and a generous heart are but one thing, 

As says the wise man in his apophthegm ; 

And one can by itself no more exist 

Than reason can, without the reasoning soul. 

Nature in kindliest mood creates the two: 

Makes Love a king, the heart his palace makes ; 

Within whose chambers sleeping, his repose 

Is sometimes brief, and sometimes long endures. 

Beauty with sense combined in lady charms 

The observing eye, and then within the heart 

Desire to obtain the pleasing object springs, 

There sometimes grows, and strength in time 
acquires 

The spirit of Love from slumber to arouse: 

Like power o’er lady’s heart hath manly worth. 


LOVELINESS OF BEATRICE. 


Tue throne of Love is in my lady’s eyes, 

Whence every thing she looks on is ennobled: 

On her all eyes are turned, where’er she moves, 

And his heart palpitates whom she salutes, 

So that, with countenance cast down and pale, 

Conscious unworthiness his sighs express: 

Anger and pride before her presence fly. 

O, aid me, gentle dames, to do her honor! 

All sweetness springs, and every humble thought, 

Within the heart of him who hears her speak ; 

And happy may be deemed who once hath seen 
er. 

What she appears when she doth gently smile 

Tongue cannot tell nor memory retain, — 

So beauteous is the miracle, and new. 


BEATRICE’S SALUTATION. 


So noble is Madonna’s air, so kind, 

So full of grace to all, when she salutes, 

That every tongue with awe is mute and trem- 
bles, 

And every eye shrinks back from her regard. 

Clothed in humility, she hears her praise, 

And passes on with calm benignity ; 

Appearing not a thing of earth, but come 

From heaven, to show mankind a miracle. 

So pleasing is her countenance, that he 

Who gazes feels delight expand the heart, 

Which must be proved, or cannot be conceived ; 

And from her lip there seems to emanate 

A spirit full of mildness and of love, 

Which, counselling the soul, still says, “QO, 
sigh!” 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


Into the chambers of my memory came 

That noble lady, whom in tears Love mourns, 
The very moment when his power led you 

To watch the labors that my hand employed. 
Love to the seat of memory felt her come, 
And woke from slumber in my wretched heart, 


ka eee 
a 


DANTE ALIGHIERI. 


DE eR SES er a A Naa aR DUC TENGEN) 


And, calling to the sighs, exclaimed, ‘Go forth!” 
The sighs in mournful crowds with haste obeyed, 
And issued from my breast, uttering such sounds 
Of grief, as often draw from these sad eyes 
The fellowship of my unhappy tears. 

But of the sighs sent forth with greatest pain 
Are those which say, ‘¢O noble mind, this day 
Completes the year since thy ascent to heaven!” 


THE PILGRIMS. 


TrLt me, ye pilgrims, who so thoughtful go, 

Musing, perhaps, on objects far away, 

Come ye from wandering in such distant land 

(As by your looks and garb we must infer), 

That you our city traverse in her woe, 

And mingle with her crowds, yet tears with- 
hold, 

Like persons quite unconscious of her state, 

Who ne’er have heard the heavy loss she 
mourns ? 

O, should you stay, and lend a willing ear, 

My sighing heart feels sure its tale would cause 

Your tears to flow, and sad you would depart. 

The city mourns her Beatrice ; she ’s dead ! 

And that which we can truly say of her 

Has power to force even strangers’ eyes to weep. 


SONNETS FROM THE CANZONITERE, 
THE CURSE. 


Accursep be the day when first I saw 

The beams which sparkle in your traitorous eyes! 

The momentcursed, when to my heart you came, 

And reached its pinnacle to steal the soul! 

Accursed be Love’s labor, which my style 

Has polished, and the beauteous tints refined 

That I for you invented, and with verse 
adorned, 

To force the world to honor you for ever ! 

Accursed be my stubborn memory, 

So firm in holding what must cause my death, 

The wicked image of your beauteous form ; 

Through which Love’s perjuries so frequent are, 

That he and I are ridiculed by all, 

And I am tempted Fortune’s wheel to seize ! 


THE FAREWELL. 


Inro thy hands, sweet lady of my soul, 

The spirit which is dying I commend ; 

In grief so sad it takes its leave, that Love 

Views it with pity while dismissing it. 

By thee to his dominion it was chained 

So firmly, that no power it hath retained 

To call him aught except its sovereign lord ; 

For whatsoe’er thou wilt, thy will is mine. 

I know that every wrong displeaseth thee ; 

Therefore stern Death, whom I have never 
served, 

Enters my heart with far more bitterness: 

O noble lady, then, whilst life remains, 

That I may die in peace, my mind consoled, 

Vouchsafe to be less dear unto these eyes. 


BEAUTY AND VIRTUE. 


Two ladies on the summit of my mind 
Their station take, to hold discourse of love: 
Virtue and courtesy adorn the one, 

With modesty and prudence in her train ; 
Beauty and lively elegance the other, 

With every winning grace to do her honor: 
And I, thanks to my sweet and sovereign lord, 
Enamoured of the two, their slave remain. 
Beauty and virtue each address the mind, 
And doubts express if loyal heart can rest 
Between the two, in perfect love divided: 
The fountain of true eloquence replies, — 

“¢ Both may be loved: beauty, to yield delight ; 
And virtue, to excite to generous deeds.” 


—— 


THE LOVER. 


Wuen night with sable wing the earth en- 
shrouds, 

And day, departing, hides itself in heaven, 

In ocean, and in grove, and bird and beast 

Amid the boughs or in the stall find rest ; 

And sleep o’er every limb its gentle balm 

Diffuses, undisturbed by care or thought, 

Until Aurora with her tresses fair 

Returns, and day’s fatigue again renews: 

Then, wretched, I am banished from sleep’s 
fold ; 

For grief and sighs, the enemies of rest, 

Mine eyes keep open and my heart awake ; 

And like a bird enveloped in a net, 

The more I seek and struggle to escape, 

The more I am entangled and in error lost. 


TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 


Frrexp Guido, would that Lappo, you, and I 
Were carried by enchantment far fromocare) =. 
And sailing in a bark upon the seay 0) .291hs.! 
Where wind and wave our bidding sliould 
obey ; rd worl vw f 
Where never fortune cross, nor: weather foul, 
To interrupt our joy should have: the power 3 
And wishes ne’er to part:should istull increase, 
While granted were the'wish:to live together: 
And might the good, enchanter place ‘beside’ us 
Our Beatrice, and Vannajy and the ‘lady: 


‘Who stands preéminentvamidst the thirty; 


There would we never: ceagerto,talk ofiloves | 
And each fair damey I:trust; wouldcbe rcotitent; 
As I am confident! that: weoshould be: {O 


art et 
CQ entht £Ois t J Oaid tl Wo 


TO BOSSONE D’ AGOBIO. . 

O rHov who'tréad'st the cool and shady hill!” 
Skirting therrivery which so softly:glidess 
That gentle Lineeus /t1is-bymatives dalled, 

In its Italian,}no# itssGermany name, 9s) 2 
Contenteéd'sit thee idowniat morn: andevegi: 0% 
For thy*beloved child already ‘bears: for W 
The fruity desivedy and his! march: hath been 0 
Rapid in(G@recian amdrine Gallic lore’; sinoadO 
Genius; alas! nb Jongér holds "her throne: | ad 
RR 


SSS SS 


In that Hesperia, now the abode of woe, 

i Whose gardens once such noble promise gave. 
None fairer than thy Raphael ; then rejoice, 
For thou shalt see him float amid the learned, 
Admired as a galliot on the wave. 


oe 


1 CANZONI FROM THE VITA NUOVA. 
| VISION OF BEATRICE’S DEATH. 


A LADY, young, compassionate, and fair, 

|| Richly adorned with every human grace, 

Watched o’er my couch, where oft I called on 

| death ; 

|| And noticing the eyes with sorrow swollen, 

And listening to the folly of my words, 

|| Fear seized upon her, and she wept aloud. 

Attracted by her moaning, other dames 

Gave heed unto my pitiable state, 

And from my view removed her. 

They then approached to rouse me by their voice, 

| And one cried, ** Sleep no more!” 

And one, “‘ Why thus discomfort thee ?” 

|| With that the strange, delirious fancy fled, 

And, calling on my lady’s name, I woke. 

So indistinct and mournful was my voice, 

By anguish interrupted so, and tears, 

That I alone the name heard in my heart: 

Then with a countenance abashed, through 
shame, 

Which to my face had mounted visibly, 

Prompted by Love, I turned towards my friends, 

And features showed so pale and wan, 

It made beholders turn their thoughts on death. 

** Alas! our comfort he must have,”’ 

Said every one, with kind humility. 

Then oft they questioned me, 

‘*What hast thou seen, that has unmanned 
thee thus? ”’ 

And when I was in part restored, I said, 

‘‘ Ladies, to you the vision I’ll relate. 

Whilst I lay pondering on my ebbing life, 

And saw how brief its tenure, and how frail, 

Love wept within my heart, where he abides ; 

For my sad soul was wandering so, and lost, 

That, sighing, deeply at the thought, it said, 

‘Inevitable death attends Madonna too.’ 

Such consternation then my senses seized, 

The eyes weighed down with fear were closed ; 

And scattered far and wide 

The spirits fled, and each in error strayed ; 

And then imagination’s powers, 

Of recollection and of truth bereft, 

Showed me the fleeting forms of wretched dames, 

Who shouted, ‘ Death !’ still crying, ‘ Thou shalt 
die!’ 

Many the doubtful things which next I saw, 

Wandering in vain imagination’s maze. 

I seemed to be I know not in what place, 

And ladies loosely robed saw fleet along, 

Some weeping, and some uttering loud laments 

Which darted burning griefs into the soul. 

And then methought I saw a gradual veil 

Obscure the sun; the star of Love appeared, 

And sun and star seemed both to weep ; 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Birds flying through the dusky air dropped down; 

Trembled the earth : 

And then appeared a man, feeble and pale, 

Who cried to me, ‘What! here? Heard’st not 
the news? 

Dead is thy lady, — she who was go fair.’ 

I raised the eyes then, moistened with my tears, 

And, softly as the shower of manna fell, 

Angels I saw returning up to heaven: 

Before them was a slender cloud extended, 

And from behind I heard them shout, ‘ Hosan- 
na!’ 

What more was sung I know not, or would tell. 

Then Love thus spoke: ‘Concealment here 
shall end ; 

Come now, and see our lady who lies dead.’ 

Imagination’s fallacy 

Then led me where in death Madonna lay ; 

And after I had gazed upon her form, 

Ladies I saw conceal it with a veil ; 

And such true meekness from its 
beamed, 

It seemed to say to me, ‘I dwell in peace.’ 

So meek in my affliction I became, 

Seeing such meekness on her brow expressed, 

That I exclaimed, «O Death, I hold thee sweet, 

Noble and kind henceforth thou must be deemed, 

Since thou hast been united to Madonna; 

Piteous, not cruel, must thy nature be. 

Behold desire so strong to be enrolled 

Thy follower, my faith and thine seem one! 

Come, for the heart solicits thee!’ 

I then departed, all sad rites complete ; 

And when I found myself alone, 

With eyes upraised to the realms above I said, 

‘ Blessed is he beholds thee, beauteous soul !’ 

That instant, through your kindness, I awoke.” 


features 


DIRGE OF BEATRICE. 


THE eyes, which mourn the sorrows of the heart, 

Such torture have endured in shedding tears, 

That they at last are utterly subdued ; 

And should I strive to find relief from woe, 

Which by degrees is leading me to death, 

Sad notes of misery are my sole resource. 

And as I well remember how I spoke 

My thoughts of my loved mistress, while she 
lived, 

Most willingly to you, my noble dames, — 

Now to no other will I speak 

Than to the gentle heart in lady’s breast ; 

And weeping, then, my song shall be of her 

Who has to heaven departed suddenly, 

And Love has left companion of my sorrows. 

To highest heaven our Beatrice is gone, 

Unto the realm where peace and angels dwell; 

With them she rests, and you, fair dames, hath 
left. 

No icy chill or fever’s heat deprived 

Us of her, as in nature’s course ; 

But solely her transcendent excellence. 

For the bright beam of her humility 

Passed with such virtue the celestial spheres, 

It called forth wonder in the Eternal Sire ; 


DANTE ALIGHIERI. 


s 


And then his pleasure was 

To claim a soul so healthful and so pure, 

And make it from our earth ascend to him ; 
Deeming this life of weariness and care 
Unworthy of a thing so excellent. 

Forth from its lovely frame the soul is fled, 

In favor as in excellence most high, 

And sits in glory on a worthy throne. 

He who can speak of her without a tear 

A heart of stone must have, wicked and vile, 
Where never spirit benign can entrance find. 
The ignoble heart is fraught with sense too low 
To form imagination faint of her ; 

And hence desire to weep offends not him. 
But sadness him assails, and sighs, 

And tears of deadly sorrow, and his soul 

Of every consolation is bereft, 

Who, even in thought, has once beheld how good 
And fair she was, and how from us she’s taken. 
Anguish intolerable attends my sighs, 

When to the mind returns the afflicting thought 
Of the beloved who my heart hath shared. 
And often, when I ruminate on death, 

A wish so soothing o’er my senses comes, 

The color of my features it transforms. 

But when imagination holds me fast, 

Pain so severe oft seizes every nerve, 

That I am roused through very agony ; 

And I such spectacle become, 

That from mankind I separate abashed. 

Then solitary, weeping, I lament and call 

On Beatrice, and say, ‘¢ Art thou, then, dead?” 
And while I call on her, am comforted. 
Sorrow and tears and sighs of mental anguish 
So waste my heart, whene’er I am alone, 
That who should hear me must compassion feel ; 
And what my state hath been, since to the world 
Unknown Madonna took her flight from earth, 
No tongue of human power can express. 

And therefore, ladies, even with the will 

To tell you what I am, the ability must fail ; 
So am I harassed by my bitter life, 
Disheartened and degraded so, that all 

Who mark the death-like color of my cheek, 
Pass on, and seem to say, “I thee abandon ! 4 
But what I am Madonna knows full well, 

And still from her I hope for my reward. 

My plaintive song, now mournful take thy way, 
And find the ladies and the damsels kind, 

To whom thy sisters blithe 

Were wont to bear the merry notes of joy ; 
And thou, who art the daughter of my sorrow, 
Disconsolate depart and dwell with them ! 


CANZONI FROM THE CANZONIERE. 
BEATRICE. 


Tosr curled and flaxen tresses I admire, 

Of which, with strings of pearl and scattered 
flowers, 

Hath Love contrived a net for me, his prey 

To take me; and J find the lure succeed. 

And chief, those beauteous eyes attract my gaze, 

Which pass through mine and penetrate the heart 


With rays so animating and so bright, 

That from the sun itself they seem to flow. 

Virtue still growing is in them displayed ; 

Hence I, who contemplate their charms so rare, 

Thus commune with myself amid my sighs: 

“© Alas! why cannot I be placed 

Alone, unseen, with her where I would wish; 

So that with those fair tresses | might play, 

And separate them wave by wave ; 

And of her beauteous eyes, which shine supreme, 

Might form two mirrors for delight of mine?” 

I next the fair and lovely mouth survey, 

The spacious forehead, and the enamouring look, 

The fingers white, the nose correctly straight, 

The eyebrow smooth and dark, that pencilled 
seems. 

Then wandering thought imagination stirs, 

Saying: ‘ Observe the winning grace and joy 

Within that delicate and vermeil lip, 

Where all that’s sweet and zest can give is seen ! 

O, stay, and hear how lovely her discourse, 

What tenderness and goodness it reveals, 

And how her converse sbe imparts ‘to all! 

Admire, how, when she smiles, 

All other charms in sweetness are surpassed ! ”’ 

Thus to expatiate on that mouth my thought 

Still spurs me on; for I 

Have nothing upon earth I would not give, 

Could I from it obtain one unreluctant ‘ Yes. 

Then I regard her white and well turned throat, 

So aptly joined to shoulders and to bust ; 

And little rounded chin, with dimple stamped, 

In form as true as painter’s eye conceives. 

My thought, which ever turns its flight to her, 

Then says: “¢ With joy contemplate the delight, 

To clasp within the arms that lovely neck, 

And on the throat a tender seal impress !”’ 

Then further says: * Let fancy take the wing ; 

Think, if the parts exposed so beauteous are, 

What must the others be, concealed and veiled? 

Our admiration of the glorious works 

Displayed in heaven, the sun and other stars, 

Alone persuades us paradise is there: 

So, if with fixed regard thou meditate, 

Thou must imagine every earthly bliss 

Is found where eye is not allowed to pierce.”’ 

Her arms I next observe, spacious and full ; 

Her hand, white, smooth, and soft as down; 

Her fingers, long and delicately thin, 

Prond of the ring which one of them enclasps; 

And thought then says to me: “If thou wert now 

Within those arms, thy life would pleasure know 

And share with her, which to describe 

In least degree defies my utmost skill. 

Observe, that every limb a picture seems ; 

Exact the size and shape her frame requires, 

And colored with angelic hues of pearl: 

Grace is in every look ; 

And indignation, if offence provoke: 

Meek, modest, temperate, and calm, 

To virtue ever dear, 

O’er all her noble manners reigns a charm, 

Which universal reverence inspires. 

Stately and soft she moves as Juno’s bird, 

Erect and firmly poised as any crane. 


19 


520 ITALIAN POETRY. 
ae Se ee RS dal TE MUNA I te 


One charm remark, peculiarly hers, — Farewell! And thou without excuse, O Death, 

An elegance unmatched, with modesty com- | Observe these sorrowing eyes, and own at least, 
bined ; Until thy hand destroy me, 

And would you see it, in a living proof,” Endless should be my cry, “ Alas, farewell!” 

Says thought to me, “ Attend well to thy mind, 

When, with a lady elegant and fair 

Harmoniously conjoined, she moves along ; 

Then, as the brilliant stars seem chased away 

By greater brightness of the advancing sun, 

So vanish other charms when hers are viewed. 

Think, then, how pleasing she must be 

Whose loveliness and beauty equal are ; 

And beauty past compare in her is found. 

Habits of virtue and of loyalty 

Alone can please her and her cause can serve: 

But in her welfare only place thy hope.” 

My song, well may’st thou vouch for true, 

That, since the day when first was born 

A beauteous lady, none ever pleased like her 

Thou celebratest, take her all in all : 

| For joined in her are found 


CANZONE FROM THE CONVITO. 
PHILOSOPHY. 


Love with delight discourses in my mind 

Upon my lady’s admirable gifts, 

And oft expatiates with me on deserts 

Beyond the range of human intellect. 

In sounds so sweetly eloquent his voice 

Touches the listening and enraptured soul, 

That it exclaims, “ Alas! how weak my power 

‘To tell what of my lady now I hear!” 

For first, I am compelled to throw aside, 

When I attempt of what I hear to treat, 

All that my mind in vain would comprehend ; 

And next, of what I even understand, 

Great part, that my ability transcends. 

If, then, my verse should in defects abound, 

Which fondly enters on Madonna’s praise, 

The feeble understanding must be blamed, 

And language feeble, wanting power with me 

The merits to portray which Love describes. 

The sun, revolving round this earthly globe, 

Nothing beholds so excellent and fair, 

As in that hour he lights the land where dwells 

The lady for whom Love commands my song. 

Angelic essences her worth admire ; 

And they on earth whom she hath once enam- 
oured 

Still find her image present to their thoughts, 

When Love calms all emotions into peace. 

With such complacency her Maker views 

His work, his virtue still he showers on her, 

In gifts beyond our nature’s utmost call. 

Her pure and spotless soul, 

Which owes its health to the Creator’s boon, 

Proclaims his hand in her material frame, 

Which beauties in such varied form displays, 

The eyes of those on whom her countenance || 
beams 

Send thoughts into the heart, with wishes filled, 

Which thence take wing in air, transformed to 
sighs. 

Virtue divine descends on her, as on 

An angel who the beatific vision sees; 

If there be gentle dame who disbelieves, 

Let her converse with her, and mark her ways. 

For when she speaks, she draws an angel down 

From heaven, who joyful testimony bears, 

That the high worth in her possession seen 

Exceeds the endowments suited to our wants. 

Her acts of courtesy, conferred on all, 

Strive each which best shall call on Love 

In language which he never fails to feel. 

Of her it may be said, 

Graceful in lady what in her we find, 

And beautiful what most resembles her. 

And truly may we say, her.countenance aids 

In miracles belief; for one she seems, 

And thus our faith confirms, and was for this | 


Personal beauty and a virtuous mind; 
Nor aught deficient, but some grains of pity. 


FAREWELL. 


FAREWELL, for ever gone those tresses bright, 
From whence the hills around 

Drew and reflected tints of shining gold! 
Farewell the beauteous look, the glances sweet, 
Implanted in my heart 

By those fair eyes that well remembered day ! 
Farewell the graceful bloom 

Of sparkling countenance ! 

Farewell the endearing smile, 

Disclosing pearls of snowy white between 
Roses of vermeil hues throughout the year! 
Why without me, O Death, 

These hast thou robbed us of in flower of spring? 
Farewell the playful mind and wise reserve, 
The welcome frank and sweet, 

The ready wit, and the determined heart! 
Farewell the meek, yet lofty, just disdain, 
Confirming my resolve 

All baseness to detest and greatness love ! 
Farewell desire, the child 

Of beauty overflowing ! 

Farewell the aspiring hope, 

Which made me view all other far behind, 
And rendered light to me Love’s heaviest load ! 
These hast thou shivered, Death, 

As glass, and me alive suspended as one dead. 
Lady, farewell! of every virtue queen, 
Goddess preferred to all, 

For whom, throug Love, all others I renounce, 
Farewell! What column of such precious stone 
On earth were worthy found 

To raise thy temple, and in air sustain ? 
Farewell, thou vessel filled 

With Nature’s miracles! 

By fortune’s evil turn, 

Beyond the rugged mountains thou wast led, 
Where Death has closed thee in the cruel tomb, 
And of my eyes hath formed 

Two fountains wearied with incessant tears. 


Sat inca Et inne RDS Bic DAE tA BELA Ra ana IN te et tte nc, 


DANTE ALIGHIERI. 521 


Created and eternally ordained. 

Charms in her countenance appear, which show 

Of paradise the ineffable delights : 

Of her sweet smile I speak, and of her eyes, 

Which Love attract as to his proper throne. 

Our intellect they dazzle and subdue, 

As the sun’s rays o’erpower the feeble sight: 

Mine may not look on them with fixed regard, 

And hence to scant their honors I am fain. 

Her beauty falls in gentle showers of flame, 

Each animated with a spirit benign, 

Which is creator of all virtuous thoughts, 

And shatters like the thunderbolt 

All inbred vices which the mind debase. 

Therefore let beauteous dame, who censure 
earns, 

By wanting a deportment meek and still, 

View this exemplar of humility ; 

Her, before whom each sinner drops his pride, 

Her, whom the Mover of the world conceived. 

My song, thy speech may seem to contradict 

The lariguage we have heard thy sister hold; 

For she ‘the. lady calls both fierce and proud,” 

Whom thou so humble represent’st, and meek. 

But well thou know’st that heaven is ever bright 

And clear and cloudless, as regards itself; 

Although our eyes, from many a cause, 

May sometimes call the sun itself obscure : 

So when your sister calls this lady proud, 

She views her not consistently with truth, 

But forms a ste Sah on appearances ; 

For oft my soul has feared, 

And still so fears, that cruelty I see, 

Whene’er I come where she my thoughts may 
know. 

Excuse me thus, my song, if there be need ; 

And when thou canst, present thee to ae 

And say to her,—‘ If you such course approv 

My praise I will rehearse throughout the dere 


FROM THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. —INFERNO 
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.* 


‘<i land where I was born sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
With all his followers, in search of peace 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta’en 
From me; and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 
Remits, s ‘seiged me with wish to please, so strong, 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 


* Francesca, daughter of Guido da Polenta, lord of Ra- 
venna and of Cervia, was given by her father in marriage 
to Lanciotto, son of Malatesta, lord of Rimini, a man of 
extraordinary courage, but deformed in his person. His 
brother Paolo, who unhappily possessed those graces which 
the husband of Francesca wanted, engaged her affections; 
they were both put to death by the enraged Lanciotto. The 
interest of the narrative. is much increased, when it is 
recollected that the father of this unfortunate lady was the 
beloved friend and generous protector of Dante, during his 


latter days. 
66 


But Caina! waits for him our life who ended.” | 
These were the accents uttered by her tongue. | 

Since I first listened to these souls offended, 
I bowed my visage, and so kept it, till 
‘What think’st thou?” said the bard; when I 

unbended, 

And recommenced: * Alas! unto such ill 
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil!” 

And then I turned unto their side my eyes, 
And’said, — ‘‘ Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 

So as his dim desires to recognize. ”’ | 

Then she to me: “The greatest of all woes 
Is, to remind us of our happy days 
In misery ; and that thy teacher knows. 

But if to learn our passion’s first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 

I will do even as he who weeps and says. 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 
Of Lancilot, how Love enchained him too. 
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 

But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
All o’er discolored by that reading were ; 

But one point only wholly us o’erthrew : 

When we read the long sighed-for smile of her, 
To be thus kissed by such devoted lover, 

He who from me can be divided ne’er 
Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all 
ver. 
Accursed was the book and he who wrote! 
That day no further leaf we did uncover.” 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that with pity’s thralls 
I swooned, as if by death I had been smote, 


Ard fell down even as a dead body falls. 


FARINATA. 


Now by a narrow path my master winds, 
Conducting me ’twixt those tormenting tombs 
And the town walls. ‘*O thou, whose good- 

ness finds 

A passage for me through these impious 

glooms, 
Say, sovereign Virtue, satisfy my hope : 
May man behold the wretches buried here 

In these dire sepulchres ? — the lids are ope,— 
Suspended all, — and none is watching near.” 
To this he answered : ** When they come at last, 

Clothed in their now forsaken frames of clay, 
From dread Jehoshaphat, —the judgment past, — 
These flaming dens must all be barred for aye. 

Here in their cemetery, on this side, | 
With his whole sect is Epicurus pent, 

Who thought the spirit with its body died : 

Soon, theretore. thy desire shall be content,— 
Ay, and the seotat wish thou hid’st from me.’ 
‘Good guide,” I said, “I only veil my heart, 

Lest of mine utterance I appear too free: 


1 That part of the Inferno to which murderers are con- 
demned. 


RR2 


522 


Thyself my monitor of silence art.” 
“‘O Tuscan, thou who com’st with gentle speech, 

Through Hell’s hot city, breathing from the 

earth, 
Stop in this place one moment, I beseech ; — 
Thy tongue betrays the country of thy birth. 

Of that illustrious land I know thee sprung, 
Which in my day perchance I somewhat vexed.”’ 
Forth from one vault these sudden accents rung, 

So that I trembling stood with fear perplexed. 
Then as I closer to my master drew, — 

“Turn back! what dost thou?” he exclaimed 
in haste ; 

“See! Farinata rises to thy view! 

Now may’st behold him upward from his waist.”’ 
Full in his face already I Was’ gazing, 
While his front lowered, and his proud bosom 
swelled ; 
As though even there, amid his burial blazing, 
The infernal realm in high disdain he held. 

My leader then, with ready hands and bold, 

Forced me toward him, among the graves to 
pace, 
Saying, “ Thy thoughts in open words unfold.”’ 

So by his tomb I stood, — beside its base. 
Glancing upon me with a scornful alr, 

** Who were thine ancestors? ”’ he coldly asked. 

Willing to answer, I did not forbear 
My name or lineage, but the whole unmasked. 
Slightly the spirit raised his haughty brows, 

And said, —“ Thy sires to mine were aye ad- 

verse, — 
To me, and to the cause I did espouse ; 
Wherefore their legions twice did I disperse.”’ 
“What though they banished were ? they all 
returned, 
Each time of their expulsion,” I replied : 
‘That is an art thy party never learned.” 

Hereat arose a shadow at his side: 
Uplifted on his knees he seemed to me, 
For his face only to his chin was bare ; 

And round about he stared, as though to see 
If other mortal with myself were there. 
But,when that momentary dream was o’er, 

Weeping, he groaned, — “If thou this dun- 

geon dim, 
Led by thy soaring genius, dost explore, 
Where is my son? ah, wherefore bring’st not 
him?” 

*¢ Not of myself I seek this realm forlorn ; 
He who waits yonder marshals me my road; 
Whom’ once, perchance, thy Guido had in 

scorn.” 

My recognition thus I fully showed ; 

For in the pangs on that poor sinner wreaked, 

And in his question, plain his name I read. 

Suddenly starting up, — “ What! what!” — 

he shrieked ; 

“¢ Say’st thou, ‘He had’? What mean ye? Is 
he dead ? 

Doth heaven's dear light his eye no longer 
bless ?”’ 

Perceiving how I hesitated then, 

Kre I responded to his wild address, 
Backward he sunk, nor looked he forth again. 


ITALIAN POETRY. . 


prc ee 


FROM THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.—PURGATORIO, 
THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 


And now, behold! as at the approach of 
morning, 
Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red, 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it! — 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 

Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, 
Again I saw it brighter grown, and larger, 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 
I knew not what of white; and underneath, 
Little by little, there came forth another. 

My master yet had uttered not a word, 
While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
But when he clearly recognized the pilot, 

He cried aloud, —“ Quick, quick, and bow 

the knee! 
Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! 

See, how he scorns all human arguments, | | 
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail r 
Than his own wings, between so distant shores! 

See, how he holds them, pointed straight to 

heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, 

That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!” 
And then, as nearer and more near us came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 
But down I cast it; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed naught thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot; 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ; 

And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 

“In exitu Israel out of Egypt!” 

Thus sang they all together in one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them ; 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 


SE SS BE 


THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 


Lonaine already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, 
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fra- 

grance. 

A gently breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, — 
No heavier blow than of a pleasant breeze : 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 
Did all of them bow downward towards that side 


Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 
Yet not from their upright direction bent, 

So that the little birds upon their tops 

Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ; 
But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 


Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes ; 
Even as from branch to branch it gathering 
swells 
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
When olus unlooses the sirocco. 
Already my slow steps had led me on 
Into the ancient wood so far, that I 
Could see no more the place where I had en- 
tered ; 
And, lo! my farther course cut off a river, 
Which, towards the left hand, with its little 
waves, 
Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. 
All waters that on earth most limpid are 
Would seem to have within themselves some 
. mixture, 
Compared with that, which nothing doth con- 
ceal, 
Although it moves on with a brown, brown 
current, 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 


BEATRICE. 


Even as the blessed, in the new covenant, 
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, 
Wearing again the garments of the flesh, — 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti sents, 
Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 

They all were saying: “Benedictus que vents!” 
And, scattering flowers above and round about, 
“ Manibus, O, date lilia plenis!” 

I once beheld, at the approach of day, 

The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 
And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 
And the sun’s face uprising overshadowed, 

So that, by temperate influence of vapors, 

The eye sustained his aspect for long while : 
Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 
Which from those hands angelic were thrown 

p> 
And down descended inside and without, 

With crown of olive o’er a snow-white veil, 
Appeared a lady under a green mantle, 

Vested in colors of the living flame. 


Even as the snow, among the living rafters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, — 
And then, dissolving, filters through itself, 
Whene’er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, 
Like as a taper melts before a fire: : 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 
Before the song of those who chime for ever, 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ; 

But when I heard in those sweet melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had they said, 
“©O, wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume 

him?” 

The ice, that was about my heart congealed, 
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, 


— = 


523 


Through lips and eyes came gushing from my 
breast. 

Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 
Forced such a feeble “* Yes!”’ out of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a crossbow breaks, when ’t is dis- 

charged, 
Too tensely drawn the bowstring and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark: 

So I gave way under this heavy burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, 

And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 


— 


FROM THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.— PARADISO. 
SPIRITS IN THE PLANET MERCURY.” 


Anp as an arrow to the mark is driven, 
Or e’er the cord that sent it be at rest, 

So swiftly passed we to the second heaven. 

Entered within the precincts of the light, 

I saw my guide’s fair countenance possessed 
With joy so great, the planet glowed more bright: 

And if the very star a smile displayed, 

Well might I smile, —to.change by nature prone, 
And varying still with each impression made. 

As in some water that is smooth and clear 
The fish are drawn to any object thrown 
So as to make it like their food appear : 

So saw I more than thousand splendors move 
Towards us, and every one was heard to say, 

‘¢ Behold one here, who will increase our love !”’ 

And as each soul approached us, the delight 
It felt was manifested by the ray 
That from within was thrown upon my sight. 

Think, reader, if the wondrous history 
That here begins should also terminate, 

How painful would thy dearth of knowledge be! 

Then may’st thou tell if I were not possessed 
By strong desire to learn of these their state, 
The moment they became thus manifest. 

“¢©O well-born spirit, whom grace permits to 

see 
The thrones of the eternal triumph, ere 
Closed is thine earthly warfare, — know that we 

Are kindled by the light which fills the wide 
Expanse of heaven : —if thou art fain to hear 
Of our condition, be thy wish supplied.” 

One of those pious spirits thus I heard ; 
When Beatrice: ‘Speak on without dismay ; 
And trust, as they were gods, their every word.” 

“6T see full well how in the light divine 
Thou dwell’st; and that thine eyes a joy dis- 

play, 
Which when thou smilest more serenely shine: 

But who thou art I know not; neither why, 
O worthy soul, a sphere is given to thee, 

Hid by another’s ray from mortal eye.” 

These words I spake unto the joyous light 
That had been first to address me, —whereat she 
Arrayed herself in splendor still more bright: 

And as the sun conceals himself from view 
In the pure splendor of the new-born day, 


RS = ern . : ‘ or A er 


DANTE ALIGHIERI. 


Tn erences 


a 


Fy 
te 
Le 


| 


524 ITALIAN POETRY, 


Bursting his mantle of the early dew ; 
E’en so that holy form herself concealed 
Within the lustre of her own pure ray. 


— 


SPIRITS IN THE SUN. 


Tuen, like a clock that summons us away, 
What time the Spouse of God at matin hour 
Hastes to her Husband, for his love to pray, — 

And one part urges on the other, sounding 
Tin Tin in notes so sweet, that by its power 
The soul is thrilled, with pious love abounding: 

So I beheld that glorious circle move ; 

And with such sweet accord and harmony 
Take up the song of praise, as none may prove, 
Save where is joy through all eternity. 


HEAVENLY JUSTICE. 


Ayp hence the heavenly Justice can no more 
By mortal ken be fathomed, than the sea: 
For though the eye of one upon the shore 
May pierce its shallow tide, the depths beyond 
Baffle his ken; yet there is also laid 
A bottom, viewless through the deep profound. 


As the stork lifts herself the nest above, 
When she hath fed her little ones; and they 
Regard their mother with a look of love: 

hh’en so that ever-blessed Bird appeared, — 
Raising its wings, excited by the sway 
Of numerous thoughts ;—and so my eyes | 

reared. 

Turning around, it sang: “Obscure to thee 
As have been found these mystic notes of mine; 
So dark to man is Heaven’s all-wise decree.” 


BEATRICE. 


Lixr as the bird, who on her nest all night 
Had rested, darkling, with her tender brood, 
‘Mid the loved foliage, longing now for light, 

To gaze on their dear looks and bring them 

food, — 
Sweet task, whose pleasures all its toil repay, — 
Anticipates the dawn, and, through the wood 

Ascending, perches on the topmost spray, 
There, all impatience, watching to descry 
The first faint glimmer of approaching day : 

Thus did my lady, toward the southern sky, 
Erect and motionless, her visage turn ; 

The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye 

Made me like one who waits a friend’s return, 
Lives on this hope, and will no other own. 
Soon did my eye a rising light discern ; 

High up the heavens its kindling splendors 

shone, 
And Beatrice exclaimed, ¢ See, they appear, 
The Lord’s triumphal hosts! For this alone 
These spheres have rolled and reap their 
harvest here !”’ 
Her face seemed all on fire, and in her eye 
Danced joy unspeakable to mortal ear. 
As when full-orbed Diana smiles on high, 


While the eternal nymphs her form surround, 
And, scattering beau ty through the cloudless sky, 
Float on the bosom of the blue profound : 
O’er thousands of bright flowers was seen to blaze 

One sun transcendent, from whom all around, 
As from our sun the planets, drew their rays; 
He through these living lights poured such a tide 
Of glory, as o’erpowered my feeble gaze. 
‘““O Beatrice, my sweet, my precious guide!” 


——o—- 


FRANCESCO PETRARCA. 


Francesco Prrrarca, usually called Pe- 
trarch, in English, was the son of a Florentine, . 
who was banished, at the same time with Dante, 
from his native city. He was born in 1304, at 
Arezzo, in Tuscany. His early childhood was 
passed on an estate of his father’s, at Ancisa ; 
but when he was seven years old, the family 
removed to Avignon, then the capital of the 
Roman see.. They next resided in Carpentras, 
a small town in the neighbourhood, where Pe- 
trarch was placed under the tuition of Conven- 
nole, with whom he studied about five years. 


At the age of fourteen, he was sent to Mont- 


pellier, to study ‘the law; but the strong taste 
which he early manifested for poetry and elo- 
quence interfered so much with his professional 
studies, that his father removed him to Bologna, 
hoping that the Professors of the University 
there would be more sucéessful in stimulating 
his industry. Visiting his son one day, he was 
so much irritated by finding the table covered 
with the manuscripts of Cicero and Virgil, that 
he seized the scrolls and threw them into the 
fire; but the young student made sucha piteous 
outcry, that the father’s heart relented, and he 
snatched the manuscripts from the flames, say- 
ing, “that he must read Virgil for his comfort, 
and Cicero as an excitement to pursue the 
study of the law with more ardor.’ After his 
father’s death, Petrarch left Bologna, and re- 
nounced the study of the law. In 1326, he 
returned to Avignon, embraced the eccle- 
siastical profession, and gave himself up with 
ardor to literary pursuits. A short time before 
Petrarch went to Avignon, Giacopo Colonna, 
son of Stefano Colonna, the representative of 
one of the oldest and most illustrious families 
in Italy, had established himself there. ‘The 
young man had been a fellow-student with 
Petrarch at the University of Bologna. The 
former acquaintance was renewed at the papal 
court, and the similarity of their characters and 
tastes was the foundation of a close and lasting 
friendship. The other members of that dis- 
tinguished family recognized the merit of the 
young scholar, and were affectionately attached 
to him for life. 

Petrarch first saw Laura in the twenty-third 
year of his age. He met her in the church of 
Saint Clara, on the morning of the 6th of April, 


PETRARCA. 


Te a A 


1327; and from that moment commenced the 
great passion which was extinguished only with 
his life. Whether there ever was such a per- 
son as Laura, and, if so, who she was, are ques- 
tions which have been frequently and warmly 
discussed ; but there can now remain scarcely 
a doubt, either of her existence, or of the reality 
of Petrarch’s love. It is generally agreed, that 
she was the daughter of a wealthy and distin- 
guished gentleman, Andeberto de Noves, of 
Avignon; that she had married, after her fath- 
er’s death, Ugo de Sade, a young man of Avig- 
non, whose character seems not to have been 
very amiable; and that, though she was by no 
means insensible to the poet’s homage, her 
conduct was always above reproach. For three 
years after this momentous meeting, Petrarch’s 
occupations were the study of literature, the 
celebration of his mistress, and the cultivation 
of his friendly relations with the Colonna family ; 
but when Giacopo Colonna was made bishop of 
Lombez, he accompanied him thither. After 
an agreeable summer passed in this retirement, 
they returned to Avignon. Finding his passion 
for Laura still undiminished, Petrarch under- 
took a long journey, which occupied him eight 
months, and, on his return to Avignon, he found 
that his friend, the bishop of Lombez, had been 
summoned to Rome by the affairs of his family. 
Accounts of his travels are contained in his 
‘¢ Rpistole Familiares.”’ 

It was about this time that Petrarch began to 
visit the vale of Vaucluse, which was peculiarly 
attractive to him in his present state of feeling. 
His mind was also earnestly occupied with his 
favorite idea of persuading the pope to remove 
his court from Avignon to Rome, and, when 
Benedict the Twelfth succeeded to the pontifi- 
cal chair, he addressed to the new pontiff a 
long letter on this subject, in Latin verse. 
Towards the end of 1336, he left France on his 
way to Italy, and reached Rome in the follow- 
ing February, where he was received in the 
most friendly manner by the Colonni. After 
having eagerly examined all the monuments of 
antiquity with which the city was embellished, 
he returned the same year to Avignon; but 
finding himself still agitated by his love for 
Laura, he determined to withdraw to the soli- 
tudes of Vaucluse, and purchased a cottage and 
a small estate in that beautiful retreat. Here 
Petrarch wrote a great part of his poems, many 
of his Latin letters, and many of his eclogues, 
besides several of his larger works, in Latin 
prose. Here, also, he commenced his Latin 
epic, entitled “+ Africa,” on which he supposed 
his fame would chiefly rest. 
this work excited the greatest interest at the 
time, and made Petrarch an object of universal 
wonder. He received, in his retreat, the visits 
of many of his friends, and of the learned men 
who came to Avignon. Among others, he 
became acquainted, about the year 1339, with 
the monk Barlaam, ambassador at Avignon from 
the Greek emperor, Andronicus, and by this 


The rumor of ° 


525 


learned person was instructed in the language 
and literature of Greece. Robert, the king of 
Naples, and the great patron of the scholars 
and poets of\his age, whom the fame of Pe- 
trarch’s genius ‘and works had reached, wrote 
him a letter about this time, sending him a copy 
of an epitaph, composed by himself, on his 
niece Clémence, the queen of France, to which 
the poet sent a most courtly and flattering re- 
ply. This incident was only a prelude to the 
honors which the royal scholar determined 
should be conferred on Petrarch. The ancient 
custom of bestowing on illustrious poets the 
laurel crown, with public pomp and ceremony, 
in the Capitol, had gradually disappeared with 
the decline of letters and the arts in the Roman 
empire. Petrarch had long desired to attain to 
this great distinction, and had directed his 
studies and labors with a view to this end. In 
the year 1340,-a letter was sent to him from 
the Roman senate, inviting him to come to 
Rome and receive the crown; and soon after, 
he received another letter, from Robert Bardi, 
chancellor of the University of Paris, urging 
him to proceed to that city, and accept the 
honors of a public coronation there. ‘The Ro- 
man senate had been powerfully influenced to 
take this step by King Robert. After some de- 
liberation, Petrarch decided in favor of Rome. 
On his way thither he visited the Neapolitan 
court, and was received with the highest dis- 
tinction by King Robert, who was never weary 
of conversing with him on poetry and litera- 
ture. Petrarch read to the king several books 
of his “Africa.” The king was charmed with the 
poem, and signified his desire that it should be 
dedicated to him. Before proceeding to Rome, 
Petrarch resolved to pass a public examination. 
This was conducted by King Robert with great 
ceremony, and continued through three days, 
in the presence of the whole court, and the 
poet-scholar was pronounced to be every way 
worthy of the coronation. Petrarch was wel- 
comed, on his arrival, by Orso di Anguillara, 
senator of Rome, and the 8th of April was 
appointed for the coronation. On that day, the 
poet received the laurel crown from the hand 
of Orso, in the Capitol, amidst the applauses of 
the whole Roman people, surrounded by the 
most illustrious nobles of the city. _@n_ his re- 
turn from Rome, he visited Parma, where he re- 
mained about a year, employed upon the poem 
of “* Africa.”” He returned to France in 1342. 
Tiraboschi says, that the immediate motive of his 
return at this time was the circumstance of his 
having been appointed, together with the cele- 
brated Cola di Rienzi, on an embassy from the 
Roman senate and people, to congratulate the 
new pope, Clement the Sixth, on his accession, 
and to solicit him to remove the court to Rome. 
In 1343, he was sent by the pope to Naples, to 
guard the interests and claims of the papal see 
in that court; and on his return, Clement 
offered him the office of Apostolical Secretary, 
which he declined. The revolution brought 


coal 


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about by Rienzi at Rome, which began in 
1347, excited in Petrarch the profoundest in- 
terest; and he was bitterly disappointed, when 
the mad conduct of the tribune destroyed the 
dream, in which he had indulged, of the restora- 
tion of Rome to her ancient glory. In 1348, 
he went to Padua, where he became acquainted 
with Jacopo da Carrara. This year was sig- 
nalized by the terrible pestilence which rav- 
aged all Europe; and the death of Laura, who 
fell a victim to it on the 6th of April, made it 
a memorable epoch in the life of the poet. The 
remainder of this year, and nearly the whole of 
the following, he passed at Parma. In 1350, 
he went to Mantua, where he was honorably 
received by Gonzaga, and thence returned to 
Padua. It was in this year that he wrote 
his eloquent letter to the emperor, Charles the 
Fourth, entreating him to deliver Italy from the 
evils which that unhappy country was suffer- 
ing. He also visited Rome the same year. 
Returning to Carrara, he found his protector, 
Jacopo da Carrara, dead. At this time he 
formed a close friendship with the celebrated 
Andrea Dandolo, the doge of Venice, and used 
his influence, though without success, to bring 
about a peace between that republic and Genoa. 
Meantime the Florentines, having resolved to 
testore to Petrarch his paternal estate, and to 
offer him the charge of their newly established 
University, selected Boccaccio to be the bear- 
er of the missive. He was at first inclined 
to accept the offer, but, changing his mind, he 
returned to France in 1351, and divided his 
time for two years between Vaucluse and the 
city of Avignon. Clement the Sixth died in 
1352, «nd the Cardinal Stefano Alberti suc- 
ceeded him. The new pope was so illiterate, 
that he looked upon Petrarch as a magician ; 
and thts disfavor is supposed to have caused 
the poet’s return to Italy. He went to Milan, 
where the urgency of Giovanni Visconti in- 
duced him to remain. He was highly honored 
by this prince and his successors, and employed 
by thein in the most important public affairs. 
He was sent, in 1354, on an embassy to the 
doge of Venice. In the same year, the em- 
peror, Charles the Fourth, who had at length 
entered Italy, sent for him to meet him at Man- 
tua. In 1356, he was sent by Galeazzo Vis- 
conti on an embassy to the emperor at Prague, 
and soon after his return received from Charles 
the dignity of Count Palatine. Notwithstand- 
ing these honors and employments, Petrarch 
sighed for solitude. He selected a villa about 
three miles from the city, which he called Lin- 
terno, where he passed the principal part of his 
time for several years. In the year 1360, he 
was sent by Galeazzo to Paris, to congratulate 
King John on his restoration from his long 
captivity in England. On his return, he re- 
ceived a pressing invitation from the Emperor 
Charles to his court, but declined. In 1361, 
Pope Innocent the Sixth offered him the post 
of Apostolical Secretary, which he had already 


a py - — 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


repeatedly refused. The plague which ravaged 
Italy in 1362 induced Petrarch to go for safety 
to Venice, a city which he repeatedly visited 
in the following years, and where he was al- 
ways sure of a distinguished reception. About 
this time, the citizens of Florence, mortified 
that so distinguished a person should never 
return to his own country, besought the pope 
to bestow on him an ecclesiastical office in 
Florence or Fiesole; but Urban, who had suc- 
ceeded to thé chair of Saint Peter, holding 
Petrarch in high esteem, and desiring to keep 
him near the papal court, made him Canon in 
Carpéntras. In the following year, he wrote to 
the pope a letter on his favorite subject of 
transferring the papal see to Rome; a letter, 
which, perhaps, finally determined Urban to 
carry the project into effect; for he actually 
removed to Rome, the next year. In 1370, 
Petrarch finally resolved to make the journey 
to Rome, in compliance with the frequent and 
urgent solicitations of Urban. Having previ- 
ously made his will, he departed from Padua; 
but had scarcely reached Ferrara, when he was 
attacked by a severe illness, which compelled 
him to return. He now withdrew to the villa 
of Arqua, where he had frequently resided dur- 
ing the last four years. He had scarcely estab- 
lished himself there, when he heard, with great 
displeasure, that Urban had abandoned Italy and 
returned to Avignon. The war between the 
Venetians and Francesco da Carrara called Pe- 
trarch from his retirement in 1373, and forced 
him to undertake another embassy to Venice. 
On this occasion, be was obliged to address the 
senate ; “but,” says Tiraboschi, ‘the majesty 
of that august assembly confused him to such a 
degree, that, weakened as he had been by fa- 
tigues and by years, he had not strength to 
speak, and it was necessary to postpone the 
discourse until the next day, when he delivered 
it with happier success.” On his return to 
Padua, Petrarch again withdrew to his villa in 
Arqua, in an enfeebled state, where he linger- 
ed on, until the night of July 18th, 1374. The 
following morning, he was found dead in his 
library, with his head resting on a book. He 
was buried with solemn pomp, the last rites be- 
ing attended by the prince of Padua, the eccle- 
siastical dignitaries, and the students of the 
University. 


“There is a tomb in Arqua;—reared in air, 
Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura’s lover; here repair 
Many familiar with his well sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ; 
Watering the tree that bears his lady’s name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.’? 


The character, genius, and labors of Petrarch 
form one of the most remarkable and interest- 
ing chapters in the literary history of Italy. 
In his youth he was strikingly handsome. His 
manners were polished and courteous. In his 


ce 


PETRARCA. 52 


dress he appears to have been something of a fop. 
«Do you remember,” says he, in a letter to his 
brother Gherardo, ‘‘ how much care we employ- 


‘ ed in decorating our persons ? When we travers- 


ed the streets, with what attention did we not 
avoid every breath of wind which might discom- 
pose our hair; and with what caution did we not 
prevent the least speck of dirt from soiling our 
garments!” But even at this time, he found op- 
portunities to make large acquisitions of know- 
ledge, and to write, both in Latin and Italian. 
His Italian sonnets and canzoni, through which 
he is popularly known, display only one side 
of his many-sided character. The theme which 
runs through them is the great passion of his 
life, —his love for Laura. This he sings under 
every possible variety of form, and in a style 
1elodious and polished to the last degree of 
elaborate finish of which expression is capable. 
Following sometimes the example of his pre- 
decessors, the Proven¢al Troubadours, he inter- 
mingles with the eloquence of profound passion 
those conceits, both of thought and phrase, 
which seem incompatible with real feeling; 
but, in general, his taste is as faultless as his 
language is expressive and musical. He mould- 
ed the Italian language to forms, which, for five 
hundred years, it has retained; and it is re- 
marked by the critics of his country, that scarce- 
ly a word which he used has become obsolete 
or antiquated. Judging him, however, by these 
productions alone, we should suppose him to 
be a sentimental lover, wasting his sighs upon 
an object he could never lawfully possess; a 
poet of delicate genius, but too shrinking and 
sensitive to grapple with the affairs of the 
world; withdrawing into a romantic solitude, 
there to brood over his imaginary woes, until 
the manliness of his soul had melted away in 
the heat of fantastic desires; consoling him- 
self for ideal sufferings by the images of super- 
natural charms and angelic perfections, which 
an over-indulged imagination was ever conjur- 
ing up before him. But he was not this alone ; 
he was, at the same time, much more and much 
better. He was one of the ablest scholars of 
his age. His enthusiasm for ancient learning 
knew no bounds. In searching for manuscripts 
of the classics, he shrunk from no labor and 
spared no expense. He employed numerous 
transcribers, and copied many volumes with 
his own hand. Though he did not study Greek 
in his youth, he seized every opportunity to ac- 
quire it, and applied himself to it with enthu- 
siasm, under the instructions of the learned 
Greek, Barlaam. He was the friend of popes, 
emperors, cardinals, and princes, and corre- 
sponded with them in a tone of equality and 
independence. He never hesitated to denounce 
vice and wickedness in the highest places. 
The abominations practised at the papal court 
were lashed by him with a vigor and fearless- 
ness that remind us of the terrible denuncia- 
tions of Luther and the Reformers. He was 


frequently employed in diplomatic negotiations 


of delicacy and difficulty, and always acquitted 
himself with address and eloquence. He was 
a warm and faithful friend, generous to those 
in distress, eager to do good, and disinterested 
in rendering services to others. His industry 
was wonderful. He carried on an immense 
Latin correspondence, in addition to his other 
and constant labors, and wrote several long trea- 
tises, besides an epic poem and numerous minor 
pieces, in the same language. His restless en- 
ergies, quite as much as his consuming passion 
for Laura, drove him about from city to city, 
from province to province, and from country to 
country, and he found no repose but the repose 
of the grave. A name that fills so large a 
space as Petrarch’s could not fail to be the sub- 
ject of frequent discussion, speculation, and in- 
quiry. Among the best things that have been 
written on his life and writings are the chap- 
ters in Tiraboschi’s and Ginguené’s literary his- 
tories, the “Essays on Petrarch,”’ by Ugo Fos- 
colo, and a tasteful and eloquent paper in the 
‘North American Review,” Vol. XL.  Profes- 
sor Marsand, at Padua, collected a “ Biblioteca 
Petrarchesca,” of nine hundred volumes, all 
devoted to the history of Petrarch. It was 
bought by the king of France, in 1829, for his 
private library in the Louvre. A complete edi- 
tion of Petrarch’s ‘‘Rime,’”’ in two volumes, 
appeared at Padua in 1827-29. His Latin 
works were printed at Basel, in folio, in 1496 
and 1581. The “Triumphs” have been three 
times translated ; by H. P. Knyght, by Mrs. Anna 
Hume, — both of these translations very scarce, 
and by the Rev. Henry Boyd, London, 1807. 
A collection of the sonnets and odes, with the 
original text, appeared in London in 1777; an- 
other collection in 1808. The life of Petrarch 
has been written in English by Mrs. S. Dob- 
son, London, 1775, 2 vols., 8vo. This work 
is chiefly founded on De Sade’s “ Mémoires,” 
and has passed through several editions. ‘The 
late Mr. Campbell, the poet, has recently pub- 
lished an elaborate life of Petrarch, in two vol- 
umes, 8vo. 


os 


SONNETS. 


Tue palmer bent, with locks of silver-gray, 

Quits the sweet spot where he has passed his 
years, — 

Quits his poor family, whose anxious fears 

Paint the loved father fainting on his way ; 

And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne, 

In these last days that close his earthly course, 

He in his soul’s strong purpose finds new 
- force, 

Though weak with age, though by long travel 
worn: 

Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love, 

He seeks the image of that Saviour Lord 

Whom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above. 

So, oft in other forms I seek to trace 

Some charm, that to my heart may yet afford 

A faint resemblance of thy matchless grace. 


SS 
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528 ITALTAR YPORTRY: 


ee Lo 


Poor, solitary bird, that pour’st thy lay, 

Or haply mournest the sweet season gone, 

As chilly night and winter hurry on, 

And daylight fades, and summer flies away ! 

If, as the cares that swell thy little throat, 

Thou knew’st alike the woes that wound my 
rest, 

O, thou wouldst house thee in this kindred 
breast, 

And mix with mine thy melancholy note! 

Yet little know I ours are kindred ills: 

She still may live the object of thy song: 

Not so for me stern Death or Heaven wills! 

But the sad season, and less grateful hour, 

And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng, 

Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour. 


Aone and pensive, the deserted strand 

I wander o’er with slow and measured pace, 
And shun with eager eye the lightest trace 

Of human foot imprinted on the sand. 

I find, alas! no other resting-place 

From the keen eye of man; for, in the show 
Of joys gone by, it reads upon my face 

The traces of the flame that burns below. 

And thus, at length, each leafy mount and plain, 
Each wandering stream and shady forest, know, 
What others know not, all my life of pain. 
And e’en as through the wildest tracts I go, 
Love whispers in my ear his tender strain, 


Which I with trembling lip repeat to him again. 


Tue soft west wind, returning, brings again 

Its lovely family of herbs and flowers; 

Progne’s gay notes and Philomela’s strain 

Vary the dance of springtide’s rosy hours ; 

And joyously o’er every field and plain 

Glows the bright smile that greets them from 
above, 

And the warm spirit of reviving love 

Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main. 

But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly 

Pour from the secret chambers of my heart, 

Are all that spring returning brings to me ; 

And in the modest smile, or glance of art, 

The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree, 

A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see. 


Swirt current, that from rocky Alpine vein, 
Gathering the tribute to thy waters free, 
Moy’st joyous onward night and day with me, 
Where nature leads thee, me love’s tyrant chain! 
Roll freely on; nor toil nor rest restrain 
Thine arrowy course; but ere thou yieldest in 
The tribute of thy waters to the main, 
Seek out heaven’s purest sky, earth’s deepest 
green ; 0 
There wilt thou find the bright and living beam 
That o’er thy left bank sheds its heavenly rays: 
If unto her too slow my footsteps seem, — 
While by her feet thy lingering current strays, 
Forming to words the murmurs of its stream,— 
Say that the weary flesh the willing soul delays. 


In tears I trace the memory of the days, 

When every thought was bent on human love, 

Nor dared direct its eager flight above, 

And seek, as Heaven designed, a nobler praise. 

O, whilst thine eye my wretched state surveys, 

Invisible, immortal King of Heaven, 

Unto my weak and erring soul be given © 

To gather strength in thy reviving rays; 

So that a life, mid war and tempest passed, 

A peaceful port may find, and close,-at last, 

On Jesus’ breast its years of vanity ! 

And when, at length, thy summons sets me free, 

O, may thy powerful arms, around me cast, 

Support the fainting soul that knows no trust 
but thee! 


In what ideal world or part of heaven 

Did Nature find the model of that face 

And form, so fraught with loveliness and grace, 

In which, to our creation, she has given 

Her prime proof of creative power above ? 

What fountain nymph or goddess ever let 

Such lovely tresses float of gold refined 

Upon the breeze, or in a single mind 

Where have so many virtues ever met, 

E’en though those charms have slain my bos- 
om’s weal? 

He knows not love, who has not seen her eyes 

Turn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs, 

Or how the power of love can hurt or heal. 


Creatures there be, of sight so keen and high, 

That even on the sun they bend their gaze ; 

Others, who, dazzled by too fierce a blaze, 

Issue not forth till evening veils the sky ; 

Others, who, with insane desire, would try 

The bliss which dwells within the fire’s bright 
rays, 

But, in their sport, find that its fervor slays. 

Alas! of this last heedless band am I: 

Since strength I boast not, to support the light 

Of that fair form, nor in obscure sojourn 

Am skilled to fence me, nor enshrouding night; 

Wherefore, with eyes which ever weep and 
mourn, : 

My fate compels me still to court her sight, 

Conscious I follow flames which shine to burn. 


Wavep to the winds were those long locks of 
gold 

Which in a thousand burnished ringlets flowed, 

And the sweet light beyond all measure glowed 

Of those fair eyes which I no more behold, 

Nor (so it seemed) that face aught harsh or cold 

To me (if true or false, I know not) showed; 

Me, in whose breast the amorous lure abode, 

If flames consumed, what marvel to unfold? 

That step of hers was of no mortal guise, 

But of angelic nature, and her tongue 

Had other utterance than of human sounds. 

A living sun, a spirit of the skies, 

Isaw her. Now, perhaps, notso. But wounds 

Heal not, for that the bow is since unstrung. 


PETRARCA. 


SRT ee a TT Ta eI LPT EEN GAT Cp a Tae a GAR STILE 


Tose eyes, my bright and glowing theme ere- 
while, — 
That arm, those hands, that lovely foot, that face, 
Whose view was wont my fancy to beguile, 
And raise me high o’er all of human race, — 
Those golden locks that flowed in liquid grace, 
And the sweet lightning of that angel smile, 
Which made a paradise of every place, — 
What are they? dust, insensible and vile! 
And yet I live! O grief! O rage! O shame! 
Reft of the guiding star I loved so long, 
A shipwrecked bark, which storms of woes as- 
sail ! 
Be this the limit of my amorous song : 
Quenched in my bosom is the sacred flame, 
And my harp murmurs its expiring wail, 


—— 


I FEEL the well known breeze, and the sweet 
hill 

Again appears, where rose that beautecus light, 

Which, while Heaven willed it, met my eyes, 
then -bright 

With gladness, but now dimmed with many an ill. 

Vain hopes! weak thoughts! Now, turbid is 
the rill; 

The flowers have drooped; and she hath ta’en 
her flight 

From the cold nest, which once, in proud de- 
light, 

Living and dying, I had hoped to fill : 

I hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze 

Of her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart, 

To taste the sweet reward of troubled days. 

Thou, whom I serve, how hard and proud thou 
art ! 

Erewhile, thy flame consumed me; now, I 
mourn 

Over the ashes which have ceased to burn. 


CANZONE. 


In the still evening, when with rapid flight 

Low in the. western sky the sun descends 

To give expectant nations life and light, 

The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown 

Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends 

With weary haste, a stranger and alone ; 

Yet, when his labor ends, 

He solitary sleeps, 

And in short slumber steeps 

Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day, 

And all the toil of the long past way: 

But, O, each pang, that wakes with morn’s first 
FAY 

More piercing wounds my breast, 

When heaven’s eternal light sinks crimson in 
the west! 


His burning wheels when downward Phebus 
bends 

And leaves the world to night, its lengthened 
shade 

Each towering mountain o’er the vale extends ; 


| The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade, 
67 ; 2 


529 


With sylvan carol gay and uncouth note 

Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float, 

Content in peace to share 

His poor and humble fare, 

As in that golden age 

We honor still, yet leave its simple ways ; 

Whoe’er so list, let joy his hours engage : 

No gladness e’er has cheered my gloomy days, 

Nor moment of repose, 

However rolled the spheres, whatever planet 
rose. 


When as the shepherd marks the sloping ray 

Of the great orb that sinks in ocean’s bed, 

While on the east soft steals the evening gray, 

He rises, and resumes the accustomed crook, 

Quitting the beechen grove, the field, the brook, 

And gently homeward drives the flock he fed ; 

Then, far from human tread, 

In lonely hut or cave, 

O’er which the green boughs wave, 

In sleep without a thought he lays his head : 

Ah! cruel Love! at this dark, silent hour, 

Thou wak’st to trace, and with redoubled pow- 
er, 

The voice, the step, the air 

Of her, who scorns thy chain, and flies thy fatal 
snare. 


And in some sheltered bay, at evening’s close, 

The mariners their rude coats round them fold, 

Stretched on the rugged plank in deep yepose: 

But I, though Phebus sink into the main, 

And leave Granada wrapt in night, with Spain, 

Morocco, and the Pillars famed of old, — 

Though all of human kind, 

And every creature blest, 

All hush their ills to rest, 

No end to my unceasing sorrows find : 

And still the sad account swells day by day ; 

For, since these thoughts on my lorn spirit prey, 

I see the tenth year roll ; 

Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding 
soul. 


Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom’s pain, 

Lo! from their yoke I see the oxen freed, 

Slow moving homeward o’er the furrowed plain: 

Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed ? 

Why from my yoke no respite must I know ? 

Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow? 

Ah me! what sought my eyes, 

When, fixed in fond surprise, 

On her angelic face = 

I gazed, and on my heart éach charm impressed ? 

From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace 

Shall e’er remove, till I the victim rest 

Of Death, whose mortal blow 

Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame 
lay low. 


——— 


CANZONE. 


Yr waters clear and fresh, to whose bright wave 
She all her beauties gave, — 


Sole of her sex in my impassioned mind! 
sS 


Thou sacred branch so graced; — 

With sighs e’en now retraced, — 

On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form re- 
clined ! 

Herbage and flowers, that bent the robe beneath, 

Whose graceful folds compressed 

Her pure angelic breast ! 

Ye airs serene, that breathe 

Where Love first taught me in her eyes his lore ! 

Yet once more all attest 

The last sad, plaintive lay my woe-worn heart 
may pour! 


If so I must my destiny fulfil, 

And Love to close these weeping eyes be 
doomed 

By Heaven’s mysterious will, 

O, grant that in this loved retreat entombed 

My poor remains may lie, 

And my freed soul regain its native sky ! 

Less rude shall Death appear, 

If yet a hope so dear 

Smooth the dread passage to eternity : 

No shade so calm, serene, 

My weary spirit finds on earth below ; 

No grave so still, so green, 

In which my o’ertoiled frame may rest from 
mortal woe. 


Yet one day, haply, she —so heavenly fair! 
So kind in cruelty ! — 

With careless steps may to these haunts repair ; 
And where her beaming eye 

Met mine in days so blest, 

A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest, 
And, seeking me around, 

May mark among the stones a lowly mound, 
That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense 
Then may she breathe a sigh, 

Of power to win me mercy from above, 
Doing Heaven violence ; 

All-beautifil in tears of late relenting love. 


Still dear to memory, when, in odorous showers 

Scattering their balmy flowers, 

To summer airs the o’ershadowing branches 
bowed ; 

The while, with humble state, 

In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sat, 

Wrapt in the roseate cloud ! 

Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture’s hem, 

Now her bright tresses gem, — 

In that all-blissful day, 

Like burnished gold with orient *pearls in- 
wrought ; — 

Some strew the turf; some on the waters float ; 

Some, fluttering, seem to say, 

In wanton circlets tossed, — ‘+ Here Love holds 
sovereign sway !”’ 


Oft I exclaimed, in awfjl tremor rapt, — 
“Surely of heavenly birth 

This gracious form that visits the low earth !” 
So in oblivion lapped 

Was reason’s power, by the celestial mien, 
The brow, the accents mild, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


I I I I 


The angelic smile serene, 

That now, all sense of sad reality 

O’erborne by transport wild, — 

‘‘ Alas! how came I here, and when?” I ery, — 
Deeming my spirit passed into the sky ! 

K’en though the illusion cease, 


In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart 


finds peace. 


If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my 
song, 

To match thy wish to please ; 

Leaving these rocks and trees, 

Thou boldly might’st go forth, and dare the 
assembled throng. 


CANZONE. 


From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, 

With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly, 

For there in vain the tranquil life is sought : 

If ’mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, 

Or deep embosomed a low valley lie, 

In its calm shade my trembling heart is still; 

And there, if Love so will, 

I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear ; 

While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, 

The wild emotions roll, 

Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear ; 

That whoso’er has proved the lover’s state 

Would say, ‘‘ He feels the flame, nor knows his 
future fate.”’ 


On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, 

I find repose, and from the thronged resort 

Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside ; 

At each lone step, thoughts ever new arise 

Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport 

Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs : 

Yet e’en these ills [ prize, — 

Though bitter, sweet, —nor would they were 
removed ; 

For my heart whispers me, *‘ Love yet has power 

To grant a happier hour: 

Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art 
loved”’: 

K’en then my breast a passing sigh will heave, 

‘‘ Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild be- 
lieve? ”’ 


Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave, 

I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone 

With thought intense her beauteous face en- 
grave : 

Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find 

With tears, and cry, “* Ah! whither thus alone 

Hast thou far wandered, and whom left behind?” 

But as with fixed mind 

On this fair image I impassioned rest, 

And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, 

Love my rapt fancy fills ; 


In its own error sweet the soul is blest, 


While all around so bright the visions glide : 
O, might the cheat endure! I ask not aught 
beside, 


nnn 


PETRARCA. 


Her form portrayed within the lucid stream 

Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn, 

Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam 

So lovely fair, that Leda’s self might say, 

Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn 

A star when covered by the solar ray : 

And as o’er wilds I stray, 

Where the eye naught but savage nature meets, 

There fancy most her brightest tints employs ; 

But when rude truth destroys 

The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets, 

I sit me down on the cold, rugged stone, — 

Less Gold, less dead than I, —and think and 
weep alone. 


Where the huge mountain rears his brow sub- 
lime, 

On which no neighbouring height its shadow 
flings, 

Led by desire intense the steep I climb ; 

And tracing in the boundless space each woe, 

Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings, 

Tears, that bespeak the heart o’erfraught, will 
flow: 

While, viewing all below, 

“From me,” I cry, “ what worlds of air divide 

The beauteous form, still absent, and still near!” 

Then, chiding soft the tear, 

I whisper low, *‘ Haply she too has sighed 

That thou art far away’’: a thought so sweet 

Awhile my laboring soul will of its burden 
cheat. 


Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound, 
Where the pure, smiling heavens are most serene ! 
There by a murmuring stream may I be found, 
Whose gentle airs around 
Waft grateful odors from the laurel green : 
Naught but my empty form roams here unblest ; 
There dwells my heart with her who steals it 
from my breast. 


—_—— 


CANZONE. 


O my own Italy! though words are vain 

The mortal wounds to close, 

Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain, 

Yet may it soothe my pain 

To sigh forth Tiber’s woes, 

And Arno’s wrongs, as on Po’s saddened shore 

Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour. 

Ruler of Heaven! by the all-pitying love 

That could thy Godhead move 

To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, — 

Turn, Lord, on this thy chosen land thine eye! 

See, God of Charity, 

From what light cause this cruel war has birth! 

And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled, 

Thou, Father, from on high, 

Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath 
may yield! 


Ye, to whose sovereign hands the Fates confide 

Of this fair land the reins, — 

This land, for which no pity 
breast, — 


wrings your 


531 


ST co nnn nnn aE 


Why does the stranger’s sword her plains infest? 

That her green fields be dyed, 

Hope ye, with blood from the barbarians’ veins? 

Beguiled by error weak, 

Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, 

Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek : 

When thronged your standards most, 

Ye are encompassed most by hostile bands. 

O hideous deluge gathered in strange lands, 

That, rushing down amain, 

O’erwhelms our every native lovely plain! 

Alas! if our own hands 

Have thus our weal betrayed, who shall our 
cause sustain ? 


Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, 

Rear her rude Alpine heights, 

A lofty rampart against German hate ; 

But blind Ambition, seeking his own ill, 

With ever restless will, 

To the pure gales contagion foul invites : 

Within the same strait fold 

The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, 

Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong ; 

And these —O shame avowed ! — 

Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: 

Fame tells how Marius’ sword 

Erewhile their bosoms gored, — 

Nor has Time’s hand aught blurred the record 
proud !— 

When they, who, thirsting, stooped to quaff the 
flood, 

With the cool waters mixed, drank of a com- 
rade’s blood ! 


Great Cesar’s name I pass, who o’er our plains 

Poured forth the ensanguined tide, 

Drawn by our own good swords from out their 
veins 5 y 

But now, — nor know I what ill stars preside,— 

Heaven holds this land in hate! 

To you the thanks, whose hands control her 
helm ! — 

You, whose rash feuds despoil 

Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm ! 

Are ye impelled by judgment, crime, or fate, 

To oppress the desolate ? 

From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, 

The hard-earned dole to wring, 

While from afar ye bring 

Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire ? 

In truth’s great cause I sing, 

Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire. 


Nor mark ye yet, confirmed by proof on proof, 

Bavaria’s perfidy, 

Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof ; 

(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in bhonor’s 
eye!) 

While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour 

Your inmost bosom’s gore ? — 

Yet give one hour to thought, 

And ye shall own how little he can hold 

Another’s glory dear, who sets his own at naught. 


O Latin blood of old, 


i organ nit 


. 
f 
! 
if 


Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, 

Nor bow before a name 

Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce ! 

For if barbarians rude 

Have higher minds subdued, 

Ours, ours the crime !— not such wise Nature’s 
course. 


Ah! is not this the soil my foot first pressed ? 

And here, in cradled rest, 

Was I not softly hushed, — here fondly reared? 

Ah! is not this my country, — so endeared 

By every filial tie, — 

In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie? 

O, by this tender thought 

Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought, 

Look on the people’s grief, 

Who, after God, of you expect relief ! 

And if ye but relent, 

Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, 

Against blind fury bent, 

Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight ; 

For no, — the ancient flame 

Is not extinguished yet, that raised the Italian 
name ! ‘ 


Mark, sovereign lords, how Time, with pinion 
strong, 

Swift hurries life along! 

f’en now, behold, Death presses on the rear! 

We sojourn here a day, — the next, are gone! 

The soul, disrobed, alone, 

Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear. 

O, at the dreaded bourn, 

Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn! 

(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) 

And ye, whose cruelty 

Has sought another’s harm, by fairer deed, 

Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire 

To win the honest meed 

Of just renown, — the noble mind’s desire !— 

Thus sweet on earth the stay ! 

Thus, to the spirit pure, unbarred is heaven’s 
way ! 


My song, with courtesy, and numbers sooth, 

Thy daring reasons grace! 

For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, 

Must woo to gentle ruth, 

Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, 

Ever to truth averse ! 

Thee better fortunes wait, 

Among the virtuous few, — the truly great! 

Tell them — But who shall bid my terrors cease ? 

Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O hea- 
ven-born Peace! 


VISIONS. 


I 


Brine one day at my window all alone, 
So manie strange things happened me to see, 
As much it grieveth me to thinke thereon. 
At my right hand a hynde appear’d to mee, 
So faire as mote the greatest god delite ; 
Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Of which the one was blacke, the other white: 
With deadly force so in their cruell race 
They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast, 
That at the last, and in short time, I spide, 
Under a rocke, where she alas, opprest, 
Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide. 
Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie 
Oft makes me wayle so hard a destenie. 


II. 


After, at sea a tall ship did appeare, 
Made all of heben! and white yvorie ; 
The sailes of golde, of silke the tackle were: 
Milde was the winde, calme seem’d the sea to 
bee, 
The skie eachwhere did show full bright and 
faire : 
With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was: 
But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire, 
And tumbled up the sea, that she (alas) 
Strake on a rock, that under water lay, 
And perished past all recoverie. 
O! how great ruth, and sorrowfull assay, 
Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie, 
Thus in a moment to see lost, and drown’d, 
So great riches, as like cannot be found. 


III. 


The heavenly branches did I see arise 

Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree, 
Amidst the yong greene wood of paradise ; 

Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see: 
Such store of birds therein yshrowded were, 

Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie, 
That with their sweetnes I was ravisht nere. 

While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie, 
The skie gan everie where to overcast, 

And darkned was the welkin all about, 
When sudden flash of heavens fire out brast,2 

And rent this royall tree quite by the roote ; 
Which makes me much and ever to complaine ; 
For no such shadow shalbe had againe. 


= 


Iv. 


Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise 
A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe, 
Whereto approched not in anie wise 
The homely shepheard, nor the ruder clowne ; 
But manie muses, and the nymphes withall, 
That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce 
To the soft sounding of the waters fall; 
That my glad hart thereat did much reioyce. 
But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight, 
I saw (alas) the gaping earth devoure 
The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight; 
Which yet aggreeves my hart even to this 
houre, 
And wounds my soule with rufull memorie, 
To see such pleasures gon so suddenly. 


Ne 
I saw a pheenix in the wood alone, 
With purple wings, and crest of golden hewe; 


1 Ebony. 2 Burst. 


een 


ee 


senate i tae ne A MeCN Na CN 


BOCCACCIO. 


Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone, 
That of some heavenly wight I had the vewe ; 
Untill he came unto the broken tree, 
And to the spring, that late devoured was. 
What say I more? each thing at last we see 
Doth passe away: the pheenix there alas, 
Spying the tree destroid, the water dride, 
Himselfe smote with his beake, as in disdaine, 
And so foorthwith in great despight he dide ; 
That yet my heart burnes, in exceeding paine, 
For ruth and pitie of so haples plight: 
O! let mine eyes no more see such a sight. 


VI. 


At last so faire a ladie did I spie, 

That thinking yet on her | burne and quake ; 
On hearbs and flowres she walked pensively, 

Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake: 
White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they 

were, 

As snow and golde together had been wrought: 
Above the wast a darke clowde shrouded her, 

A stinging serpent by the beele her caught; 
Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure ; 

And, well assur’d, she mounted up to loy. 
Alas, on earth so nothing doth endure, 

But bitter griefe and sorrowfull annoy : 
Which make this life wretched and miserable, 
Tossed with stormes of fortune variable. 


Vil. 


When I beheld this tickle ® trustles state 
Of vaine worlds glorie, flitting too and fro, 
And mortall men tossed by troublous fate 
In restles seas of wretchednes and woe; 
I wish I might this wearie life forgoe, 
And shortly turne unto my happie rest, 
Where my free spirite might not anie moe 4 
Be vext with sights, that doo her peace molest. 
And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest 
All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is, 
When ye these rythmes doo read, and vew the 
rest, 
Loath this base world, and thinke of heavens 
blis: 
And though ye be the fairest of Gods creatures, 
Yet thinke, that Death shall spoyle your goodly 
features. 


—————— 


GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO. 


Tus great writer, the ‘ Bard of Prose,”’ one 
of the immortal triumvirate of the early Italian 
literature, was'the natural son of a Florentine 
merchant. His family originated in Certaldo, 
a village of Tuscany. Giovanni’s mother was 
a Parisian, and he was born in Paris, in 1313. 
The boy was early brought to Florence, where 
he commenced his studies, and showed a preco- 
cious love of letters and poetry. At the age of 
ten, he was apprenticed to a merchant, who took 
him back to Paris, and kept him there six years. 


3 Uncertain. 4 More. 


533 


He then resided eight years in Naples. But his 
taste for literature gave him a dislike to mercan- 
tile life, and led to the formation of intimacies 
with the Neapolitan and Florentine scholars who 
had been assembled around the poetical king, 
Robert of Naples. He fell in love with the lady 
Mary, a natural daughter of the king, to please 
whom he wrote several works, both in prose and 
poetry. This princess he celebrated under the 
name of Fiammetta. The favor of his royal 
mistress, the intercourse which he enjoyed with 
learned men, the brilliant reception of Petrarch 
at the Neapolitan court, when on his way to re- 
ceive the laurel crown at Rome, and the friend- 
ship which he formed with that illustrious poet 
and scholar, cooperating with his natural inclina- 
tion, induced him finally to embrace the pursuit 
of literature and poetry. Having spent two years 
in Florence with his father, he returned to Na- 
ples, and was favorably received by Queen Jo- 
anna, for whose amusement, as 
his mistress, Fiammetta, he wrote the * Deca- 
merone,”’ or Tales of the Ten Days. 

Mr. Marictti, an eloquent writer, who, though 
an [talian, has mastered the elegancies of En- 
glish style, in his work on Italian history and 
literature,* hes drawn the following fanciful 
picture of Boceaccio about this period :— 

© Above the entrance of that tenebrous pas- 


ge, in a fragrant grove of orange and myrtle, 


8a 


| in sight of Naples and her gulf, of Vesuvius 


and its wide-spreading sides, exhibited to the 
worship of five hundred thousand souls, there 
lies an ancient monument, from time immenio- 
rial designated by fame as the tomb of Virgil. 
The tradition among the less cultivated classes 
in the country is, that this Virgil was an old 
wizard, whose tomb stands, as it were, as the 
guard of the grotto, that was dug in one night, 
at his bidding, by a legion of demons enlisted 
in his service. 

‘‘Over that haunted sepulchre there grew a 
laurel, which some of our grandfathers remem- 
ber still to have seen; and which might per- 
chance be there still, braving the inclemencies 
of the north winds, and the lightnings of heav- 
en, had it not been plucked to the very roots 
by the religious enthusiasm of classical tourists. 

“(Under the shade of that hallowed tree, 
kneeling on the marble steps of that holy tomb, 
there was, five hundred and seven years ago, a 
handsome youth, of about twenty years of age, 
with long dark locks falling upon his shoul- 
ders, with a bright’ smiling countenance, a no- 
ble forehead, and features after the best an- 
tique Florentine cast, with the hues of health 
and good-humor on his cheeks, and the habit- 
ual smile of a man whose life-path had hitherto 
lain amidst purple and roses. 

“That youth was Giovanni Boccaccio. 

“¢Born under unfavorable circumstances, and 
obliged to atone by a brilliant life for the stain 


* Ttaly : General Views of its History and Literature, in,- 


Reference to its present State. By L. Maruorri (2 vols., 


London, 1841, 12mo.). Vol. I. pp. ie 279) 
ss 


well as that of 


534 


inflicted upon his nativity by the imprudence 
and levity of his parents, he was long secretly 
preyed upon by a vague ambition, which in 
vain he endeavoured to lay asleep among the 
dissipations of a disorderly youth. There,.on 
the urn of the Latin poet, to which he often 
resorted in his disgust of every thing around 
him, he, according to his own account, ‘felt 
himself suddenly seized by a sacred inspiration, 
and entered into a daring vow with himself that 
his name should not perish with him.’ ”’ 

After his father’s death, Boccaccio established 
himself in Florence, where he wrote the cele- 
brated description of the plague, —a piece of his- 
torical painting which almost rivals the terrible 
picture of the plague of Athens, in Thucydides. 
When the republic of Florence resolved to recall 
Petrarch, and to restore to him the estate of his 
father, who died in banishment, they made 
choice of Boccaccio to bear the message to the 
poet, then living in Padua. The disturbances 
in Florence induced him to withdraw to Cer- 
taldo, where he possessed a small estate. In 
this retirement he composed several historical 
works in Latin. Boccaccio was a very good 
classical scholar. In addition to his familiar 
knowledge of Latin, he made acquirements in 
Greek, extraordinary for his age and country, 
under the instruction of Leontius Pilate, whom 
he kept, at his own charge, three years in his 
house; and he had the honor of being the first 
to procure from Greece transcripts of the “Iliad” 
and ‘‘ Odyssey.’’ He exerted all his influence 
to induce his contemporaries to substitute the 
study of classical antiquity for the scholastic 
pursuits on which their intellectual energies 
were expended. He was twice sent on impor- 
tant public affairs to the papal court, and ac- 
quitted himself of the duties of these embassies 
with signal ability. When the Florentines, 
desirous of making atonement to the memory 
of their great countryman, Dante, for the per- 
secution and banishment with which they had 
wronged him while living, established in their 
University a professorship for the explanation 
and illustration of his poem, Boccaccio was 
placed in the chair. Dante had always been the 
object of his ‘admiration and reverence ;.and he 
devoted himself to the work of his office with 
such diligence that he seriously injured his 
health, which was never completely restored. 
The news of the death of Petrarch, his instructer 
and friend, was a violent shock, and he survived 
him but little more than a year. He died at 
Certaldo, December 21st, 1375. 

The genius of Boccaccio is most favorably 
exhibited in the prose of his ‘‘ Decamerone ths 
a work which places him unquestionably in the 
first rank of Italian writers. He accomplished 
for Italian prose the same great service which 
Dante and Petrarch effected for poetry. But 
besides this, he wrote “La Teseide,” the first 
Italian epic in the ottava rima, of which he was 
the inventor; the ‘Amorosa Visione,” a long 
poem in the terza rima ; and other productions in 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


i 


verse, which are obscured by the superior splen- 
dor of the ‘** Decamerone.”’ He also wrote a 
work entitled “‘ Origine, Vita e Costumi di Dan- 
te Alighieri,” and a ‘“ Comento sopra la Com- 
media di Dante,”’ which, however, extends only 
to the seventeenth canto of the “Inferno.” The 
best edition of his works is that of Florence, 
in seventeen volumes, 1827-34. 


DANTE. 


Dante am I,— Minerva’s son, who knew 

With skill and genius (though in style obscure) 

And elegance maternal to mature 

My toil, a miracle to mortal view. 

Through realms tartarean and celestial flew 

My lofty fancy, swift-winged and secure ; 

And ever shall my noble work endure, 

Fit to be read of men, and angels too. 

Florence my earthly mother’s glorious name ; 

Stepdame to me,— whom from: her side she 
thrust, 2 

Her duteous son: bear slanderous, tongues the 
blame ; 

Ravenna housed my exile, holds my dust ; 

My spirit is with Him from whom it came, — 

A Parent envy cannot make unjust. 


SONGS FROM THE DECAMERONE. 


Curip, the charms that crown my fair 
Have made me slave to you and her - 

The lightning of her eyes, 

That darting through my bosom flies, 
Doth still your sovereign power declare : 
At your control, 

Each grace binds fast my vanquished soul. 


Devoted to your throne 
From henceforth I myself confess; 
Nor can I guess 
If my desires to her be known, 
Who claims each wish, each thought, so far, 
That all my peace depends on her. 


Then haste, kind godhead, and inspire 
A portion of your sacred fire ; 
To make her feel 
That selfconsuming zeal, 
The cause of my decay, 
That wastes my very heart away. 


Go, Love, and to my lord declare 
The torment which for him I find; 

Go, say I die, whilst still my fear 
Forbids me to declare my mind. 


With hands uplifted, I thee pray, 
O Love, that thou wouldst haste away, 
And gently to my lord impart 
The warmest wishes of my heart ; 
Declare how great my sorrows seem, 
Which, sighing, blushing, I endure for him. 
Go, Love, &c. 


Why was I not so bold to tell, 
For once, the passion that I feel ? 
To him, for whom I grieve alone, 
The anguish of my heart make known? 
He might rejoice to hear my grief 
Awaits his single pleasure for relief. 


Go, Love, &c. 


SECOND PERIOD. 


LUIGI PULCI. 


Lure: Peics was born in Florence, Dee. 3, 
1431. He belonged to a very respectable 
family, and was the youngest of three brothers, 
all distinguished for their abilities and learning. 
He lived on intimate terms with the great Lo- 
renzo de’ Medici, whose accomplished mother, 
Lucrezia Tornabuoni, induced him to write the 
poem of “Il Morgante Maggiore,” in which 
are celebrated the exploits of Orlando and the 
giant Morgante. Very little is known of his 
life, which was passed in privacy, and was 
wholly devoted to letters. The time and cir- 
cumstances of his death are also unknown. 

The principal work of Luigi Pulci is that 
already mentioned, the ‘‘ Morgante Maggiore.” 
Tt is one of the romantic narrative poems on 
the adventures of Charlemagne and his pala- 
dins. The character of this work has been the 
subject of critical disputes. Some,” says Ti- 
raboschi, ‘ place it among serious, others among 


—CENTURY XV. 


burlesque poems; some speak of it with con- 
tempt, others do not hesitate to pronounce it 
equal to the ‘ Furioso’ of Ariosto. All this 
proves, merely, that there is no absurdity which 
has not been written and adopted by some one. 
A little good sense and good taste is sufficient 
to discover in the ‘ Morgante’ a burlesque, in 
which are seen invention and poetic fancy and 
purity of style, so far as appertains to Tuscan 

roverbs and jests, of which it is full.” But, 
on the other hand, he censures the want of 
connection and order in the narratives, the 
hardness of the versification, the absence of ele- 
vated expression, and especially the ridicule of 
sacred things, ‘¢a defect, however, common at 
that time to not a few of the burlesque poets.” 


FROM THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 


ORLANDO AND THE GIANT. 


Tun full of wrath departed from the place, 
And far as pagan countries roamed astray, 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remembered by the way ; 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 


But if this my request be vain, 

Nor other means of help remain, 
Yet say, that when in armor bright 
He marched, as if equipped for fight, 
Amidst his chiefs, that fatal day, 

I saw, and gazed my very heart away. 


Go, Love, &c. 


’Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he found, 
Which formed the Christian’s and the pagan’s 
bound. 


The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Angrante ; under cover 

Of a great mountain’s brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants looked him over ; 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 


In daily jeopardy the place below. 


The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood. 
Orlando knocked, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seemed good ; 
Entered, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary’s holiest blood, 
And was baptized a Christian ; and then showed 
How to the abbey he had found his road. 


Said the abbot, ‘¢ You are welcome ; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary Mother’s Son divine ; 
And that you may not, Cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shal] receive 
The reason why our gate was barred to you: 
Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 


‘¢ When hither to inhabit first we came 
These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
They seemed to promise an asylum sure: 


From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we ’d stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 


“These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 
For late there have appeared three giants 
rough ; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
I know not, but they are all of savage stuff : 
When force and malice with some genius match, 
You know, they can do all, we ‘re not 
enough: 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 


‘¢ Our ancient fathers, living the desert in, 
For just and holy works were duly fed ; 


Think not they lived on locusts sole, ’t is certain 
That manna was rained down from heaven 


instead : 
But here ’t is fit we keep on the alert in 


Our bounds, or taste the stones showered 


down for bread, 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster, 


“The third, Morgante, ’s savagest by far; he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and 
oaks, 
And flings them, our community to bury ; 
And all that I can do but more provokes.” 
While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
Which nearly crushed Rondell, came tumbling 
over, 
So that he took a long leap under cover. 


*‘ For God’s sake, Cavalier, come in with speed! 
The manna ’s falling now,” the abbot cried. 
“ This fellow does not wish my horse should 
feed, 
Dear Abbot,”’ Roland unto him replied. 
“‘ Of restiveness he ’d cure him, had he need ; 
That stone seems with good-will and aim 
applied,” 
The holy father said, «I do n’t deceive ; 
They ‘Il one day fling the mountain, I believe.”’ 


Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own: 
“‘ Abbot,” he said, ‘I want to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone,”’ 
Said the abbot, “ Let not my advice seem shal- 
low ; 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
I would dissuade you, Baron, from this strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 


*¢ That Passamont has in his hand three darts, — 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield 
you must; 

You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just : 

If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
For these are very barbarous and robust.’ 

Orlando answered, “This I ’I] see, be sure, 

And walk the wild on foot to be secure.” 


The abbot signed the great cross on his front ; 

‘Then go you with God’s benison and mine.” 
Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 

As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
Right to the usual haunt of Passamont 5 

Who, seeing him alone in this design, 
Surveyed him fore and aft with eyes observant, 
Then asked him, if he wished to stay as servant ; 


And promised him an office of great ease, 
But said Orlando, “ Saracen insane! 

I come to kill you, if it shall so please 
God, — not to serve as footboy in your train ; 


ITALIAN POETRY. 
PE a 


You with his monks so oft have broke the peace, 

Vile dog! ’t is past his patience to sustain.” 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, / 
When he received an answer so injurious. 


And being returned to where Orlando stood, 
Who had not moved him from the spot, and 
swinging 
The cord, he hurled a stone with strength so 
rude, 
As showed a sample of his skill in slinging ; 
It rolled on Count Orlando’s helmet good, 
And head, and set both head and helmet 
ringing, 
So that he swooned with pain as if he died, 
But more than dead, he seemed so stupefied. 


Then Passamont, who thought him slain out. 
right, 

Said, “I will go, and, while he lies along 
Disarm me: why such craven did I fight ?”’ 

But Christ his servants ne’er abandons long, 
Especially Orlando, such a knight 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
Orlando has recalled his force and senses ; 


’ 


And loud he shouted, « Giant, where dost go ? 
Thou thought’st me, doubtless, for the bier 


outlaid ; ‘ 
To the right about! without wings thou ’rt too | 
slow 


To fly my vengeance, currish renegade ! 
"T was but by treachery thou laid’st me low.” 
The giant his astonishment betrayed, 
And turned about, and stopped his journey on, 
And then he stooped to pick up a great stone. 


Orlando had Cortana bare in hand; 

To split the head in twain was what he 

schemed : 

Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeemed : 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he banned, 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed : 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thanked the Father and the Word, —- 


Saying, “What grace to me thou ’st this day 
given ! 
And I to thee, O Lord, am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 
Since by the giant I was fairly downed. 
All things by thee are measured just and even; 
Our power without thine aid would naught 
be found : 
I pray thee, take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman.” 


And having said thus much, he went his Way ; 
And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 
To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reached him, loud ’gan say, 
‘“¢ How think’st thou, glutton, such a stone to 
throw?” 


a mere 


PULCI. 


When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 


And hurled a fragment of a size so large, 
That, if it had in fact fulfilled its mission, 
And Roland not availed him of bis targe, 
There would have been no need of a phy- 
sician. 
Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 
With all his sword. The lout fell; but, o’er- 
thrown, he, 
However, by no means forgot Macone. 


Morgante had a palace in his mode, 
Composed of branches, logs of wood, and 
earth, 
And stretched himself at ease in this abode, 
And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knocked, and knocked again, to goad 
The giant from his sleep; and he came forth, 
The door to open, like a crazy thing ; 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 


He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked 
him ; 
And Mahomet he called ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant backed 
him ; 
But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all the fears which racked him ; 
And to the gate he came with great regret. 
‘«¢ Who knocks here?” grumbling all the while, 
said he. 
“ That,” said Orlando, ‘¢ you will quickly see. 


‘¢ T come to preach to you, as to your brothers, — 


Sent by the miserable monks, — repentance ; | 


For Providence Divine, in you and others, 
Condemns the evil done my new acquaint- 


ance. 
'T is writ on high, your wrong must pay an- 
other’s ; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sen- 
tence. 


Know, then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamont and Alabaster.” 


Morgante said, “¢ O gentle Cavalier, 

Now, by thy God, say me no villany ! 
The favor of your name I fain would hear, 

And, if a Christian, speak for courtesy.” 
Replied Orlando, ‘ So much to your ear 

I, by my faith, disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored.” 


The Saracen rejoined, in humble tone, 
«¢] have had an extraordinary vision : 
A savage serpent fell on me alone, 
And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
Hence, to thy God, who for ye did atone 
Upon the cross, preferred I my petition ; 
His timely succour set me safe and free, 


And I a Christian am disposed to be.”’ 
68 


537 


MORGANTE AT THE CONVENT. 


Tun to the abbey they went on together, 
Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran 
thither 
To their superior, all in breathless rout, 
Saying, with tremor, “ Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out.” 
The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
Too greatly feared, at first, to be compliant. 


Orlando, seeing bim thus agitated, 
Said quickly, ‘* Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 
And hath renounced his Macon false” ; which 
here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, — 
A proof of both the giants’ fate quite clear: 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, “‘ Thou hast contented me, O Lord!” 


He gazed ; Morgante’s height he calculated, 

And more than once contemplated his size ; 
And then he said, ‘*O giant celebrated, 

Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 
How you could tear and fling the trees you late 

did, 

When I behold your form with my own eyes. 
You now a true and perfect friend will show 
Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 


«¢ And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
‘Why dost thou persecute me thus?’ said 
Christ ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaimed, 
And went for ever after preaching Christ, 
And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 
O’er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 


«© So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 
He who repents—thus writes the Evange- 
list — 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 
With just zeal for the Lord, that you ll exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damned to hell before!” 
And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot. Many days they did repose. 
One day, as with Orlando they both strayed, 
And sauntered here and there, where’er they 
chose, 
The abbot showed a chamber, where arrayed 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows ; 
And one of these Morgante for a whim 
Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 


There being a want of water in the place, 
Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
‘¢ Morgante, I could wish you, in this case, 
To go for water.” “ You shall be obeyed | 


—$—<$<——————————— 


538 


ways.” 


Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 
And went out on his way unto a fountain, 


ys 


Wage ey 
< 


tain’... 


Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 
Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
And, lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
And to the fountain’s brink precisely pours ; 
So that the giant’s joined by all the boars. 


‘ 
i. 
th 


Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 


Another, to revenge his fellow-farrow, 
Against the giant rushed in fierce career, 
And reached the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 


Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
He gave him such a punch upon the head 
As floored him so that he no more arose, 
Smashing the very bone; and he fell dead 
Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley fled. 
Morga’ste on his neck the bucket took, 


nor shook.’ 


The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t’ other ; and he brushed apace 
On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 
Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 


vase, 
Marvelled to see his strength so very great ; 
So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 


The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 

Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the 
pork: 

All animals are glad at sight of food. 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
That the flesh needs no salt beneath their 

fork. 
Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 


As though they wished to burst at once, they 
ate ; 
And gorged so, that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 
Perceiving that they all were picked too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honor great, 
A few days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well trained, 
Which he long time had for himself maintained. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 
_ eee 


In all commands,” was the reply, ‘“straight- 


Where he was wont to drink below the moun-: 


And passed unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripped up near. 


Full from the spring, which neither swerved 


With the dead boars, and with that brimful 


The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof; 
Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough. 
But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and 
hoof. 
Morgante said, ‘ Get up, thou sulky cur!” 
And still continued pricking with the spur. 


But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, “I am as light as any feather, 
And he has burst: to this what say you, Count?” 
Orlando answered, “ Like a ship’s mast rather 
You seem to me, and with the truck for front. 
Let him go; Fortune wills that we together 
Should march, but you on foot, Morgante, still.’ 
To which the giant answered, ‘So I will. 


‘“‘ When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight.” 
Orlando said, “1 really think you ’ll be, 
If it should prove God’s will, a goodly knight; . 
Nor will you napping there discover me. 
But never mind your horse; though out of sight 
"T were best to carry him into some wood, 
If but the means or way I understood.” 


The giant said, “Then carry him I will, 
Since that to carry me he was so slack, — 
To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
But lend a hand to place him on my back.” 
Orlando answered, “If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
*To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 
As you have done to him, will do to you. 


“Take care he don’t revenge himself, though ~ 
dead, 
As Nessus did of old, beyond all cure: 
I do n’t know if the fact you ’ve heard or read: 
But he will make you burst, you may be sure.” 
‘But help him on my back,” Morgante said, 
‘“‘And you shall see what weight I can endure: 
In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 
With all the bells, I’d carry yonder belfry.” 


The abbot said, “‘ The steeple may do well; 
But for the bells, you ’ve broken them, I wot.” 

Morgante answered, “ Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot.”’ 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
He said, “ Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs, —r if I have force”’: 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 


Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 
So if he did this, ’t is no prodigy ; 

But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
Because he was one of his family ; 

And, fearing that he might be hurt or maimed, 
Once more he bade him lay his burden by: 

‘¢ Put down, nor bear him further the desert in.” 

Morgante said, “Ill carry him, for certain.” 


i ce ntl nanan Nl nc eine Nine NAHE 


I OT ne rari ap penne 


BOJARDO.—LORENZO DE’ MEDICI. 539 | 


a tamer ae 


He did; and stowed him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then returned with speed. 
Orlando said, ‘¢ Why longer do we stay ¢ 
Morgante, here is naught to do indeed.” 
The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
And said, with great respect, he had agreed 
To leave his Reverence; but for this decision 
He wished to have his pardon and permission. 


~~ 


MATTEO MARIA BOJARDO. 


Marreo Marra Bosarpo, Conte di Scandi- 
ano, sprung from an ancient and noble family 
of Reggio, was born, according to Tiraboschi, 
about the year 1430, at Fratta, near Ferrara. 
According to others, his birth took place in 
1434. Of his early life little is known. He 
is said to have been a pupil of the celebrated 
philosopher, Soccini Benzi, in the University of 
Ferrara. He acquired a knowledge of the civil 
‘law, and of the Greek and Latin languages. 
His abilities and various accomplishments gained 
the favorable notice of Borso, duke of Modena, 
whom he accompanied on his journey to Rome 
in 1471, when Borso received the investiture 
of the dukedom of Ferrara. Hercules the First, 
the successor of Borso, held Bojardo in- equal 
estimation, and sent him, with other nobles, to 
conduct his future bride from Aragon to Ferrara. 
He was employed on several other missions to 
the most powerful princes of Italy. In 1478, 
the duke made him governor of Reggio; in 
1481, captain in Modena; and afterwards, gov- 
ernor of Reggio a second time. He died at 
Reggio, in 1494. 

Bojardo was one of the most accomplished 
and able men of his age. He translated the 
History of Herodotus from the Greek, and 
from the Latin, ‘The Golden Ass” of Apule- 
ius. He wrote many short poems both in Latin 
and Italian, and a drama in five acts, called 
“{] Timone,’” founded on Lucian’s *¢ Misan- 
thrope.”’ But his fame rests chiefly upon the 
celebrated poem, the ‘¢ Orlando Innamorato,”’ 
which, though inferior in point of style to some 
of his minor pieces, and though he did not live 
to complete the plan, or to put the last touches 
to the composition, shows a high poetical and 
creative genius, and a fervid fancy. The poem 
was afterwards recast by Berni, and received 
with boundless applause. A part of it was trans- 
lated into English by Robert Tofte, and pub- 
lished in 1598. 


——= 


SONNETS. 


Buavrirut gift, and dearest pledge of love, 
Woven by that fair hand whose gentle aid 
Alone can heal the wound itself hath made, 
And to my wandering life a sure guide prove ! 
O dearest gift, all others far above, 

Curiously wrought in many-colored shade, 


Ah! why with thee has not the spirit stayed, 
That with such tasteful skill to form thee strove ? 
Why have I not that lovely hand with thee? 
Why have I not with thee each’ fond desire 
That did such passing beauty to thee give? 
Through life thou ever shalt remain with me, 
A thousand tender sighs thou shalt inspire, 

A thousand kisses day and night receive. 


— 


I saw that lovely cheek grow wan and pale 
At our sad parting, -as at times a cloud, 
Stealing the morn or evening sun to shroud, 
Casts o’er his glorious light an envious veil. 

I saw the rose’s orient color fail, 

Yielding to lilies wan its empire proud, 

And saw, with joy elate, by sorrow bowed, 
How from those eyes the pearls and crystal fell. 
O precious words, and O sweet tears, that steep 
In pleasing sadness my devoted heart, 

And make it with its very bliss to weep! 

Love with you weeping sighed, and did impart 
Such sweetness to you, that my sorrow deep 
To memory comes devoid of sorrow’s dart. 


——@——= 


LORENZO DE” MEDICI. 


Lorenzo pe’ Meonict, distinguished by the 
name of the Magnificent, was the son of Piero, 
and grandson of Cosmo de’ Medici, the founder 
of the splendid political fortunes of that ancient 
family. He was born January Ist, 1448. His 
mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni, superintended his 
early education, and, with the assistance of able 
teachers, inspired him with a taste for the fine 
arts and for literature. At the age of sixteen, 
Piero, then at the head of the republic of Flor- 
ence, sent him to several courts, to prepare him 
for his future station. Soon after his return, he 
had the good fortune to defeat a powerful con- 
spiracy which had been formed against Piero’s 
life. In 1471, on the death of his father, Lo- 
renzo was acknowledged as the head of the 
republic. The history of his wise and enlight- 
ened administration of the government does 
not belong to this place. His generous protec- 
tion of arts and letters procured him the name 
of the Augustus of Florence. He established 
libraries, sparing no expense in procuring books, 
caused academies to be opened, and supported 
with liberal hand men of science and letters. 
He was himself a scholar of no mean attain- 
ments, and in his youth distinguished himself 
by his poetical compositions. He wrote son- 
nets, dramas, canti carnascialeschi, or carnival 
songs, and in all showed great talent and 
taste. His influence made Florence the favored 
seat of letters, science, and art. Philological 
pursuits, and especially the study of Plato, 
flourished greatly under his fostering support. 
“Nor,” says Hallam,* “‘ was mere philology the 


* Introduction to the Literature of Europe, by HENRY 
Haan (3 vols., London, 1840, 8vo.). Vol. L., pp. 243-245. 


i 


ae pee 


sole, or the leading pursuit, to which so truly 
noble a mind accorded its encouragement. He 
sought in ancient learning something more ele- 
vated than the narrow, though necessary, re- 
searches of criticism. In a villa overhanging the 
towers of Florence, on the steep slope of that 
lofty hill crowned by the mother city, the an- 
cient Fiesole, in gardens which Tully might 
have envied,.with Ficino, Landino, and Politian 
at his side, he delighted his hours of leisure 
with the beautiful visions of Platonic philosophy, 
for which the summer stillness of an Italian sky 
appears the most congenial accompaniment. 

“Never could the sympathies of the soul 
with outward nature be more finely touched ; 
never could more striking suggestions be pre- 
sented to the philosopher and the statesman. 
Florence lay beneath them; not with all the 
magnificence that the later Medici have given 
her, but, thanks to the piety of former times, 
presenting almost as varied an outline to the 
sky. One man, the wonder of Cosmo’s age, 
Brunelleschi, had crowned the beautiful city 
with the vast dome of its cathedral; a struc- 
ture unthought of in Italy before, and rarely 
since surpassed. It seemed, amidst clustering 
towers of inferior churches, an emblem of the 
Catholic hierarchy under its supreme head ; 
like Rome itself, imposing, unbroken, unchange- 
able, radiating in equal expansion to every 
part of the earth, and directing its convergent 
curves to heaven. Round this were numbered, 
at unequal heights, the Baptistery, with its gates 
worthy of paradise; the tall and richly deco- 
rated belfry of Giotto; the church of the Car- 
mine, with the frescoes of Masaccio; those of 
Santa Maria Novella, beautiful as a bride, of 
Santa Croce, second only in magnificence to 
the cathedral, and of Saint Mark; the San 
Spirito, another great monument of the genius 
of Brunelleschi; the numerous convents that 
rose within the walls of Florence, or were scat- 
tered immediately about them. From these 
the eye might turn to the trophies of a republi- 
can government that was rapidly giving way 
before the citizen prince who now surveyed 
them; the Palazzo Vecchio, in which the seig- 
niory of Florence held their councils, raised by 
the Guelf aristocracy, the exclusive, but not 
tyrannous faction, that long swayed the city; or 
the new and unfinished palace which Brunel- 
leschi had designed for one of the Pitti family, 
before they fell, as others had already done, in 
the fruitless struggle against the house of Me- 
dici; itself destined to become the abode of the 
victorious race, and to perpetuate, by retaining 
its name, the revolutions that had raised them 
to power. 

‘The prospect, from an elevation, of a great 
city in its silence, is one of the most impres- 
sive, as well as beautiful, we ever behold. But 
far more must it have brought home thoughts 
of seriousness to the mind of one, who, by the 
force of events, and the generous ambition of 
his family, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


dangerous necessity of governing without the 
right, and, as far as might be, without the sem- 
blance of power; one who knew the vindictive 
and unscrupulous hostility, which, at home and 
abroad, he had to encounter. If thoughts like 
these could bring a cloud over the brow of Lo- 
renzo, unfit for the object he sought in that 
retreat, he might restore its serenity by other 
scenes which his garden commanded. Moun- 
tains, bright with various hues, and clothed with 
wood, bounded the horizon, and, on most sides, 
at no great distance ; but embosomed in these 
were other villas and domains of his own; 
while the level country bore witness to his 
agricultural improvements, the classic diversion 
of a statesman’s cares. The same curious spirit 
which led him to fill his garden at Careggi with 
exotic flowers of the East, the first instance of a 
botanical collection in Europe, had introduced 
anew animal from the same regions. Herds 
of buffaloes, since naturalized in Italy, whose 
dingy hide, bent neck, curved horns, and low- 
ering aspect contrasted with the grayish hue 
and full, mild eye of the Tuscan oxen, pastured 
in the valley, down which the yellow Arno steals 
silently through its long reaches to the sea.” 

Lorenzo died in 1492, greatly honored and 
beloved. His life has been written, among 
others, by Fabroni, Pisa, in two volumes quar- 
to; and by William Roscoe, in two volumes 
quarto, Liverpool, 1795. 


ee 


STANZAS. 


Fottow that fervor, O devoted spirit, 
With which thy Saviour’s goodness fires thy 
breast ! 
Go where it draws, and when it calls, O, hear 
it! 
It is thy Shepherd’s voice, and leads to rest. 


In this thy new devotedness of feeling, 
. . ll . 
Suspicion, envy, anger, have no claim; 
Sure hope is highest happiness revealing, 
With peace, and gentleness, and purest fame. 


For in thy holy and thy happy sadness 
If tears or sighs are sometimes sown by thee, 
In the pure regions of immortal gladness 
Sweet and eternal shall thine harvest be. 


Leave them to say, —“ This people’s meditation 
Is vain and idle! ’— sit with ear and eye 
Fixed upon Christ, in childlike dedication, 
O thou inhabitant of Bethany ! 


SONNET. 


Orr on the recollection sweet I dwell, — 

Yea, never from my mind can aught efface 

The dress my mistress wore, the time, the place, 

Where first she fixed my eyes in raptured spell. 

How she then looked, thou, Love, rememberest 
well, 


—— 
| 


Lege Sr ee 


and his own, was involved in the 
| | 


LORENZO DE’ MEDICI.—POLIZIANO. 


For thou her side hast never ceased to grace; 

Her gentle air, her meek, angelic face, 

The powers of language and of thought excel. 

When o’er the mountain-peaks deep-clad in 
snow 

Apollo pours a flood of golden light, 

So down her white-robed limbs did stream her 
hair : ; 

The time and place ’t were words but lost to 
show ; 

It must be day, where shines a sun so bright, 

And paradise, where dwells a form so fair. 


ORAZIONE. 


Att nature, hear the sacred song! 
Attend, O earth, the solemn strain! 
Ye whirlwinds wild that sweep along, 
Ye darkening storms of beating rain, 
Umbrageous glooms, and forests drear, 
And solitary deserts, hear ! 
Be still, ye winds, whilst to the Maker’s praise 
The creature of his power aspires his voice to 
raise ! 


O, may the solemn-breathing sound 
Like incense rise before the throne, 
Where he, whose glory knows no bound, 
Great Cause of all things, dwells alone! 
'T is he I sing, whose powerful hand 
Balanced the skies, outspread the land ; 
Who spoke, — from ocean’s stores sweet waters 
came, 
And burst resplendent forth the heaven-aspiring 
flame. 


One general song of praise arise 
To him whose goodness ceaseless flows ; 
Who dwells enthroned beyond the skies, 
And life and breath on all bestows : 
Great Source of intellect, his ear 
Benign receives our vows sincere : 
Rise, then, my active powers, your task fulfil, 
And give to him your praise, responsive to my 
will! 


Partaker of that living stream 
Of light, that pours an endless blaze, 
O, let thy strong reflected beam, 
My understanding, speak his praise ! 
My soul, in steadfast love secure, 
Praise him whose word is ever sure: 
To him, sole just, my sense of right incline : 
Join, every prostrate limb; my ardent spirit, 
join! 


Let all of good this bosom fires, 
To him, sole good, give praises due : 
Let all the truth himself inspires 
Unite to sing him only true: 
To him my every thought ascend, . 
To him my hopes, my wishes, bend: 
From earth’s wide bounds let louder hymns 
arise, 
And his own word convey the pious sacrifice ! 


In ardent adoration joined, 
Obedient to thy holy will, 
Let all my faculties combined, 
Thy just desires, O God, fulfil ! 
From thee derived, Eternal King, 
To thee our noblest powers we bring: 
O, may thy hand direct our wandering way! 
O, bid thy light arise, and chase the clouds away ! 


Eternal Spirit, whose command 
Light, life, and being gave to all, 
O, hear the creature of thy hand, 
Man, constant on thy goodness call! 
By fire, by water, air, and earth, 
That soul to thee that owes its birth, — 
By these, he supplicates thy blest repose : 
Absent from thee, no rest his wandering spirit 
knows. 


—_—. 


ANGELO POLIZIANO. 


Turis distinguished scholar was born July 
24th, 1454, at Monte Pulciano, in the Florentine 
republic. His learning and accomplishments 
gained him the favor of Lorenzo the Magnifi- 
cent, who made him tutor to his children. He 
was well skilled in the Greek and Latin lan- 
guages, and holds a preéminent rank among the 
scholars of his time. Among his literary labors, 
his translation of the “Iliad” into Latin hexam- 
eters, and his commentary upon the “ Pandects”’ 
of Justinian, merit special mention. He also 
wrote Latin epigrams; and a poem on rural life, 
entitled ‘Rusticus,’ upon which the highest 
encomiums have been bestowed. His principal 
poems in Italian are, the “ Stanze sopra la Gi- 
ostra di Giuliano,’’ and the tragedy of “ Orfeo,” 
which has already been noticed in the Intro- 
duction, as the first regular drama of the Italian 
stage. They were both written before the age 
of nineteen, and are remarkable for the preco- 
cious talent they display. His writings in gen- 
eral are marked by elegance of expression and 
elevation of sentiment. He died in 1492. 


FROM THE STANZE SOPRA LA GIOSTRA. 


Now, in his proud revenge exulting high, 
Through fields of air Love speeds his rapid 
flight, 
And in his mother’s realms the treacherous boy 
Rejoins his kindred band of flutterers light ; 
That realm, of each bewitching grace the joy, 
Where Beauty wreathes with sweets her 
tresses bright, — 
Where Zephyr importunes, on wanton wing, 
Flora’s coy charms, and aids her flowers to 


spring. 


Thine, Erato, to Love’s a kindred name, — 
Of Love’s domains instruct the bard to tell; 
To thee, chaste Muse, alone 't is given to claim 


Free ingress there, secure from every spell: 
TT 


Thou rul’st of soft amours the vocal frame, 
And Cupid, oft as childish thoughts impel 
To thrill with wanton touch its golden strings, 

Behind his winged back his quiver flings. 


A mount o’erlooks the charming Cyprian isle, 


eye sublime 


A verdant hill o’erhangs its highest pile, 


prime ; 


say, 


A wall of gold secures the utmost bound, 


crowned, 


tale ; 


found, 
His shaft of gold Love tempers for the wound. 


Blanched with cold snows, or fringed .with 
hoar-frost sere ; 
No Winter wide his icy mantle spreads ; 

No tender scion rends the tempest drear. 
Here Spring eternal smiles; nor varying leads 
His change quadruple the revolving year: 
Spring, with a thousand blooms her brows en- 

twined, 
Her auburn locks light fluttering in the wind. 


The inferior band of Loves, a childish throng, 

Tyrants of none, save hearts of vulgar kind, 
Each other gibing with loquacious tongue, 

On stridulous stones their barbed arrows grind : 
Whilst Pranks and Wiles, the rivulet’s marge 

along, 

Ply at the whirling wheel their task assigned ; 
And on the sparkling stone, in copious dews, 
Vain Hopes and vain Desires the lymph effuse. 


There pleasing Pain and flattering fond Delight, 
Sweet Broils, Caresses sweet, together go; 
Sorrows, that hang their heads in doleful plight, 

And swell with tears the bitter streamlet’s 
flow ; 
Paleness all wan, and dreaming still of slight ; 
Affection fond, with Leanness, Fear, and Woe; 
Suspicion, casting round his peering eye; 
And o’er the midway, dancing, wanton Joy. 


'*Pleasure with Beauty gambols ; light in air, 
Bliss soars inconstant; Anguish sullen sits ; 
Blind Error flutters, bat-like, here and there ; 
And Frenzy raves, and strikes his thigh by 
fits ; 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


tract ne 


Whence, towards the morn’s first blush, the 


Might reach the sevenfold course of mighty Nile ; 
But ne’er may mortal foot that prospect climb: 


Whose base, a plain, that laughs in vernal 
Where gentlest airs, midst flowers and herbage 


Urge o’er the quivering blade their wanton way. 


And, dark with viewless shade, a woody vale; 
There, on each branch, with youthful foliage 


Some feathered songster chants his amorous 
And joined in murmurs soft, with grateful sound, 


Two rivulets glide pellucid through the dale ; 
Beside whose streams, this sweet, that bitter 


No flowerets here decline their withered heads, 


Repentance, of past folly late aware, 

Her fruitless penance there ne’er intermits ; 
Her hand with gore fell Cruelty distains, 
And seeks Despair in death to end his pains. 


Gestures and Nods, that inmost thoughts impart, 
Illusions silent, Smiles that guile intend, 
The Glance, the Look, that speak the impas- 
sioned heart, 
’Mid flowery haunts, for youth their toils sus- 
pend; 

And never from his griefs Complaint apart, 
Prone on his palm his face is seen to bend ; 
Now hence, now thence, in unrestrained guise, 

Licentiousness on wing capricious flies. 


Such ministers thy progeny attend, 
Venus, fair mother of each fluttering power! 
A thousand odors from those fields ascend, 
While Zephyr brings in dews the pearly 
shower, 
Fanned by his flight, what time their incense 
blend 
The lily, violet, rose, or other flower ; 
And views with conscious pride the exulting 
scene, 
Its mingled azure, vermeil, pale, and green. 


The trembling pansy virgin fears alarm; 

Downward her modest eye she blushing 

bends: 
The laughing rose, more specious, bold, and 
warm, 

Her ardent bosom ne’er from Sol defends ; 
Here from the capsule bursts each opening 

charm, 

Full-blown, the invited hand she here attends ; 
Here, she, who late with fires delightful glowed, 
Droops Janguid, with her hues the mead be- 

strewed. 


In showers descending, courts the enamoured air 
The violet’s yellow, purple, snowy hues; 
Hyacinth, thy woes thy bosom’s marks declare ; 

His form Narcissus in the stream yet views; 
In’snowy vest, but fringed with purple glare, 
Pale Clytia the parting sun pursues ; 
Fresh o’er Adonis Venus pours her woes; 
Acanthus smiles; her lovers Crocus shows. 


THE MOUNTAIN MAID. 


‘‘Marps of these hills, so fair and gay, 
Say whence you come, and whither stray.” 


‘From yonder heights: our lowly shed 
Those clumps that rise so green disclose ; 
There, by our simple parents bred, 
We share their blessing’ and repose ; 
Now, evening from the flowery close 
Recalls, where late our flocks we fed.” 


“‘ Ah, tell me, in what region grew 
Such fruits, transcending all compare ? 
Methinks, I Love’s own offspring view, 


Such graces deck your shape and air; 
Nor gold nor diamonds glitter there ; 
Mean your attire, but angels you. 


“Yet well such beauties might repine 
’Mid desert hills and vales to bloom ; 
What scenes, where pride and splendor shine, 
Would not your brighter charms become ? 
But say, — with this your Alpine home, 
Can ye, content, such bliss resign ? , 


«¢ Far happier we our fleecy care 

Trip lightly after to the mead, 
Than, pent in city walls, your fair 

Foot the gay dance in silks arrayed: 

Nor wish have we, save who should braid 
With gayest wreaths her flowing hair.’ 


EUROPA. 


BenEATH a snow-white bull’s majestic guise, 
Here Jove, concealed by Love’s transforming 
power, 
Exulting bears his peerless, blooming prize : 
With wild affright she views the parting 
shore ; 
Her golden locks the winds that adverse rise 
In loose disorder spread her bosom o’er ; 
Light floats her vest, by the same gales upborne ; 
One hand the chine, one grasps the circling horn. 


Her naked feet, as of the waves afraid, 
With shrinking effort, seem to avoid the main ; 
Terror and grief in every act; for aid 
Her cries invoke the fair attendant train : 
They, seated distant on the flowery mead, 
Frantic, recall their mistress loved, in vain, — 
‘Return, Europa!” far resounds the cry: 
On sails the god, intent on amorous joy. 


—@— 


ANTONIO TIBALDEO. 


Tax birth of this scholar and poet bas been 
variously stated, — some placing it in 1456, and 
others in 1463. The former date is the one 
commonly adopted. He belonged to Ferrara, 
and is said to have been educated as a physi- 
cian ; but, as Corniani says, ‘‘ he was more se- 
quacious of Apollo, as the father of the Muses, 
than as the progenitor of Ausculapius.” Accord- 
ing to one story, he was crowned as poet in 
Ferrara, by the Emperor Frederic the Third, 
in 1469; but this is disputed by Tiraboschi on 
strong grounds. He wrote poems both in Latin 
and Italian. His earliest productions were in 
his mother tongue, and were received with 
great applause. He died at Rome, in 1537. 


SONNETS. 


From Cyprus’ isle, where Love owns every 


bower, 


Or from the neighbouring shores of Jove’s do- 


main, 


SS eee 


TIBALDEO.—DEL BASSO. 


ne eae nee eee ieee en ee ee a aan 


543 


Thou surely com’st, sweet Rose ; since this our 
plain 

Bears not the stem where bloomed so fair a 
flower. 

For I, who late was near my last sad hour, 

No sooner from her hand the gift obtain, 

Than thy sweet breath did charm away my pain, 

And to my limbs restore their wonted power. 

But mark one thing, that wakes a just surprise : 

Thy pallid form with life but faintly glows, 

That late of loveliest hue blushed vermeil dies. 

Haste, to the thoughtless fair go sorrowing, 
Rose ! 

Bid her, by thy waned beauty taught, be wise ; 

For her own good provide, and my repose. 


Lorp of my love! my soul’s far dearer part ! 

As thou wilt live, and still enjoy the day, 

Wouldst thou in peace I breathe my soul away? 

Then moderate the grief that rends thy heart; 

Thy sobs and tears give death a double smart. 

If weep thou must, O, grant a short delay, 

Till my faint spirit leave this house of clay ! 

E’en now I feel it struggling to depart. 

This only boon I crave, ere I go hence: 

Spotless maintain the bed of our chaste love, 

Which cold I leave while youth refines each 
sense ; 

And, O, if e’er my will unduly strove 

With thine,— as oft occurred, — forgive the 
offence ! 

I go, — farewell ! — for thee I wait above. 


ES ee 


ANDREA DEL BASSO. 


Anprea DEL Basso was an ecclesiastic of | 
Ferrara. He is known in literary history chief- 
ly as a commentator on the “‘ Teseide’’ of Boc- 
caccio. Other works of the same kind, by him, 
exist in manuscript. He flourished in the latter 
half of the fifteenth century. Several of his 
poetical compositions are found in the collection 


of Baruftaldi. 


es 


ODE TO A DEAD BODY. 


Rise from the loathsome and devouring tomb, 
Give up thy body, woman without heart, 
Now that its worldly part 

Is over; and deaf, blind, and dumb, 

Thou servest worms for food, 

And from thine altitude 


Fierce death has shaken thee down, and thou 
dost fit 

Thy bed within a pit. 
Night, endless night, hath got thee | 
To clutch, and to englut thee ; | 
And rottenness confounds i 
Thy limbs and their sleek rounds; | 
And thou art stuck there, stuck there, in despite, | 
Like a foul animal in a trap at night. 


Come in the public path, and see how all 

Shall fly thee, as a child goes shrieking back 

From something long and black, 

Which mocks along the wall. 

See if the kind will stay, 

To hear what thou wouldst say ; 

See if thine arms can win 

One soul to think of sin ; 

See if the tribe of wooers 

Will now become pursuers, 

And if, where they make way, 

Thou ‘It carry now the day ; 

Or whether thou wilt spread not such foul night, 

That thou thyself shalt feel the shudder and the 
ieht., 


Yes, till thou turn into the loathly hole, 
As the least pain to thy bold-facedness. 
There let thy foul distress 
Turn round upon thy soul, 
| And cry, O wretch in a shroud, 
That wast so headstrong proud, 
This, this is the reward 
For hearts that are so hard, 
That flaunt so, and adorn 
And pamper them, and scorn 
To cast a thought down hither, 
Where all things come to wither ; 
And where no resting is, and no repentance, 
Even to the day of the last awful sentence. 


Where is that alabaster bosom now, 
That undulated once, like sea on shore ? 
’T is clay unto the core. 

Where are those sparkling eyes 

That were like twins o’ th’ skies? 
Alas! two caves are they, 

Filled only with dismay. 

Where is the lip that shone 

Like painting newly done? 

Where the round cheek? and where 
The sunny locks of hair? 

And where the symmetry that bore them all ? 


Gone, like the broken clouds when the winds 
fall, 


Did I not tell thee this, over and over, — 

The time will come, when thou wilt not be fair, 

Nor have that conquering air, 

Nor be supplied with lover ? 

Lo! now behold the fruit 

Of all that scorn of shame ; 

Is there one spot the same 

In all that fondled flesh? 

One limb that’s not a mesh 

Of worms, and sore offence, 

And horrible succulence ? 

Tell me, is there one jot, one jot remaining, 

To show thy lovers now the shapes which thou 
wast vain in? 


Love ?— Heaven should be implored for some- 
thing else, — 

For power to weep, and to bow down one’s soul. 

Love? —’T isa fiery dole; 

A punishment like hell’s. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


EEE 


Yet thou, puffed with thy power, 

Who wert but as the flower 

That warns us in the Psalm, 

Didst think thy veins ran balm 

From an immortal fount ; 

Didst take on thee to mount 

Upon an angel’s wings, 

When thou wert but as things 

Clapped, on a day, in Egypt’s catalogue, 
Under the worshipped nature of a dog. 


Ill would it help thee, now, were I to say, 
Go, weep at thy confessor’s feet, and cry, 
‘‘ Help, father, or I die! 

See, see, he knows his prey, 

Even he, the dragon old ! 

O, be thou a stronghold 

Betwixt my foe and me! 

For I would fain be free ; 

But am so bound in ill, 

That, struggle as I will, 

It strains me to the last, 

And I am losing fast 

My breath and my poor soul; and thou art he 
Alone canst save me in thy piety.” 


But thou didst smile, perhaps, thou thing be- 
sotted, 

Because, with some, death is a sleep, a word. 

Hast thou, then, ever heard 

Of one that slept and rotted ? 

Rare is the sleeping face 

That wakes not as it was. 

Thou shouldst have earned high heaven ; 

And then thou might’st have given 

Glad looks below, and seen 

Thy buried bones, serene, 

As odorous and as fair 

As evening lilies are ; 

And in the day of the great trump of doom, 

Happy thy soul had been to join them at the 
tomb. 


Ode, go thou down and enter 

The horrors of the centre: 

Then fly amain, with news of terrible fate, 

To those who think they may repent them late. 


—_o——_ 


JACOPO SANNAZZARO. 


Jacopo Sannazzaro belonged to an ancient 
and distinguished Italian family. He was born 
in 1458, at Naples. He received his early 
instruction in Greek and Latin chiefly from 
Giuniano Majo; and on entering the Neapolitan 
Academy, the head of which was Pontano, he 
assumed the name of Actius Syncerus. At the 
age of eight years, he conceived a childish pas- 
sion for Carmasina Bonifacia, a girl of about 
the same age, whose praises he afterwards sung, 
under the names of Harmosina and Phillis. His 
poems attracted the notice of King Ferdinand, 
who received him into his house and became 


his warm friend. Frederic, who succeeded Fer- 
dinand, bestowed on the poet the villa of Mer- 
goglino and a pension of six hundred ducats. 
When his patron was driven from the throne, in 
1501, Sannazzaro accompanied him to France, 
and served him faithfully until the king’s death. 
After this, he returned to Naples, where he 
died in 1530, or, according to others, in 1532. 

| Sannazzaro led a blameless life, and was dis- 
tinguished both in Latin and Italian poetry. In 
the former, his most original and elegant works 
are the * Piscatory Eclogues,”’ and the poem 
‘© De Partu Virginis’’; in the latter, he wrote 
sonnets, canzoni, and the * Arcadia,”’ a classical 
work in the pastoral kind, and the first of any 
importance in Italian. “If the ‘Arcadia’ of 
| Sannazzaro had never been written,” says Ros- 
| coe,* “his sonnets and lyrical pieces would 
have secured to him the distinction of one of 
the chief poets that Italy has produced.” 


a 


ELEGY FROM THE ARCADIA. 


O, srrer as bright, too early blest, 
Pure spirit, freed from mortal care, 
Safe in the far-off mansions of the sky, 
There, with that angel take thy rest, 
Thy star on earth; go, take thy guerdon there! 
Together quaff the immortal joys on high, 
Scorning our mortal destiny ; 
Display thy sainted beauty bright, 
’Mid those that walk the starry spheres, 
Through seasons of unchanging years 5 
By living fountains, and by fields of light, 
Leading thy blessed flocks above ; 

And teach thy shepherds here to guard their 

care with love. 


Thine, other hills and other groves, 

And streams and rivers never dry, 

On whose fresh banks thou pluck’st the am- 
aranth flowers ; 

While, following other Loves 

Through sunny glades, the Fauns glide by, 

Surprising the fond Nymphs in happier bow- 
ers. 

Pressing the fragrant flowers, 

Androgeo there sings in the“summer shade, 

By Daphnis’ and by Melibeeus’ side, 

Filling the vaulted heavens wide 

With the sweet music made ; 

While the glad choirs, that round appear, 

Listen to his dear voice we may no longer hear. 


As to the elm is his embracing vine, 

As their bold monarch to the herded kine, 

As golden ears to the glad sunny plain, 

Such wert thou to our shepherd youths, O 
swain ! 

Remorseless Death! ifthus thy flames consume 

The best and loftiest of his race, 

Who may escape his doom ? 


ee EE eee ee 


* Life of Leo the Tenth, Vol. I., p. 61. 
69 


[es Far RET PISO TOIGSESEIT SEIS SS SSeS 


SANNAZZARO. 


TTS a a es a ce AA LE TEL a a Re TRE TST OUSTTIORRE TUTE TLE STI) 


a I 


545 


What shepherd ever more shall grace 
The world like him, and with his magic strain 
Call forth the joyous leaves upon the woods, 
Or bid the wreathing boughs embower the sum- 
mer floods ? 


a 


SONNETS. 


Brtovep, well thou know’st how many a year 
I dwelt with thee on earth, in blissful love ; 
Now am I called to walk the realms above, 
And vain to me the world’s cold shows appear. 
Enthroned in bliss, I know no mortal fear ; 
And in my death with no sharp pangs I strove, | 
Save when I thought that thou wert left to prove 
A joyless fate, and shed the bitter tear. 
But round thee plays a ray of heavenly light, 
And, ah! I hope that ray shall lend its aid 

To guide thee through the dark abyss of night. 
Weep, then, no more, nor be thy heart dismayed ; 
When close thy mortal days, in fond delight 
My soul shall meet thee, in new love arrayed. | 


rs 


O tuov, so long the Muse’s favorite theme, 

Expected tenant of the realms of light, 

Now sunk for ever in eternal night, 

Or recollected only to thy shame ! 

From my polluted page thy hated name 

I blot, already on my loathing sight 

Too long obtruded, and to purer white 

Convert the destined record of thy fame. 

On thy triumphant deeds far other strains 

I hoped to raise ; but now defraud’st the song, 

Ill-omened bird, that shunn’st the day’s broad 
eye! 

Go, then; and whilst the Muse thy praise dis- 
dains, ; 

Oblivion’s flood shall sweep thy name along, 

And spotless and unstained the paper lie." 


STANZE. 


{ 
O pure and blessed soul, 
That, from thy clay’s control 
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere, 
And trom thy crystal throne 
Look’st down, with smiles alone, 


On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear ! 


Thy happy feet have trod 
The starry spangled road, 
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding ; 
And from their erring track 
Thou charm’st thy shepherds back, 
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding. 


O, who shall Death withstand, — 
Death, whose impartial hand 
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine? 
When siall our ears again 
Drink in so sweet a strain, 
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine ? 
LRN 8 I Se nen oe 
1 This sonnet is supposed to refer to the shameful abdi- 
cation and flight of King Bpbones from Naples, in 1495, 
TT 


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7 


| 
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4 ri 
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tee A. 
a Shi 
ta 

: 

- * 


PIETRO BEMBO. 


Tus distinguished person, known as an ec- 
clesiastic, a historian, and a poet, was the son 
of Bernardo Bembo, an illustrious member of 
the Venetian aristocracy, and of Elena Marcella, 
a lady of noble birth. He was born at Venice, 
in 14%0. At the age of eight years, he accom- 
panied his father, who was sent as ambassador 
to Florence. Returning to Venice two years 
after, he was placed under the instruction of 
Giovanni Alessandro Urticio, to learn the Latin 
language and other branches of polite literature. 
In 1489, he went with his father, who had 
been appointed podestd in Bergamo, and _ re- 
mained there two years. Being desirous of 
learning the Greek language, he obtained per- 
mission, in 1492, to visit Messina, in Sicily, 
where the celebrated Constantine Lascaris 
taught that language. He remained there until 
1495, incessantly occupied with his studies, and 
acquired so thorough a knowledge of the Greek, 
that he not only read, but wrote it with facility. 
Towards the end of 1495, he went to Padua 
and cultivated philosophy in the school of Nic- 
colo Leonico Tomeo. He was recalled to Ven- 
ice in the following year by his father, and 
took a part in the public business; but soon 
finding this career incompatible with his favor- 
ite pursuits, he went to Ferrara, where he con- 
tinued for two years employed in his studies, 
and enjoying the intimate friendship of such 
men as Ercole Strozzi, Antonio Tibaldeo, and 
Jacopo Sadoleto. QOn_ his return to Venice, he 
became one of the chief ornaments of the 
academy, or literary society, established there by 
the famous printer, Aldus Manutius. In 1506, 
he went to the court of Urbino, where he lived 
about six years. In 1512, he went to Rome 
with Giuliano de’ Medici, whose brother, Leo 
the Tenth, made Bembo his secretary, with 
Sadoleto for a colleague. At this time he formed 
a connection with the beautiful Morosina, which 
continued until her death, in 1525. He was 
the confidential friend of the pontiff, who em- 
ployed him not only as secretary, but on many 
important missions. His labors having at 
length affected his health, he removed, in 1520, 
with the pope’s advice and consent, to Padua, 
where he speedily recovered. After the death 
of Leo, Bembo lived at Padua, preferring the 
tranquillity of a private and studious life to 
public employments. He collected a library, a 
cabinet of medals and antiquities, and made 
his house the favorite resort of the members of 
the University, and other learned men, ‘both 
strangers and citizens of Padua. In 1529, the 
office of Historiographer of the Venetian repub- 
lic was bestowed upon him, and he was at the 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


THIRD PERIOD.—CENTURY XVI. 


same time appointed Librarian of Saint Mark. 
His historical labors occupied him -until Paul 
the Third honored him with the Cardinal’s hat, 
in 1539, when he removed to Rome. From this 
time Bembo devoted himself to the sacred stud- 
ies which befitted his ecclesiastical office, con- 
tinuing only the History of Venice. In 1541, 
Paul bestowed on him the bishopric of Gub- 
bio, whither he went in 1543, and would have 
fixed his abode there, had not the pope by 
express command recalled him to Rome.’ In 
1544, he received the bishopric of Bergamo, 
but remained in Rome until his death, which 
took place in 1547, 

Bembo, though not a man of original genius, 
was an able scholar, and an elegant writer, both 
in Latin and Italian. His most important works 
are, “‘ The History of Venice,” written in both 
languages; ‘*Le Prose,” a series of dialogues 
on the principles of the Italian language; * Gli 
Asolani,”’ dialogues on Love; and ‘Le Rime,” 
a collection of sonnets and canzonets. A col- 
lection of his works appeared at Venice in 
1729, in four volumes, folio. 


SONNETS. 
TO ITALY. 


Farr land, once loved of Heaven o’er all beside, 

Which blue waves gird and lofty mountains 
screen ! 

Thou clime of fertile fields and sky serene, 

Whose gay expanse the Apennines divide ! 

What boots it now, that Rome’s old warlike 
pride 

Left thee of humbled earth and sea the queen ? 

Nations, that served thee then, now fierce con- 
vene 

To tear thy locks and strew them o’er the tide. 

And lives there son of thine so base at core, 

Who, luring foreign friends to thine embrace, 

Stabs to the heart thy beauteous, bleeding frame ? 

Are these the noble deeds of ancient fame ? 

Thus do ye God’s almighty name adore ? 

O hardened age! O false and recreant race ! 


TURNING TO GOD. 


Ir, gracious God, in life’s green, ardent year, 

A thousand times thy patient love I tried ; 

With reckless heart, with conscience hard and 
sere, 

Thy gifts perverted, and thy power defied : 

O, grant me, now that wintry snows appear 

Around my brow, and youth’s bright promise 
hide, — 

Grant me with reverential awe to hear 

Thy holy voice, and in thy word confide ! 


| 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 


| 


a 


Blot from my book of life its early stain ! 
Since days’misspent will never more return, 
My future path do thou in mercy trace 5 


So cause my soul with pious zeal to burn, 
That all the trust, which in thy name I place, 
Frail as I am, may not prove wholly vain! 


SOLITUDE. 


Dear, calm retreat! where from the world I 
steal, — 

Where to myself I live, and dwell alone, — 

Why seek thee not, when Pheebus, fiercer grown, 

Has left the Twins behind his burning wheel? 

With thee I rarely grief or anger feel ; 

Nowhere my thoughts to heaven so oft have 
flown ; 

Nowhere my pen such industry has shown, 

When to the Muse I chance to make appeal. 

How truly sweet a state is solitude, 

And how from cares to have my bosom free, 

And live at ease, was taught me in thy school ! 

Dear rivulet! and thou delightful wood ! 

O, that these parching sands, this glaring sea, 

Were changed for your green shades and waters 
cool ! 


° —— 


DEATH. 


Tuov, the stern monarch of dismay, 

Whom Nature trembles to survey, — 

O Death! to me, the child of grief, 

Thy welcome power would bring relief, 
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 

And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 

Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; 

The pangs that bid existence close, 

Ah! sure, are far less keen than those 
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. 


POLITIANI TUMULUS. 


Wuitsr, borne in sable state, Lorenzo’s bier 
The tyrant Death, his proudest triumph, brings, 
He marked a bard, in agony severe, 
Smite with delirious hand the sounding strings. 


He stopped, — he gazed ; — the storm of passion 
raged, 
And prayers with tears were mingled, tears 
with grief ; 
For lost Lorenzo, war with fate he waged, 
And every god was called to bring relief. 


The tyrant smiled, —and mindful of the hour 
When from the shadés his consort Orpheus 
led, 
«¢ Rebellious too wouldst thou usurp my power, 
And burst the chain that binds the captive 
dead ?”’ 


He spoke, — and speaking, launched the shaft 
of fate, 
And closed the lips that glowed with sacred 
fire : 
His timeless doom ’t was thus Politian met, — 
Politian, master of the Ausonian lyre. 


ARIOSTO. 


547 


LODOVICO ARIOSTO. 


Turs illustrious poet was the son of Niccold 
Ariosto, a nobleman of Ferrara, and of Daria 
Maleguzzi, a lady of Reggio. He was born, 
September 8th, 1474, at Reggio, where his fa- 
ther was commander of the fortress and gov- 
ernor of the territory, in the service of Hercules 
the First. He was the oldest of ten children, 
five sons and five daughters. From his earliest 
years he gave proof of his poetical tendencies, 
having in his childhood dramatized the story 
of “Pyramus and Thisbe,’’ and caused it to 
be enacted by his brothers and sisters, ‘*no 
doubt as happily,’ says an English writer, ‘¢as 
the same subject in the ‘ Midsummer Night’s 
Dream’ was enacted by Bottom the weaver 
and his comrades, or rather, as happily as Obe- 
ron, Titania, and their train could have done it 
in fairy-land.” Lodovico’s father had held 
judicial office in Ferrara, and naturally desired 
his promising son to pursue the same career ; 
but after five years of useless and wearisome 
study of the law, the youthful Ariosto was 
allowed to follow his own inclination. He de- 
voted himself ardently to the study of the Latin 
language under the direction of Gregorio da 
Spoleti, and wrote at an early age two come- 
dies, entitled ‘¢ La Cassaria”’ and ‘I Suppositi,”’ 
suggested by his studies in Plautus and Terence. 
The departure of Gregorio to France in 1499, 
and the death of his father, which took place in 
1500, interrupted Ariosto’s studies, and he was 
left with small property, and with the whole 
care of his brothers and sisters ; but he so well 
discharged his duties towards them, that he por- 
tioned his sisters, and provided for the educa- 
tion of his brothers until they were able to 
provide for themselves. In the midst, however, 
of these onerous domestic duties, he found time 
to carry forward his literary labors, and to write 
poems both in Latin and Italian. His genius 
and acquirements commended him to the favor 
of the Cardinal Ippolito d’ Este, brother of | 
Alphonso, duke of Ferrara. The duke em- 
ployed him twice on important embassies to the 
eourt of Pope Julius the Second, and he showed 
on these occasions a courage and an intelligence 
which increased the reputation he already en- 
joyed at the court of Ferrara. When the war- 
like pontiff sent his forces, and Venice des- 
patched her fleet in conjunction with the papal 
troops, against Ferrara, Ariosto showed that he 
possessed the valor to perform, as well as the 
genius to celebrate, heroic deeds; for he fought 
bravely at the battle against the papal and 
Venetian armaments, and captured one of the 
largest vessels of the enemy. On his second 
embassy, the pope was so violently irritated 
with him, that he threatened to throw him into 
the sea, unless he left the papal territories forth- 
with, which Ariosto accordingly did. 

Meantime, Ariosto’s literary ambition being 
rekindled by the example of the scholars whom 


aia 


eaters. 


ol ES 


lL 


548 


Ippolito had drawn around him, he conceived 
the idea, when he was thirty years old, of 
writing a poem which should place him among 
the great authors of his country. His first plan 
was, to celebrate the exploits of Obizzo, a young 
and warlike member of the family of Este; 
and he actually began a poem on this subject 
in ¢erza rima, but soon gave it up, and, turn- 
ing his attention to Bojardo’s “Orlando,” de- 
termined to continue the adventures of the 
principal personages in that poem. Such was 
the origin of that immortal work, the “ Orlando 
Furioso.” His familiar acquaintance with the 
old romance-writers, which had formed his 
principal reading for many years, strengthened 
his natural inclination for that species of com- 
position, and furnished his mind with abundant 
materials for his work. He’ communicated his 
plan to Bembo, who urged him to write his 
poem in Latin; but Ariosto had the good sense 
to reply, that he would rather be one of the first 
poets in Italian than secondary to Ovid and 
Virgil in Latin. When Leo the Tenth suc- 
ceeded to the papal chair, in 1513, Ariosto, 
who had long been on good terms with the 
Medici family, hastened to Rome with the not 
unreasonable hope of improving his. fortunes 
through the patronage of his ancient friend. He 
was well received, but that seems to have been all. 
At any rate, he soon left the city, and returning 
by way of Florence, where he remained some 
time, resumed his interrupted labors upon the 
‘‘Orlando,”’ of which the first edition appeared 
in 1516. When he presented a copy of the 
work to Ippolito, the only acknowledgment 
the surly cardinal made was, to ask him where 
he had found all that stuff. Soon after this the 
poet's connection with Ippolito was broken off, 
by his refusal to accompany him to Hungary, 
in 1518. This circumstance, and the conse- 
quent loss of his salary, which, inconsiderable 
as it was, formed an important part of his in- 
come, induced him to take up his residence on 
an estate of his kinsman, Maleguzzo, between 
Reggio and Rubiera. After the death of Ip- 
polito, on the invitation of Alphonso, Ariosto 
returned to Ferrara, where he built a house, in 
the midst ofa large garden. During this period 
of his life, the duke bestowed on him an ap- 
pointment seemingly little adapted to his genius 
or his tastes. It was the office of pacificator 
of the disturbed province of Graffagnana. Ac- 
cording to Sir John Harrington, he so well 
succeeded, that ‘he left them all in good peace 
and concord ; winning not only the love of the 
better sort, but also a wonderful reverence of 
the wilder people, and a great awe even in 
robbers and thieves.” 

The following incident is said to have befall- 
en him at this time. A gang of brigands met 
him one day in a forest with a guard of only 
five or six horsemen. He was suffered, how- 
ever, to ride on unmolested ; but the leader of 
the band, Philippo Pachione, a celebrated free- 
booter, having learned from one of the attend- 


ITALIAN POETRY. 
nt are ee 


ants that the distinguished-looking person who 
had just passed him was his Excellency the 
governor, immediately galloped up to him, and 
addressing him with the greatest courtesy, apol- 
ogized in his own name and that of his com- 
pany for not having done due honors in passing, 
as they did not know his Excellency’s person. 
He then was so obliging as to praise the ‘Or- 
lando Furioso”’ in the most enthusiastic terms, 
and offered his humble services to the author. 

During this period, a proposition was’made to 
Ariosto to go a third time on an embassy to 
Rome, and to reside, as the representative of his 
sovereign, at the court of Clement the Seventh: 
but he declined the honor. His government 
lasted three years; at the expiration of which, 
he returned with new ardor to his poetical 
labors, giving much time and anxious care to 
a revision of the ‘ Orlando,” and composing 
several dramatic pieces. He amused himself 
also with gardening ; though, from all accounts, 
he knew so little about the matter, that he often 
watched the growth of some useless weed with 
the greatest delight, fancying it, all the time, to 
be a beautiful flower. The “ Orlando” was, 
during this period, making constant progress 
towards the form which it finally assumed. Sir 
John Harrington illustrates the poet’s sensitive- 
ness by the following. anecdote. ‘ As he him- 
self could pronounce very well, so it was a 
great penance to him to hear others ~pronounce 
ill that which himself had written excellent 
well. Insomuch as they tell of him, how, 
coming one day by a potter’s shop, that had 
many earthen vessels, ready made, to sell on 
his stall, the potter fortuned at that time to sing 
some stave or other out of ‘Orlando Furioso,’ 
I think where Rinaldo requesteth his horse to 
tarry for him, in the first book, the thirty-sec- 
ond stanza : — 


‘Ferma, Bajardo mio, deh ferma il piede ! 
Che I’ esser senza te troppo mi nuoce,’ 
or some ‘such grave matter, fit fora potter. But 
he plotted the verses out so ill-favoredly (as 
might well beseem his dirty occupation), that 
Ariosto being, or at least making semblance to 
be, in a great rage withal, with a little walking- 
stick he had in his hand brake divers pots. 
The poor potter, put quite beside his song and 
almost beside himself, to see his market half 
marred before it was a quarter done, in a pitiful 
sour manner, between railing and whining, 
asked what he meant, to wrong a poor man 
that had never done him injury in all his life, 
‘Yes, varlet!’ quoth Ariosto, ‘I am scarce even 
with thee for the wrong thou hast done me 
here before my face; for I have broken but 
half a dozen base pots of thine, that are not 
worth so many half-pence ; but thou hast broken 
and mangled a fine stanza of mine, worth a 
mark of gold.’”’ 

Ariosto was employed by Alphonso to direct 
the theatrical representations at his court. A 
magnificent theatre was constructed on a plan 
suggested by the poet, and a number of dramas 


~ 


ARIOSTO. 


written by him were represented. But these 
demands upon his time did not withdraw him 
from the great work on which his future fame 
was to rest. The ‘¢Orlando”’ had ,already 
passed through several editions, since its first 
appearance in 1516. ‘The last edition which 
was printed in his lifetime came out in 1532, 
in forty-six cantos ; but it was so badly printed, 
that he was accustomed to say he had been 
assassinated by his printer. Immediately after 
this, his health began rapidly to decline, and 
he died, at the age of fifty-eight, June 6th, 1533. 

The great romantic epic, the ‘ Orlando Furi- 
oso,”’ has been pronounced by excellent judges 
the greatest poem of its kind in modern litera- 
ture. It displays a wonderful richness and 
splendor of invention, and the most marvellous 
skill in narrative. These qualities, and the 
extraordinary felicity of the style, have made it, 
ever since its first publication, one of the most 
popular poems that the world has seen. Ber- 
nardo Tasso, in a letter to Varchi, written in 
1559, says, ‘¢ There is neither scholar, nor arti- 
san, nor boy, nor girl, nor old man, who is con- 
tent to read it only once. Are not those stanzas 
of his the comfort .of the exhausted traveller on 
his weary journey, who relieves the cold and the 
fatigues by singing them on his way? Do you 
not hear people every day singing them in the 
streets and in the fields? I do not believe, that, 
in the same length of time as has passed since 
that most learned gentleman gave his poem to 
the world, there have been printed or seen so 
many Homers or Virgils as Furiosos.”’ 

The poem, however, has been censured for 
want of unity in the action, and of a skilful 
adjustment of the parts. It embodies so wide 
and varied a circle of chivalrous adventures, 
that the separate threads of the story are fre- 
quently dropped and then again resumed. Ital- 
ian critics have also charged the style with 
errors of language, forced rhymes, and vulgar 
expressions. But the most serious charge brought 
against the poem is the licentiousness by which 
it is in too many passages disgraced. In reply 
to the former objections, Ginguené®* strikingly 
says : — 

“To judge rightly of Ariosto, the reader must 
figure to himself the court of Ferrara, one of 
the most frequented and most polished that 
could be found in Italy during the sixteenth 
century. He must consider it as forming every. 
evening a brilliant circle, of which. Alphonso 
d’ Este and the Cardinal Ippolito were the 
centre ; he must forget the subsequent unkind- 


‘ness of the Prince of the Church, and only 


regard the splendor which surrounds him, his 
supposed love of letters, and attachment to the 
poet. In this noble and festive assembly he 
must imagine the bard to be riveting the atten- 
tion of all eyes and ears during an hour or 


* Histoire Littéraire d’Italie, Tom. IV., pp. 481 - 484. 
— Lives of the Italian Poets, by the Rev. Henry SreEp- 
BING (3 yols., London, 1832, 12mo.), Vol. II., pp. 84-86. 


549 


more for forty-six evenings. The first day, he 
proposes his subject; he addresses himself to 
the cardinal, his patron; he promises to cele- 
brate the origin of his illustrious race ; he com- 
mences the recital ; but as soon as he thinks 
the attention of his audience may be wearied, 
he stops, saying, that what remains to be told 
is reserved for another canto. The next day, 
the party again assemble, and wait with impa- 
tience the appearance of the poet; he enters, 
and, after some short reflections on the ca- 
priciousness of Love, resumes the thread of his 
story. The third day, he changes his tone and 
method, and consecrates this period of his song 
to predicting the glory of the house of Kste. 
Having completed his complimentary stanzas, 
he ceases, and, as usual, promises to renew the 
recital in another canto, sometimes adding, ‘If 
it be agreeable to you to hear this story’; or, 
* You will hear the rest in another canto, if you 
come again to hear me.’ He found these forms 
established by the custom of the oldest romantic 
poets; he considered them natural and con- 
venient for his purpose, and he borrowed them. 
Like these, his predecessors, he also avoids 
losing sight of his audience, even in the course 
of the recital. He addresses himself to the 
princes who might be presiding at the meeting, 
and to the ladies who graced it by their pres- 
ence; not unfrequently apologizing, when he 
told some incident which seemed incredible, 
with such words as these: ‘ This is very won- 
derful; you believe it not; but I do not say it 
of myself, but, Turpin having put it into his his- 
tory, I put it into mine.’ Place yourself in this 
point of view ; seat yourself in the midst of that 
attentive assembly ; attend ; join in its admira- 
tion of that fertile genius, —that inimitable 
story-teller, —that adroit courtier, — that sub- 
lime poet; stop when he stops; suffer your- 
self to wander, to be elevated, to be inflamed, 
as he does himself; lay aside the too severe 
taste which might diminish your pleasure. 
Hear Ariosto, above all, in his own language ; 
study his niceties ; learn to perceive their grace, 
their force, and harmony; and you will then 
know what to think of the atrabilious critics 
who have dared to treat unjustly so true and 
great a genius.” 

Besides the great poem of ‘ Orlando,’’ Ariosto 
wrote satires of distinguished merit; plays, as 
before mentioned; and many other minor pieces. 
The “ Orlando Furioso”’ has been several times 
translated into English: by Sir John Harring- 
ton, in 1591; by Henry Croker, 1755; by John 
Hoole, 1783;- and by W. S. Rose, 1825 — 27. 


SONNET. 


Tue sun was hid in veil of blackest dye, 

That trailing swept the horizon’s verge around, 

The leaves all trailing moaned with hollow 
sound, 

And peals of thunder scoured along the sky ; 

I saw fierce rain or icy storm was nigh, 


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Yet ready stood o’er the rough waves to bound 
Of that proud stream that hides in tomb profound 
The Delian lord’s adventurous progeny ; 
When, peering o’er the distant shore, the beam 
I caught of thy bright eyes, and words I heard 
That me Leander’s fate may bring, one day: 
Instant the gathered clouds dispersed away, 

At once unveiled the sun’s full orb appeared, 
The winds were silent, gently flowed the stream. 


FROM THE CAPITOLI AMOROSI. 


THE LAUREL. 


In that sweet season, when ’t was spring-time 
still, 
A laurel slip I set, with careful hand, 
On a small plain half up an easy hill. 

Fortune smiled on it; the bright air was bland; 
The sun upon it shone benignly too, 

Both from the Indian and the Moorish strand. 

Refreshing streams with patient zeal I drew 
To where it stood, their grassy banks between, 
And brought to it the earth where first it grew. 

It faded not, — its leaves a cheerful green 
Still wore; and, to reward my care and toil, 

It took new root, and soon fresh buds were seen. 

Nor Nature strove my earnest hopes to foil, 
But breathed benignant on my rising tree, 
Which seemed to flourish in a genial soil. 

Sweet, lonely, faithful bowers it made for me, 
Within whose shade I poured my plaints of love 
From my fond heart, while none could hear or 

see. 

Venus ofitimes forsook her seat above, 

And Cytherean fanes, where odors sweet 
Of gums and rich Sabean spices strove, 

The rose-linked Graces on this spot to meet; 
And while the Loves above them plied the wing, 
Danced round my laurel with unwearied feet. 

Thither Diana her bright nymphs would bring ; 
For she preferred my laurel to all those 
That in the woods of Erymanthus spring. 

Other fair deities its shadow chose, 

To spend the sultry day in cool delight ; 
Blessing the hand that placed it where it rose. 

Whence came the early tempest thus to blight 
My tree so loved ? and whence the pinching cold 
That covered it with snow’s untimely white ? 

Ah, why did Heaven its favoring smile with- 

hold ? — 
My laurel drooped ; its foliage green was reft; 
A bare, bleak trunk it rose from barren mould ! 
Still one small branch, with few pale leaves, 
is left ; 
And between hope and fear I still exist, 
Lest even of that rude Winter should make theft. 
Yet fear prevails, — hope is well-nigh dis- 
missed, — 
That icy frosts — not yet, I fear me, o’er — 
This last and weakly spray can ne’er resist. 

And are there none to teach me how, before 
The sickly root itself is quite decayed, 

Its former vigorous life I may restore ? 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Phebus, by whom the heavenly signs are 
swayed, 
By whom in Thessaly a laurel crown 
So oft was borne, now lend this tree thine aid! 
Vertumnus and Pomona, both look down, 
Bacchus, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, and Dryads 
fair, 
On this, my tree, o’er which the Seasons frown! 
And all ye deities, that have in care 
The woods arid forests, bend a favoring eye 
Towards my laurel! TI its fate must share ; 
Living, I live with it, — or dying, die! 


a 


FROM THE ORLANDO F URIOSO. 
ORLANDO’S MADNESS. 


THE course in pathless woods, which, without 
rein, 
The Tartar’s charger had pursued astray, 
Made Roland for two days, with fruitless pain, 
Follow him, without tidings of his way. 
Orlando reached a rill of crystal vein, 

On either bank of which a meadow lay ; 
Which stained with native hues and rich he 
sees, 

And dotted o’er with fair and many trees. 


The mid-day fervor made the shelter sweet 

To hardy herd as well as naked swain : 
So that Orlando well beneath the heat 

Some deal might wince, oppressed with plate 

and chain. 

He entered, for repose, the cool retreat, 

And found it the abode of grief and pain ; 
And place of sojourn more accursed and fell, 
On that unhappy day, than tongue can tell. 


Turning him round, he there, on many a tree, 
Beheld engraved, upon the woody shore, 
What as the writing of his deity 
He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore, 
This was a place of those described by me, 
Whither ofttimes, attended by Medore, 
From the near shepherd’s cot had wont to stray 
The beauteous lady, sovereign of Catay. 


In a hundred knots, amid those green abodes, 
In a hundred parts, their ciphered names are 
dight ; 
Whose many letters are so many goads, 
Which Love has in his bleeding heart-core 
pight. 

He would discredit, in a thousand modes, 
That which he credits in his own despite ; 
And would parforce persuade himself, that rind 

Other Angelica than his had signed, 


*¢ And yet I know these characters,”’ he cried, 
*¢ Of which I have so many read and seen ; 
By her may this Medoro be belied, 
And me, she, figured in the name, may mean.”’ 
Feeding on such like phantasies, beside 
The real truth, did sad Orlando lean 
Upon the empty hope, though ill-contented, 
Which he by self-illusions had fomented. 


a} 


ARIOSTO. 


But stirred and aye rekindled it, the more 
That he to quench the ill suspicion wrought, 
Like the incautious bird, by fowler’s lore, 
Hampered in net or lime; which, in the 
thought 
To free its tangled pinions and to soar, 
By struggling, is but more securely caught. 
Orlando passes thither, where a mountain 
O’erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain. 


Splayfooted ivy, with its mantling spray, 

And gadding vine, the cavern’s entry case; 
Where often in the hottest noon of day 

The pair had rested, locked in fond embrace. 
Within the grotto, and without it, they 

Had oftener than in any other place 
With charcoal or with chalk their names por- 

trayed, 

Or flourished with the knife’s indenting blade. 


Here from his horse the sorrowing county lit, 
And at the entrance of the grot surveyed 
A cloud of words, which seemed but newly writ, 
And which the young Medoro’s hand had 
made. — 
On the great pleasure he had known in it, 
This sentence he in verses had arrayed ; 
Which in his tongue, I deem, might make pre- 
tence 
To polished phrase ; and such in ours the sense :— 


“« Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein, 

And, grateful with cool shade, thou gloomy 
cave, 

Where oft, by many wooed with fruitless pain, 
Beauteous Angelica, the child of grave 

King Galaphron, within my arms has Jain ; 
For the convenient harbourage you gave, 

I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, 

As recompense, for ever sing your praise ; 


«« And any loving lord devoutly pray, 
Damsel and cavalier, and every one, 
Whom choice or fortune hither shall convey, 
Stranger or native, — to this crystal run, 
Shade, caverned rock, and grass, and plants, to 
Pa hs 
‘ Benignant be to you the fostering sun 
And moon, and may the choir of nymphs provide 
That never swain his flock may hither guide !’”’ 
In Arabic was writ the blessing said, 
Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue, 
Who, versed in many languages, best read 
Was in this speech; which oftentimes from 
wrong, 
And injury, and shame, had saved his head, 
What time he roved the Saracens among. 
But let him boast not of its former boot, 
O’erbalanced by the present bitter fruit. 


Three times, and four, and six, the lines im- 
pressed 
Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain 
Seeking another sense than was expressed, 
And ever saw the thing more clear and plain; 


And all the while, within his troubled breast, 
He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain. 

With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, 

At length he stood, not differing from the rock. 


Then well-nigh Jost all feeling, —so a prey 
Wholly was he to that o’ermastering woe. 
This is a pang — believe the experienced say 
Of him who speaks — which does all griefs 
outgo. 

His pride had from his forehead passed away, 
His chin had fallen upon his breast below; 
Nor found he —so grief barred each natural 

vent — 
Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament. 


Stifled within, the impetuous sorrow stays, 
Which would too quickly issue ; so to abide 
Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase 
Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is 
wide ; 
What time, when one turns up the inverted base, 
Towards the mouth so hastes the hurrying 
tide, 
And in the strait encounters such a stop, 
It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop. 


He somewhat to himself returned, and thought 
How, possibly, the thing might be untrue ; 
That some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought 

To think) his lady would with shame pursue ; 
Or with such weight of jealousy had wrought 

To whelm his reason, as should bim undo; 
And that he, whosoe’er the thing had planned, 
Had counterfeited passing well her hand. 


With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, 
And manned some deal his spirits and awoke ; 
Then pressed the faithful Brigliadoro’s seat, 
As on the sun’s retreat his sister broke. 
Nor far the warrior had pursued his beat, 
Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke, 
Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, 
And thitherward in quest of lodging hied. 


Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador 
To a discreet attendant: one undressed 
His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, 
And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest. 
This was the homestead where the young Me- 
dore 
Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest. 
Orlando here, with other food unfed, 
Having supped full of sorrow, sought his bed. 


The more the wretched sufferer seeks for ease, 
He finds but so much more distress and pain; 
Who everywhere the loathed handwriting sees, 
On wall, and door, and window: he would 
fain 
Question his host of this, but holds his peace ; 
Because, in sooth, he dreads too clear, too 
plain, 
To make the thing, and this would rather shroud, 
That it may less offend him, with a cloud. 


a Ne EAE 


SaaS a 


Little availed the count his self-deceit, 
For there was one who spake of it unsought ; 
The shepherd swain 3 who to allay the heat, _ 
With which he saw _ his guest so troubled, 
thought : 
The tale which he was wonted to repeat, — 
Of the two lovers, — to each listener taught, 
A history which many loved to hear, 
He now, without réserve, ‘gan tell the peer: — 


How, at Angelica’s persuasive prayer, 
He to his farm had carried young Medore, 
Grievously wounded with an arrow ; where, 
In little space, she healed the angry sore. 
But while she exercised this pious care, 

Love inher heart the lady wounded more 
And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire, 
She burnt all over, restless with desire : 


Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, 
Who ruled in the East, nor of her heritage, 
Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn 
To be the consort of a poor foot-page. — 

His story done, to them in proof was borne 
The gem, which, in-reward for harbourage 

To her extended in that kind abode, 

Angelica, at parting, had bestowed. 


A deadly axe was this unhappy close, 

Which, at a single stroke, lopped off the-head ; 
When, satiate with innumerable blows, 

That cruel hangman, Love, his hate had fed. 
Orlando studied to conceal his Woes ; 

And yet the mischief gathered force and spread, 
And would break out parforce in tears and sighs, 
Would he, or would he not, from mouth and 

eyes. 


When he can give the rein to raging woe, 
Alone, by others’ presence unrepressed, 
From his full eyes the tears descending flow 
- f—) ’ 
In a wide stream, and flood his troubled breast. 
"Mid sob and groan, he tosses to and fro 
About his weary bed, in search of rest ; 
And vainly shifting, harder than a rock 
And sharper than a nettle found its flock. 


Amid the pressure of such cruel pain, 
It passed into the wretched sufferer’s head, 
That oft the ungrateful lady must have lain, 
| Together with her leman, on that bed : 
Nor less he Joathed the couch in his disdain, 
Nor from the down upstarted with less dread, 
Than churl, who, when about to close his eyes, 
Springs from the turf, if he a serpent spies. 


In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed 

That bed, that house, that swain, he will not 
stay f 

Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed, 
Whose twilight goes before approaching day. 

In haste Orlando takes his arms and steed, 
And to the deepest greenwood wends his way; 

And, when assured that he is there alone, 

Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Never from tears, never from sorrowing, 

He paused; nor found he peace by night or 

day : 

He fled from town, in forest harbouring, 

And in the open air on hard earth lay. 
He marvelled at himself, how such a spring 

Of water from his eyes could stream away, 
And breath was for so many sobs supplied ; 
And thus ofttimes, amid his mourning, cried : — 


‘¢ These are no longer real tears which rise, 
And which I scatter from so full a vein: 

Of tears my ceaseless sorrow lacked supplies ; 
They stopped, when to mid-height scarce rose 

my pain. 

The vital moisture rushing to my eyes, 
Driven by the fire within me, now would gain 

A vent; and it is this which I expend, 

And which my sorrows and my life will end. 


‘No; these, which are the index of my woes, 

These are not sighs, nor sighs are such; they 
fail 

At times, and have their season of repose : 
I feel my breast can never less exhale 

Its sorrow: Love, who with his pinions blows 
The fire about my heart, creates this gale. 

Love, by what miracle dost thou contrive, 

It wastes not in the fire thou keep’st alive ? 


‘“‘T am not—am not what I seem to sight : 
What Roland was is dead and under ground, 
Slain by that most ungrateful lady’s spite, 
Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound. 
Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite, 
Which in this hell, tormented, walks its round, 
To be, but in its shadow left above, 
A warning to all such as trust in Love.” 


All night about the forest roved the count, 
And, at the break of daily light, was brought 
By his unhappy fortune to the fount, 
Where his inscription young Medoro wrought. 
To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount 
Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught 
But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite ; 
Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion 
bright ; 


Cleft through the writing ; and the solid block 
Into the sky, in tiny fragments, sped. 

Woe worth each sapling and that caverned rock, 
Where Medore and Angelica were read! 

So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock 
Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. 

And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, 

From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure. 


For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop, 
Cast without cease into the beauteous source ; 
Till, turbid from the bottom to the top, 
Never again was clear the troubled course. 
At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop, — 
When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force 
Serves not his fury more, — he falls, and lies 
Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs. 


MICHEL ANGELO. 


ie 


- Wearied and wobegone, he fell to ground, 
' And turned his eyes toward heaven; nor 
spake he aught, 
Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round 
The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought 
His rest anew ; nor ever ceased his wound 
To rankle, till it marred his sober thought. 
At length, impelled by frenzy, the fourth day, 
He from his limbs tore plate and mail away. 


Here was his helmet, there his shield bestowed ; 
His arms far off; and, farther than the rest, 
His cuirass; through the greenwood wide was 

strewed 
All his good gear, in fine: and next his vest 
He rent; and, in his fury, naked showed 
His shaggy paunch, and all his back and 
breast ; * 
And ’gan that frenzy act, so passing dread, 
Of stranger folly never shall be said. 


So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, 
That all obscured remained the warrior’s 
spright ; 
Nor, for forgetfulness, his sword he drew, 
Or wondrous deeds, I trow, had wrought the 
knight : 
But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, 
Was needed by Orlando’s peerless might. 
He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, 
Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull. 


He many others, with as little let 
As fennel, wallwort-stem, or dill, uptore ; 
And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, 
And beech, and mountain-ash, and elm-tree 
hoar : 
He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, 
Does, to prepare the champagne for his lore, 
By stubble, rush, and nettle-stalk ; and broke, 
Like these, old sturdy trees and stems of oak. 


The shepherd swains, who hear the tumult nigh, 

Leaving their flocks beneath the greenwood 
tree, 

Some here, some there, across the forest hie, 
And hurry thither, all, the cause to see. — 

But I have reached such point, my history, 
If I o’erpass this bound, may irksome be ; 

And I my story will delay to end, 

Rather than by my tediousness offend. 


——¢— 


MICHEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI. 


Tuis extraordinary man belonged to an an- 
cient family of the counts of Canosa. He was 
born in 1474, at Caprese, or Chiusi. He was 
early distinguished for the comprehensiveness 
and sublimity of his genius. The details of hig 
history as an artist do not belong to this place. 
It is sufficient, on this point, to say, that, for a 
combination of powers, making him alike illus- 
trious in architecture, painting, and sculpture, 

70 


ee ee ee 


553 


he has no equal in the history of the human 
mind. The building of Saint Peter’s, which he 
directed many years, the tomb of Julius the 
Second, the statue of Mases, and the painting 
of the Last Judgment in the Sistine chapel, are 
works each of which is enough for immortality. 
All the popes, from Julius the Second to Pius 
the Fourth, made him the object of their mu- 
nificence. Cosmo de’ Medici many times at- 
tempted by splendid offers to engage him in 
the embellishment of Florence. Alphonso the 
First, duke of Ferrara, the republic of Venice, 
Francis the First, king of France, and even the 
Sultan Solyman, vied with each other in the 
tempting offers they held out to lure him into 
their respective services. He was not only a 
great genius in architecture, painting, and sculp- 
ture, but was equally master of the arts of for- 
tification and defence; and, as if to put the 
crowning glory to her work, nature bestowed 
upon him the gift of poetry, and thus, the mag- 
nificent mausoleum erected by the Florentines in 
the church of Saint Lorenzo, to do honor to bis 
memory, was properly decorated with statues, 
representing Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, 
and Poetry; the last holding a lyre, and in the 
costume of Calliope. He died at Rome, Feb- 
ruary 17th, 1564. 

The poems of Michel Angelo, consisting of 
sonnets and canzoni, were published at Flor- 
ence in 1623, and again in 1726. The compo- 
sition of them was merely the amusement of 
his leisure hours; but they are in harmony 
with the productions of his genius in the arts. 
They are for the most part sonnets, written in 
a severe and simple style, and seeming as if cut 
from marble. He also wrote, in prose, lectures 
and speeches, to be found in the collection of 
‘¢ Prose Fiorentine,” and letters, printed in Bot- 
tari’s ‘“* Lettere Pittoriche.”’ 


SONNETS. 


Yxs! hope may with my strong desire keep 
pace, 

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed : 

For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God 
made 

The world which we inhabit? Better plea 

Love cannot have, than, that, in loving thee, 


Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, 


Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 

With beauty, which is varying every hour ; 

But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power 

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless 
flower, 

That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 


No mortal object did these eyes behold, 


When first they met the placid light of thine, 
UU 


504 


And my soul felt her destiny divine, 

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: 

Heaven-born, the soul a heavenward course 
must hold ; 

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 


(For what delights the sense is false and weak) 


Ideal Form, the universal mould. 

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 

In that which perishes ; nor will he lend 

His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 
"T is sense, unbridled will, and not true love, 
That kills the soul: love betters what is best, 
Even here below, but more in heaven above. 


Tur prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 

If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 

My unassisted heart is barren clay, 

That of its native self can nothing feed: 

Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 

That quickens only where thou say’st it may : 

Unless thou show to us thine own true way, 

No man can find it; Father! thou must lead. 

Do thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my 
mind 

By which such virtue may in me be bred 

That in thy holy footsteps I may tread: 

The fetters of my tongue do thou unbind, 

That [ may have the power to sing of thee, 

And sound thy praises everlastingly. 


My wave-worn bark through life’s tempestuous 
sea 

Has sped its course, and touched the crowded 
shore, 

Where all must give account the Judge before, 

And, as their actions merit, sentenced be. 

At length from Fancy’s wild enchantments free, 

That made me Art as some strange god adore, 

I deeply feel how vain its richest store, 

Now that the one thing needful faileth me. 

Vain dreams of Love! once sweet, now yield 
they aught, 

If, earned by them, a twofold death be mine, — 

This, doomed me here, —and that, beyond the 
grave? 

Nor painting’s art, nor sculptor’s skill, e’er 
brought 

Peace to the soul that seeks that Friend Divine 

Who on the cross stretched out his arms to save. 


— 


Ir it be true that any beauteous thing 
Raises the pure and just desire of man 
From earth to God, the eternal Fount of all, 
Such I believe my love: for as in her 

So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 

I view the gentle work of her Creator, 

{ have no care for any other thing, 

Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous, 
Since the effect is not of my own power, 
If the soul doth by nature, tempted forth 
Enamoured through the eyes, 

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


i ate meng nn lt ieee ln sa 


And through them riseth to the primal love, 
As to its end, and honors in admiring : 


For who adores the Maker needs must love his 


work. 


—- 


O, BLESSED ye who find in heaven the joy, 
The recompense of tears, earth cannot yield! 
Tell me, has Love still power over you? 

Or are ye freed by Death from his constraint? 
The eternal rest to which we shall return, 
When time has ceased to be, is a pure love, 
Deprived of envy, loosed from sorrowing. 
Then is my greatest burden still to live, 

If, whilst I love, such sorrows must be mine. 
If heaven’s indeed the friend of those who love, 
The world their cruel and ungrateful foe, 

O, wherefore was I born, with such a love? 
To live long years? ’T is this appalleth me: 
Few are too long for him who serveth well. 


How, lady, can it be, — which yet is shown 
By long experience, — that the imaged form 
Lives in the mountain-stone, and long survives 
Its maker, whom the dart of Death soon strikes? 
The frailer cause doth yield to the effect, 

And Nature is in this by Art surpassed. 

I know it well, whom Sculpture go befriends, 
Whilst evermore Time breaketh faith with me. 
Perchance to both of us I may impart 

A lasting life, in colors or in stone, 

By copying the mind and face of each ; 

So that, for ages after my decease, 

The world may see how beautiful thou wert, 
How much I loved thee, nor in loving erred. 


— 


Txov high-born spirit, on whose countenance, 
Pure and beloved, is seen reflected all 

That Heaven and Nature can on earth achieve, 
Surpassing all their beauteous works with one, — 
Fair spirit, within whom we hope to find, 

As in thine outward countenance appears, 
Love, piety, and mercy, things so rare 

As with such faith were ne’er in beauty found! 
Love seizes me, and beauty chains my soul ; 
The pitying’love of thy blest countenance 
Gives to my heart, it seems, firm confidence. 
Thou faithless world, thou sad, deceitful life ! 
What law, what envious decree, denies 

That Death should spare a work so beautiful ? 


Return me to the time when loose the curb, 
And my blind ardor’s rein was unrestrained ; 
Restore the face, angelic and serene, 

Which took from Nature all she had of charm; 
Restore the steps, wasted with toil and pain, 
That are so slow to one now full of years ; 
Bring back the tears, the fire within my breast, 
If thou wouldst see me glow and weep again. 
Yet if ’t is true, O Love, that thou dost live 
Alone upon our sweet and bitter tears, 

What canst thou hope from an old, dying man? 
Now that my soul bas almost reached the shore, 


’T is time to prove the darts of other love, 
And become food of a more worthy fire. 


Atreapy full of years and heaviness, 

I turn to former thoughts of young desires, 

As weight that to its centre gravitates, 

Which ere it reach, it findeth no repose. 

Heaven holdeth out the key ; 

Love turns it, and unlocks to virtuous minds 

The sanctuary of the Beautiful. 

He chaseth from me every wrong desire, 

And leads me on, feeble and weak with age, 

And all unworthy, ’midst the good and great. 

For from this Beauty there doth grace proceed’ 

So strange, so sweet, and of such influence, 

That he, who dies through her, through her doth 
live. 


Ir much delay doth oft lead the desire 

To its attainment more than haste is wont, 
Mine but afflicts and pains me in these years ; 
For late enjoyment lasteth little time. 

"T is contrary to heaven, to-nature strange, 

To burn as I for lady do, in years 

That are more used to freeze: therefore my sad 
And solitary tears I balance with old age. 

But, alas! now that, at the close of day, 
Already with the sun I ’ve almost passed 

The horizon, amid dark and chilling shades, 

If Love inflames us only in mid life, 
Perchance that Love, thus aged and consumed, 
May point the dial back to the noon hours. 


I scarce beheld on earth those beauteous eyes, 
That were two suns in life’s dark pilgrimage, 
Before the day when, closed upon the light, 
Heaven hath reoped them to contemplate God. 
I know, and grieve; yet mine was not the fault 
To admire too late the beauty infinite, 

But cruel Death’s. You he hath not despoiled, 
But ta’en her from a blind and wicked world. 
Therefore, Luigi, to eternalize- 


The unique form of that angelic face 


In living stone, which now with us is earth, — 
Since Love such transformations doth effect, 
And Art the object cannot reach unseen, 

'T is meet, to sculpture her, | copy you. 


ON DANTE. 


TueERE is no tongue to speak his eulogy ; 

Too brightly burned his splendor for our eyes: 
Far easier to condemn his injurers, r 
Than for the tongue to reach his smallest worth. 
He to the realms of sinfulness came down, 

To teach mankind ; ascending then to God, 
Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates, 

To whom his country hers refused to ope. 
Ungrateful land! to its own injury, 

Nurse of his fate! Well, too, does this instruct 
That greatest ills fall to the perfectest. 

And, ’midst a thousand proofs, let this suffice, — 
That, as his exile had no parallel, 

So never was there man more great than he. 


MICHEL ANGELO. 


i 


CANZONE. 


So much, alas! have I already wept 

And mourned, I thought that all my grief 

Had sighed itself away, or passed in tears. 

But Death still nourishes the root and veins 

With bitter waters from the fount of woe, 

Renewing the soul’s heaviness and pain. 

Then let another grief, another pen, 

Another tongue, distinguish in one point 

A twofold bitterest regret for you. 

Thy love, my brother, and the thought of thee, 

Our common parent, weigh upon: my heart, 

Nor do I know my greater misery. 

Whilst busy memory pictures forth the one, 

Another love, betrayed in my pale looks, 

Graves livingly the other on my soul. 

’T is true, that, since to the serene abode 

Ye are returned (as Love doth whisper me), 

I ought to still the grief that fills my breast. 

Unjust is grief, that welleth in the heart, 

For those who bear their harvest of good deeds 

To heaven, released from all earth’s crooked 
ways. 

Yet cruel were the man that should not weep, 

When he may never here behold again 

Him who first gave him being, nourishment. 

Our sufferings are more or less severe 

In just proportion to our sense of pain ; 

And thou, O Lord, dost know how weak I am. 

But if the soul to reason yield consent, 

So cruel the restraint that checks my tears, 

That the attempt but makes me suffer more. 

And if the thought in which I steep my soul 

Did not assure me that thou now canst smile 

Upon the death thou ’st feared in this world, 

I had no comfort: but the painful stroke 

Is tempered by a firm abiding faith 

That he who lives aright finds rest in heaven. 

The infirmities of flesh so weigh upon 

Our intellect, that death more sorrow brings, 

The more with false persuasion sense prevails. 

For ninety years had the revolving sun 

In the far ocean yearly bathed his fires, 

Ere thou wert gathered to the peace of heaven. 

Now heaven has ta’en thee from our misery, 


Have pity still for me, though living, dead, 
Since God hath willed me to be born through 


thee. 
Thou art released from death, and made divine, 
Fearing no longer change of life or will: 
Scarce can I write it without envying. 
Fortune and Time attempt not to invade 
Your habitation; they conduct the steps 
"Midst doubtful happiness and certain grief. 
No cloud is there to intertept your light, 
The measured hours pass 0’er you unobserved, 
Chance and necessity no longer rule. 
Your splendor shineth unobscured by night, 
Nor borroweth lustre from the eye of day, 
When the high sun invigorates his fire. 
Thy death reminds and teaches me to die, 
O happy father! I in thought behold thee, 
Where the world rarely leads the wayfarer. 
Death is not, as some think, the worst of ills 


556 


To him whose closing day excels the first, 
Through grace ecernel from the mercy-seat. 
There, ibaatice to God! I do believe thee gone, 
And hope to see thee, if my reason can 

Draw this cold heart from its terrestrial clay. 
And if pure love doth find increase in heaven 
’Twixt son and father, with increase of virtue, 
Rendering all glory to my Maker, there 

I shall, with my salvation, share thine, too. 


SONG 


Miner eyes, ye are assured 
That the time passeth, and the hour is nigh 
Which shuts the floodgates of the tears and: sight. 
Let gentle Pity keep ye still unclosed, 
“Whilst she, my heavenly fair, 
Yet deigneth to inhabit upon earth. 
But if the heaven dispart, 
The singular and peerless beauty to receive 
Of my terrestrial sun, — 
If she return to heaven, amid the choir 
Of blessed souls, ’t is well that ye may close. 


ae ee 


GALEAZZO DI TARSIA. 


Garrazzo pi Tarsia belonged to a noble 
family in Cosenza. He was born in 1476. 
Though a soldier by profession, he was devoted 
to letters, and attained to high distinction as a 
poet. He was, to a certain extent, an imitator 
of Petrarch. Most of his pieces are addressed 
either to Vittoria Colonna, of whom he was a 
sort of platonic lover, or to Camilla Carrasa, 
who was his wife. He was accustomed to em- 
ploy the intervals of leisure, which his military 
profession allowed him, in singing the praises 
of these two ladies, in the retirement of his 
castle of Belmonte, in Calabria. 
place, according to Crescimbeni, i in 1530; ac- 
cording to Ginguené, in 1535. His poetical 
pieces consist of thirty- four sonnets and one 
canzone. ‘They are marked by originality and 
elegance. 


SONNET. 


TEempeEstTuous, loud, and agitated sea ! 

In thy late peaceful calm and quiet, thou 

Didst represent my happy state ; but now, 

Art picture true of my deep misery ! 

From thee is fled each joyous thing, the glee 

Of sportive Nereid, and smooth- gliding prow: 

From me, — arhst: late made joy iiiunte my 
brow: 

And make these present hours so drear to be. 

Alas! the time is near, when will return 

The season calm, and all thy waves be gay, 

And thou this fellowship of woe forsake : 

The mistress of my soul can never make 

Serene the night for me, or clear the day, — 

Whether the sun be hid, or cloudless burn. 


His death took 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


GIROLAMO FRACASTORO. 


Turis famous scholar, philosopher, physician, 
astronomer, and poet was born at Verona, in 
1483. After completing his education in his 
native place, he went to Padua, and delivered 
public lectures in the academy established 
by D’ Alviano, in Pordenone. About the year 
1509, he returned to his native place and oceu- 
pied himself with scientific and literary pur- 
suits. Some of his most celebrated Latin poetry 
was written at this period. Paul the Third 
made him the medical adviser of the Council 
of Trent. Fracastoro died of apoplexy, at his 
villa of Incaffi, in 1553. He is chiefly known 
as aman of science and a Latin poet; but he 
wrote a few pieces in the mother tongue, which 
show liveliness and facility of poetical composi- 
tion. 


SONNETS. 
TO A LADY. 


Lavy, the angelic hosts were all arrayed 

In paradise, around boon Nature’s throne, — 
The silver moon, the sun, resplendent shone, 
When faultless Beauty in thy form was made ; 
The air was calm, the day without a shade; 
Kind Venus gave her sire the magic zone; 
And Love amid the Graces rose alone, 

To view his future home in thee, fair maid ! 
Henceforth, thy form’s all-perfect symmetry 
Was fixed the eternal model here below 

Of Beauty, by the never-changing Fates. 

Let others boast a beauteous hand or eye, 

A lovely lip, or yet more lovely brow, — 

But Heaven all others’ charms by thine creates. 


HOMER. 


Port of Greece! whene’er thy various song, 

In deep attention fixed, my eyes survey, — 

Whether Achilles’ wrath awake thy lay, 

Or wise es sses and his wanderings long, 

Seas, rivers, cities, villas, woods among,— 

Methinks I view from top of mountain gray, 

And here, wild plains, there, fields in rich ar- 
tae 

Teeming with countless forms, my vision throng. 

Such various realms, their manners, rites, ex- 
plores 

Thy verse, and sunny banks, and grottos cold, 

Valleys and mountains, promontories, shores, 

’T’ would seem — go loves the Muse thy genius 
bold — 

That Nature’s self but copied from thy stores, 

Thou first great painter of the scenes of old ! 


ed 


VITTORIA COLONNA. 
Turs celebrated lady, the most distinguished 
among the poetesses of Italy, was the daughter 
of Fabrizio Colonna, grand constable of the 


A pitti ein et Dan ila 


VITTORIA COLONNA.—TOLOMEI. 557 


kingdom of Naples, and of Anna di Montefeltro, 
daughter of the duke of Urbino. She was born 
in Marino, a fief of her family, about the year 
1490. Atthe age of four years, she was be- 
trothed to Ferdinando Francesco Davalos, mar- 
quis of Pescara, a child of about the same age. 
At a very early period of her life, her rare beau- 
ty, her extraordinary mental endowments, and 
the accomplishments which a most careful edu- 
cation had bestowed upon her, rendered her 
the object of universal admiration. Even 
ereign princes sought her hand in marriage ; 
but she remained faithful to the object cf her 
parents’ choice, and the youthful pair were 
married at the age of seventeen. The marriage 
proved eminently happy; the noble and gallant 
character of the marquis, the beauty, grace, and 
virtue of Vittoria, the advantages of fortune, and 
a perfect unanimity of feeling, were inexhausti- 
ble sources of felicity. 


SOV- 


But this scene of peace- 
ful happiness was soon overcast by the storms 
of war. The hostilities that broke out between 
the French and the Spanish called the marquis 
from retirement, and, during his absence, Vit- 
toria solaced the weary hours by study and com- 
position. History, belles-lettres, and poetry 
cheered her solitude, and the regrets of sepa- 
ration were the subjects of her song. At the 
battle of Ravenna, where the marquis had com- 
mand of the cavalry, he was severely wounded, 
and taken prisoner with the Cardinal de’ Med- 
ici, afterwards Leo the Tenth. After having 
recovered his liberty by the friendly aid of Mar- 
shal Trivulzio, he speedily gained the highest 
military reputation. e entered the service of 
the emperor, and was present at the battle of 
Pavia, in 1525, where Francis the First was 
taken prisoner. He displayed consummate 
ability and bravery; but received a wound, of 
which he died the same year, leaving a name 
of historical eminence in tlre annals of the times, 
though he has not escaped reproach for having 
fought in the ranks of strangers, instead of in 
the defence of his country. Vittoria found con- 
solation for her bereavement in those pursuits 
which had been the ornament of her prosperity, 
and in celebrating the virtues and immortalizing 
the memory of her husband in poetry. She 
withdrew from the world to the tranquil retire- 
ment of the island of Ischia, and firmly refused 
all the offers of marriage which her beauty, her 
genius, her virtues, and her fame induced several 
persons of princely rank to make. The indul- 
gence of her sorrows in solitude soon gave her 
mind a strongly religious turn; and though she 
did not cease to exercise her poetical talents, they 
were henceforth employed chiefly on sacred 
themes. Among her friends she numbered many 
of the most distinguished of her contemporaries. 
She corresponded with the cardinals Bembo, 
Contarini, and Polo; and the poets Guidiccioni, 
Flaminio, Molza, and Alamanni were among 
her intimates. That great genius, Michel An- 


gelo, was one of her most devoted friends and 
admirers, and to her many of his sonnets are 


addressed. In 1541, desirous of finding a more 
complete seclusion, she retired to a monastery 
in Orvieto, and thence to that of Santa Catari- 
na in Viterbo. She returned, however, once 
more to Rome, where she died, towards the end 
of February, 1547, 

Her poems, which passed through four edi- 
tions during her lifetime, place her in the first 
rank of the followers of Petrarch. Her son- 
nets show, besides the finished elegance of the 
language, a vigor and vivacity of thought, a 
tenderness of feeling, and a brilliancy of imag- 
ination, which justify the admiration felt for 
her by the most illustrious among her contem- 
poraries. 


es 


SONNETS. 


Fatuer of heaven! if by thy mercy’s grace 

A living branch I am of that true vine 

Which spreads o’er all,—-and would we did 
resign 

Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace ! — 

In me much drooping, Lord, thine eye will trace, 

Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of 
mine, 

Unless in season due thou dost refine 

The humor gross, and quicken its dull pace. 

So cleanse me, that, abiding e’er with thee, 

I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew, 

And with my falling tears refresh the root. 

Thou saidst, and thou art truth, thou ’dst with 
me be: 

Then willing come, that I may bear much fruit, 

And worthy of the stock on which it grew. 


Brest union, that in heaven was ordained 

In wondrous manner, to yield peace to man, 
Which by the spirit divine and mortal frame 

Ts joined with sacred and with love-strong tie! 
I praise the beauteous work, its author great ; 
Yet fain would see it moved by other hope, 

By other zeal, before I change this form, 

Since I no longer may enjoy it here. 

The soul, imprisoned in this tenement, 

Its bondage hates; and hence, distressed, it can 
Neither live here, nor fly where it desires. 

My glory then will be to see me joined 

With the bright sun that lightened all my path ; 
For in his life alone I learned to live. 


a Se 


CLAUDIO TOLOMEI. 


Cravpio ToLomer was born of an ancient 
and noble family in Siena, about 1492. He 
was destined for the profession of the law; but, 
after having taken his degree, he changed his 
mind, and persisted in resigning the doctorate 
with as much ceremony as he had received its 
upon which Brunetti quaintly remarks, that, 
‘although he despoiled himself of the insignia, 


he did not despoil himself of his learning, or 
uu 2 


J 


of his reputatioa, which is now greater than 
ever.’ He then attached himself to the service 
of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici, and is supposed 
to have had some part in the unsuccessful mili- 
tary expedition undertaken by Clement the 
Seventh against Siena, in 1526. At any rate, 
a sentence of banishment from his native city 
was passed upon him that year, which was not 
revoked until 1542. In 1527, he interested 
himself warmly for the imprisoned pontiff, in 
whose behalf he composed five discourses ad- 
dressed to the Emperor Charles the Fifth. In 
1532, he was sent by Cardinal Ippolito, in his 
own name, to Vienna. Some time after the 
death of the cardinal, he is supposed to have 
entered the service of Pier Luigi Farnese, duke 
of Parma and Piacenza. He remained in Pia- 
cenza, with the title of Minister of Justice, until 
the tragical death of Pier Luigi, in 1547; he 
then retired to Padua, where he remained until 
the following year, when he went to Rome. In 
1549, he was made bishop of Corzola, a small 
island in the Adriatic Sea. In 1552, he was 
again in Siena, and had the honor to be appoint- 
ed one of the sixteen citizens who were intrust- 
ed with the conservation of the public liberty. 
He was also sent with three others to thank 
the king of France for the protection he had 
extended to the republic, and the discourse he 
delivered to that monarch at Compiegne has 
been preserved. He returned two years after, 
and died in Rome, March 23d, 1555. 

Tolomei was a writer of considerable merit. 
He is well known for the part he took in the 
violent controversy on the question, whether 
the language should be called the Italian, or the 
Tuscan, or the Vulgar; he proposed also to re- 
form the alphabet by introducing several new 
characters, and warmly advocated the- applica- 
tion of the ancient laws of versification to the 
Italian. He published the rules and some speci- 
mens of this kind of verse, defending them on 
the principles of philosophy and music. But 
apart from these vagaries, he was an active pro- 
moter of learning, and deserves an honorable 


©) 
place in literary history. 


SONNET. 
TO THE EVENING STAR. 


Buest Star of Love, bright Hesperus, whose glow 
Serves for sweet escort through the still of night, 
Of Love the living flame, the friendly light, 
And torch of Venus when she walks below ! 
Whilst to my mistress fair in stealth I £0, 
Who dims the sun in orient chambers bright, 
Now that the moon is low, nor cheers the sight, 
Haste, in her stead thy silver cresset show ! 

I wander not these gloomy shades among, 
Upon the wayworn traveller to prey, 

Or graves dispeople with enchanter’s song : 
My ravished heart from cruel spoiler’s sway 

I would redeem: then, O, avenge my wrong, 
Blest Star of Love, and beam upon my way ! 


or anaes —s 
a 


on ae 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


BERNARDO TASSO. 


Brrnarvo Tasso, famous asa poet, but more 
famous as the father of a greater poet, belonged 
to an ancient and noble family, and was born 
at Bergamo, November 11th, 1493. He was 
early instructed by the celebrated grammarian, 
Batista Pio, and made rapid progress in Greek 
and Roman literature. His uncle, the Bishop 
Luigi Tasso, who, after the death of Bernar- 
do’s father, had stood to him in the place of a 
parent, having been assassinated in 1520, the 
young man was compelled to leave his country | 
in search of some honorable means of support. 
It was about this period that he hoped, per- 
haps, to find in love some solace for his troubles, |} 
and occupied himself for a season in loving | 
and celebrating in his verses Ginevra Malatesta. 
But when he saw her united in marriage to | 
the Chevalier Degli Obizzi, and that this was | 
not the way to improve his condition, towards 
1525, he entered the service of Guido Rangone, | 
at that time general of the pontifical armies. 


On the marriage of Ginevra, “he bewailed his 
misfortune,” says Ginguené, “in a sonnet so 
tender, that there was neither man nor woman 
in all Italy who did not wish to know it by 
heart.”’ Tasso was employed by Rangone in 
the most delicate negotiations, both at the papal 
court, and at the court of Francis the First. In 
1529, he entered the service of the duchess of 
Ferrara, but soon after went to Padua, and 
thence to Venice, where he passed some time 
in the society of -his friends and the cultivation 
of letters. While there, he published a collec- 
tion of his poems, which rapidly* spread his 
fame throughout Italy, and gave him a distin- 
guished rank among the poets of the country. 
These poems made him known to Ferrante 
Sanseverino, prince “of Salerno, who offered 
him the post of Secretary, with an honorable 
salary. He accompanied the prince in various 
expeditions. He was present with him at the 
siege of Tunis, and distinguished himself by 
feats of daring; and he bore arms in Flanders 
and Germany. He was afterwards sent on im- 
portant business to Spain, and, after his return, 
obtained permission to revisit his friends in 
Venice, where he published a new collection 
of poems, and remained about a year. Return- 
ing to Salerno, he married Porzia de’ Rossi, a 
noble lady of great beauty and talents; and was 
permitted by the prince, who desired to give 
him an opportunity of pursuing his studies in 
tranquillity, to retire to Sorrento. There he 
lived until 1547, when the scene was sudden- 
ly changed. He was involved in the great- 
est embarrassments by the misfortunes of the 
prince, who fell under the displeasure of the 
Emperor Charles the Fifth, for opposing the 
establishment of the Inquisition in Naples. 
Tasso soon found himself deprived of all re- 
sources ; was obliged to seek another place of 
refuge, after having exerted himself to the ut- 


eat tata Dk ln aa 


most to maintain the cause of his unhappy mas- 
ter; was separated from his wife and children ; 
and, to finish the climax of his misfortunes, lost 
his wife, who died of sorrow in a convent to 
which she had retired. At length he was invited 
by Guidubaldo the Second, duke of Urbino, to 
his court, and a charming residence was assigned 
him in Pesaro, where be again occupied him- 
self with letters, and put the last hand to his 
“ Amadigi,” or Amadis. On the-completion of 
this poem, he went to Venice, where he was 
received with every mark of esteem, became 
a member of the Venetian Academy, and, in 
1560, published a beautiful edition of the long 
expected work. In 1563, the duke of Man- 
tua invited Tasso to his court and appointed him 
Chief Secretary, and subsequently governor of 
Ostiglia, a small place on the Po; but about a 
month after this last appointment, he fell ill, and 
died September 4th, 1569. 

The principal work of Bernardo Tasso is the 
«© Amadigi,”’ a romantic epic ; the “ Floridante,” 
an episode of the preceding, was intended to be 
formed into a sepkrate poem, but, being left in- 
complete at his des ith, was afterw aus published 
by his son. His other works are five books of 
“Rime,” with eclogues, elegies, hymns, and 
odes; a discourse on poetry, and three books 
of letters. His style is distinguished for polish, 
sweetness, and purity. In delineations of na- 
ture, in the description of battles, and in the 
narration of adventures, he excels. 


SONNET. 


Tuts shade, that never to the sun is known, 
When in mid-heaven his eye all-seeing glows ; 
Where myrtle-boughs with foliage dark inclose 
A bed with marigold and violets strown ; 
Where babbling runs a brook with tuneful moan, 
And wave so clear, the sand o’er which it flows 
Is dimmed no more than is the purple rose 
When through the crystal pure its blush is 
shown ; 
An humble swain, who owns no other store, 
To thee devotes, fair, placid god of sleep, 
Whose spells the care-worn mind to peace re- 
store, 
If thou the balm of slumbers soft and deep 
On these his tear-distempered eyes wilt pour, — 
Eyes, that, alas! ne’er open but to weep. 


——~ 


AGNOLO FIRENZUOLA. 


Agwnoto, or ANGELO, FIRENZUOLA belonged to 
an ancient Florentine family, and was born in 
1493. He studied in Siena and Perugia, though 
the greater part of his time was devoted to 
pleasure. He was confirmed in his dissipat- 
ed habits by the influence of Pietro Aretino, 
with whom he became acquainted in Perugia, 


BERNARDO TASSO.—FIRENZUOLA.—ALAMANNI. 


Es aap EEN J NAR REE ect are era SO UPC OI EON en 


and continued his intimacy afterwards in Rome. 
His biographers relate, that he entered upon 
the ecelesiastical career; that he took the habit 
in the monastery of Vallombrosa, obtained in 
order several promotions, and finally became 
an abate. Tiraboschi, without denying the truth 
of the statement, questions the sufficiency of 
the evidence. 

The early debaucheries of Firenzuola broke 
down his constitution. In a letter to Aretino, 
written in 1541, he complains of a disease of 
eleven years’ standing. He died a few years 
afterwards, in Rome. 

The works of Firenzuola were published at 
Florence in three volumes. They are partly 
in prose, and partly in verse. He translated 
the “Golden Ass” of Apuleius, adapting it to 
the circumstances of his own age. Of his 
poems, some are burlesque and some are seri- 
ous. His style is light and graceful; but the 
tone of some of his pieces is free even to licen- 
tiousness. 


SONNET. 


O tHov, whose soul from the pure sacred stream, 
Ere it was doomed this mortal veil to wear, 
Bathed by the gold-haired god, emerged so fair, 
That thou like him in Delog Light didst seem ! 
If zeal, that of my strength would wrongly deem, 
Bade me thy virtues to the world declare, 
And, in my highest flight, struck with despair, 
I suv unequal to such lofty theme ; 

Alas! I suffer from the same EGS 

As the false offspring of the bird that bore 

The Phrygian stripling to the Thunderer’s lap: 
Forced in the sun’s full radiance to gaze, 

Such streams of light on their weak vision pour, 
Their eyes are blasted in the furious blaze. 


——_ 4 


LUIGI ALAMANNI. 


Luier ALamannt was born at Florence, in 
1495. He belonged to one of the most distin- 
guished families in the republic, Having been 
caneemed in a conspiracy against Cardinal Giu- 
lio de’ Medici, and the conspiracy being dis- 
covered, he fled to Venice, and, on the acces- 
sion of the cardinal to the papal chair, took re- 
fuge in France. He returned to Florence in 
1527, but was again driven into exile by the 
Dake A Tae aire) He was favorably received 
by Francis the First, king of France, w ho sent 
him as ambassador to the “Emperor Charles the 
Fifth. He enry the Second, also, held the talents 
of Alamanni in high esteem, ad intrusted He 
with important public business. He died a 
Amboise, in 1556, where the French court was 
at that time. 

The works of Alamanni embrace almost 
every species of poetry: two epics, “¢ Girone 
il Cortese” and “La Avarchide”’; a tragedy, 
“TL” Antigone”’; lyric poems, satires, eclogues, 


560 


a didactic poem entitled “ Coltivazione,” and a 
collection of epigrams. His works are charac- 
terized by grace and elegance. 


SONNETS. 
TO ITALY. 


THanks be to God, my feet are now addressed, 

Proud Italy, at least to visit thee, 

After six weary years, since destiny 

Forbids me in thy dear-loved lap to rest. 

With weeping eyes, with look and heart de- 
pressed, 

Upon my natal soil I bend the knee, 

While hope and joy my troubled spirit flee, 

And anguish, rage, and terror fill my breast. 

I turn me, then, the snowy Alps to tread, 

And seek the Gaul, more kindly prompt to 
greet 

The child of other lands, than thou art thine: 

Here, in these shady vales, mine old retreat, 

I lay, in solitude, mine aching head, 

Since Heaven decrees, and thou dost so incline. 


PETRARCA’S RETREAT. 


Vauctuss, ye hills and glades and shady vale, 

So long the noble Tuscan bard’s retreat, 

When warm his heart for cruel Laura beat, 

As lone he wandered in thy beauteous dale ! 

Ye flowers, which heard him oft his pains bewail 

In tones of love and sorrow, sad, but sweet ! 

Ye dells and rocks, whose hollow sides repeat, 

Even yet, his ancient passion’s moving tale! 

Fountain, which pourest out thy waters green 

In ever-flowing streams the Sorgue to fill, 

Whose charms the lovely Arno’s emulate ! 

How deeply I revere your holy scene, 

Which breathes throughout the immortal poet 
still, 

Whom I, perchance all vainly, imitate! 


Sees 


GIOVANNI GUIDICCIONI. 


Giovanni Gurpiccioni was born at Lucca, 
in 1500. He studied successively at the Uni- 
versities of Pisa, Padua, Bologna, and Ferrara, 
at the last of which he took the degree of Doc- 
tor of Law. His uncle, the Cardinal Bartolom- 
meo, attached him to the service of Alexander 
Farnese, afterwards Pope Paul the Third. At 
the court of the cardinal, he cultivated the 
friendship of the learned men who adorned it, 
and especially of Annibale Caro. In 1533, he 
retired to his own country; but as soon as the 
cardinal was elevated to the papal chair, was 
summoned by him to Rome. From this time 
forth, he was charged with important offices, the 
duties of which he performed to the great sat- 
isfaction of his employer, until his death, which 
took place in 1541. 


As a poet, Guidiccioni was an imitator ‘of 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Petrarch. His pieces have been published with 
those of Bembo and Casa. They are not con- 
fined to the expression of personal feelings, but 
many of them breathe a patriotic spirit, and 
bewail the misfortunes of Italy. 


SONNETS. 
TO ROME. 


Txov noble nurse of many a warlike chief, 

Who in more brilliant times the world subdued ; 

Of old, the shrines of gods in beauty stood 

Within thy walls, where now are shame and 
grief: 

I hear thy broken voice demand relief, 

And sadly o’er thy faded fame I brood, — 

Thy pomps no more, —thy temples fallen and 
rude, — 

Thine empire shrunk within a petty fief. 

Slave as thou art, if such thy majesty 

Of bearing seems, thy name so holy now, 

That even thy scattered fragments I adore, — 

How did they feel, who saw thee throned on high 

In pristine splendor, while thy glorious brow 

The golden diadem of nations bore ? 


TO TTALY. 


From ignominious sleep, where age on age 
Thy torpid faculties have slumbering Jain, 
Mine Italy, enslaved, ay, more, insane, — 
Wake, and behold thy wounds with noble rage ! 
Rouse, and with generous energy engage 
Once more thy long-lost freedom to obtain ; 
The path of honor yet once more regain, 
And leave no blot upon my country’s page! 
Thy haughty lords, who trample o’er thee now, 
Have worn the yoke which bows to earth thy 
neck, 
And graced thy triumphs in thy days of fame. 
Alas! thine own most deadly foe art thou, 
Unhappy land! thy spoils the invader deck, 
While self-wrought chains thine infamy pro- 
claim ! 


—__o—— 


FRANCESCO BERNI DA BIBBIENA. 


Francesco Bernt, or Bernta, the great mas- 
ter and perfecter of the humorous style in Ital- 
ian poetry, was born in a small town of Tus- 
cany, called Lamporecchio, about the end of 
the fifteenth century. His family was noble, 
but in reduced circumstances. He passed his 
early youth in Florence, where he remained, 
until he was nineteen years old, ina state of 
great poverty. He then went to Rome and 
entered the service. of Cardinal Bernardo da 
Bibbiena, to whom he was distantly related ; 
and after the death of that ecclesiastic, attached 
himself to Cardinal Angelo Bibbiena, but with 
little advantage to his fortunes. Finally, he 
became secretary to Ghiberti, bishop of Verona, 


who then held the office of Datary to the Ro- 

man see. Berni remained with him seven 

years, and, having assumed the ecclesiastical 

habit, was employed by him in the affairs of his 

distant benefices. But the occupations and re- 

straints to which he was subjected agreed but 

ill with his temperament, and he failed to de- 

rive those advantages from his position which 

might naturally have been expected. He was, 

however, a great favorite with all who loved 

literature and the arts, and became one of the 

leading members of the learned and convivial 

society called the Accademia de’ Vignaiuoli, or 

Club of the Vine-dressers, the members of 
which, in the whimsical spirit of the age, as- 

sumed names bearing some relation or allusion 

to the vine ; —one, for instance, rejoiced in the 

appellation of Il Mosto, or Must ; another called 

himself L’ Agresto, or The Sour-grape ; and a 

third, Jl Cotogno, or Quince, — Peter Quince, 

perhaps. Among these jolly academicians were 

numbered such men as Firenzuola, Della Casa, 

Mauro, and Molza. They met at the house of 
Uberto Strozzi, and at his table, under the in- 

spiration of wine and merriment, improvised 

verses which are said to have astonished the 
‘authors themselves, —a thing not at all im- 
probable. He was living at Rome when that 
city was attacked by the party of the Colonni, 
and in the pillage of the Vatican he lost every 
thing. At length, wearied out with the court 
of Rome, he obtained the easy and profitable 
station of Canon of Florence. To this city he 
retired, and soon became intimate with the young 
Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici, as well as with 
the Duke Alessandro, the cardinal’s mortal foe. 
Here he led a life of ease and tranquil enjoy- 
ment, until the hostility between his two pro- 
tectors brought him into trouble, and, according 
to the accounts of some biographers, led to his 
death. As the story is usually told, one of the 
rivals proposed to Berni to destroy the other by 
poison ; and when he refused to participate in 
the crime, poison was administered to him, of 
which he died, July 26th, 1536. The statement, 
however, has been doubted; for the cardinal 
died in 1535, a year before the death of Berni, 
and no very probable motive can be attribu- 
ted to the duke for poisoning the poet at that 
time. 

The principal works of Berni are the  Orlan- 
do Innamorato,” which is the poem of Bojardo 
remodelled, and the “ Rime Burlesche.” He 
wrote also Latin verses with great facility and 
elegance. In wit, humor, and burlesque, Berni 
stands so preéminent among the poets of his 
country, that the peculiar style in which he 
wrote has been called the maniera Bernesca. 
His versification is light and graceful, though 
the excellence of his language is said to be the 
result of repeated and careful corrections. The 
great blemish of his works is their frequent and 
gross licentiousness. 

Berni’s style has often been imitated, but by 


| none more notoriously than by Lord Byron. 
71 


0 ————————— 
BER 
ee 


NI. 561 


FROM THE ORLANDO INNAMORATO. 


THE AUTHOR’S OWN PORTRAIP. 


A Boon companion, to increase this crew, 
By chance, a gentle Florentine was led ; 
A Florentine, although the father who 
Begot him in the Casentine was bred ; 
Who, nigh become a burgher of his new 
Domicil, there was well content to wed; 
And so in Bibbiena wived, which ranks - 
Among the pleasant towns on Arno’s banks. 


At Lamporecchio he of whom I write 
*Was born, for dumb Masetto famed of yore ; 
Thence roamed to Florence; and in piteous 
plight 
There sojourned till nineteen, like pilgrim 
poor ; 
And shifted thence to Rome, with second flight, 
Hoping some succour from a kinsman’s store ; 
A cardinal allied to him by blood, 
And one that neither did him harm nor good. 


He to the nephew passed, this patron dead, 
Who the same measure as his uncle meted ; 
And then again, in search of better bread, 
With empty bowels from his house retreated ; 
And hearing —for his name and fame were 
spread — j 
The praise of one who served the pope re- 
peated, 
And in the Roman court Datario hight, 
He hired himself to him to read and write. 


This trade the unhappy man believed he knew ; 
But this belief was, like the rest, a bubble ; 
Since he could never please the patron who 
Fed him, nor ever once was out of trouble. 
The worse he did, the more he had to do, 
And only made his pain and penance double: 
And thus, with sleeves and bosom stuffed with 
papers, 
Wasted his wits, and lived oppressed with vapors. 


Add for his mischief (whether ’t was his little 
Merit, misfortune, or his want of skill), 
Some cures he farmed produced him nota tittle, 
And only were a source of plague and ill: 
Fire, water, storm, or devil, sacked vines and 
victual, 
Whether the luckless wretch would tithe or 
till. 
Some pensions, too, which he possessed, were 
naught, 
And, like the rest, produced him not a groat. 


This notwithstanding, he his miseries slighted, 
Like happy man who not too deeply feels; 

And all, but most the Roman lords, delighted, 
Content in spite of tempests, writs, or seals ; 

And oftentimes, to make them mirth, recited 
Strange chapters upon urinals and eels; 

And other mad vagaries would rehearse, 

That he had hitched, Heaven help him! into 


verse. 


ena a EIR 
Rates 


SS SS a OO ee SO — 


a A eS = are ee ST - 


His mood was choleric, and his tongue was vi- 
cious ; 
But he was praised for singleness of heart, 
Not taxed as avaricious or ambitious ; 
Atfectionate, and frank, and void of art, 
A lover of his friends, and unsuspicious ; 
But where he hated, knew no middle part ; 
And men his malice by his love might rate : 
But then he was more prone to love than hate. 


To paint his person, — this was thin and dry ; 
Well sorting it, —his legs were spare and lean; 

Broad was his visage, and his nose was high, 
While narrow was the space that was be- 

tween 

His eyebrows sharp; and blue his hollow eye 
Which for his bushy beard had not been seen 

But that the master kept this thicket cleared, 

At mortal war with moustache and with beard. 


? 


? 


No one did ever servitude detest 

Like him; though servitude was still his dole: 
Since fortune or the Devil did their best 

To keep him evermore beneath control. 
While, whatsoever was his patron’s hest, 

To execute it went against his soul ; 
His service would he freely yield, unasked, 
But lost all heart and hope, if he were tasked. 


Nor music, hunting-match, nor mirthful measure, 
Nor play, nor other pastime, moved him aught; 
And if’t was true that horses gave him pleasure, 
The simple sight of them was all he sought, 
Too poor to purchase; and his only treasure 
His naked bed ; his pastime to do naught 
But tumble there, and stretch his weary length, 
And so recruit his spirits and his strength. 


Worn with the trade he long was used to slave in, 
So heartless and so broken down was he, 
He deemed he could not find a readier haven 
Or safer port from that tempestnous sea, 
Nor better cordial to recruit his craven 
And jaded spirit, when he once was free, 
Than to betake himself to bed, and do 
Nothing, and mind and matter so renew. 


On this, as on an art, he would dilate 
In good set terms, and styled his bed a vest, 
Which, as the wearer pleased, was small or great, 
And of whatever fashion liked him best ; 
A simple mantle, or a robe of state ; 
With that a gown of comfort and of rest: 
Since whosoever slipped his daily clothes 
For this, put off with these all worldly woes. 


He by the noise and lights and music jaded 

~ Of that long revel, and the tramp and tread 

(Since every guest in his desires was aided, 

And knaves performed their will as soon as 

said), 

Found out a chamber which was uninvaded, 
And bade those varlets there prepare a bed, 

Garnished with bolsters and with pillows fair, 

At its four borders, and exactly square, 


562 ITALIAN POETRY. 


This was six yards across by mensuration, 
With sheets and curtains bleached by wave 
and breeze, 
With a silk quilt for farther consolation, 
And all things fitting else : though hard to 
please, 
Six souls therein had found accommodation ; 
But this man sighed for elbow-room and ease, 
And here as in a bed was fain to swim, 
Extending at his pleasure length and limb. 


By chance, with him, to join the fairy’s train, 
A Frenchman and acook was thither brought; 

One that had served in court with little gain, 
Though he with sovereign care and cunning 

wrought. 

For him, prepared with sheet and counterpane, 
Another bed was, like his fellow’s, sought: 

And ’twixt the two sufficient space was seen 

For a fair table to be placed between. 


Upon this table, for the pair to dine, 

Were savory viands piled, prepared with art; 
All ordered by this master-cook ‘divine ; 

Boiled, roast, ragouts and jellies, paste and tart: 
But soups and syrups pleased the Florentine, 
Who loathed fatigue like death, and, for his 

part, . 

Brought neither teeth nor fingers into play ; 
But made two varlets feed him as he lay. 


Here couchant, nothing but his head was spied, 
Sheeted and quilted to the very chin; 

And needful food a serving-man supplied 
Through pipe of silver, placed the mouth 

within. 

Meantime the sluggard moved no part beside, 
Holding all motion else were shame and sin ; 

And (so his spirits and his health were broke) 

Not to fatigue this organ, seldom spoke. 


The cook was Master Peter hight, and he 
Had tales at will to while away the day ; 
To him the Florentine: “Those fools, pardie, 
Have little wit, who dance that endless Hay ”’; 
And Peter in return, “I think with thee.” 
Then with some merry story backed the say, 
Swallowed a mouthful, and turned round in bed; 


And s0, by starts, talked, turned, and slept, and 
fed. 


And so the time these careless comrades cheated, 
And still, without a change, ate, drank, and 
slept, 


Nor by the calendar their seasons meted, 


Nor register of days or sennights kept: 


No dial told the passing hours which fleeted, 


Nor bell was heard; nor servant overstepped 


The threshold (so the pair proclaimed their will) 
To bring them tale or tidings, good or ill. 


Above all other curses, pen and ink 


Were by the Tuscan held in hate and scorn ; 


Who, worse than any loathsome sight or stink, 


/ 
Detested pen and paper, ink and horn: | 
| 


} 


So deeply did a deadly venom sink, 
So festered in his flesh a rankling thorn, 
While, night and day, with heart and garments 
rent, 
Seven weary years the wretch in writing spent. 


Of all their ways to baffle time and tide, 
This seems the strangest of their waking 
dreams : 
Couched on their back, the two the rafters eyed, 
And taxed their drowsy wits to count the 
beams ; 
[is thus they mark at leisure which is wide, 
Which short, or which of due proportion 
seems 5 
And which worm-eaten are, and which are 
sound ; 
And if the total sum is odd or round. 


THE TWO FOUNTAINS IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 


Tue alabaster vase was wrought with gold, 
And the white ground o’erlaid with curious 
care ; 
While he who looked within it might behold , 
Guten grove, and flowers, and meadow, pic- 
tured there. 
Wise Merlin made it, it is said, of old, 
For Tristan, when he sighed for Yseult fair ; 
That, drinking of its wave, he might forego 
The peerless damsel, and forget his woe. 


But he, to his misfortune, never found 
That fountain, built beneath the greenwood 
res 5 
Although the warrior paced a weary round, 
Encompassing the world by land ‘and sea. 
The waves which in the magic basin bound 
Make him unlove who loves. Nor only he 
Foregoes his former love ; but that, which late 
Was his chief pride and pleasure, has in hate. 


Mount Alban’s lord, whose strength and spirits 
sink, — 
For yet the sun was high and passing hot, — 
Stood gazing on the pearly fountain’s brink, 
Rapt with the sight of that delicious spot. 
At length he can no more, but stoops to drink ; 
And thirst and love are ‘in the draught for- 
got: 
For such the virtue those cold streams impart, 
Changed in an instant is the warrior’s heart. 


Him, with that forest’s wonders unacquainted, 
Some paces to a second water bring, 
Of crystal wave with rain or soil untainted. 
With all the flowers that wreath the brows 
of Spring 
Kind Nature bad the verdant margin painted : 
And there a pine and beech and olive fling 
Their boughs above the stream, and form a 
bower, 
A grateful shelter from the noontide hour. 


BERNI. 563 


This was the stream of Love, upon whose shore 

He chanced, where Merlin no enchantments 
shed ; 

But Nature here, unchanged by magic lore, 
The fountain with such sovereign virtue fed, 

That all who tasted loved > whence many, sore 
Lamenting their mistake, were ill-bested. 

Rinaldo wandered to this water’s brink, 

But, sated, had no further wish to drink. 


Yet the delicious trees and banks produce 
Desire to try the grateful shade ; and needing 
Repose, he lights, and turns his courser loose, 
Who roamed the forest, at his pleasure feeding ; 
And there Rinaldo cast him down, at truce 
With care; and slumber to repose succeeding, 
Thus slept supine: when spiteful fortune brought 
Her to the spot whom least the warrior sought. 


She thirsts, and, lightly leaping from her steed, 
Ties the gay palfrey to the lofty pine; 

Then plucking from the stream a little reed, 
Sips, as a man might savor muscat wine ; 
And feels, while yet she drinks (such marvel 

breed 
The waters fraught with properties divine), 
She is no longer what she was before ; 
And next beholds the sleeper on the shore. 


MICROCOSMOS. 


Hx, who the name of little world applied 
To man, in this approved his subtle wit: 
Since, save it is not round, all things beside 
Exactly with this happy symbol fit ; 
And I may say, that long and deep, and wide 
And middling, good and bad, are found in it. 
Here, too, the various elements combined 
Are dominant; snow, rain, and mist, and wind. 


Now clear, now overcast. "Tis there its land 

Will yield no fruit, here bears a rich sapply, — 
As the mixed soil is marl, or barren sand, 

And haply here too moist, or there too dry. 
Here foaming hoarse, and there with murmur 

bland, 

Streams glide, or torrents tumble from on high: 
Such of man’s appetites convey the notion ; 
Since these are infinite, and still in motion. 


Two solid dikes the invading streams repel 5 
The one is Reason, and the other Shame: 

The torrents, if above their banks they swell, 
Wit and discretion are too weak to tame: 

The crystal waters, which so smoothly well, 
Are appetites of things devoid of blame. 

Those winds, and rains, and snows, and night, 

and day, 
Ye learned clerks, divine them as ye may. 


Among these elements, misfortune wills 
Our nature should have most of earth: for she, 
Moved by what influence heaven or sun instils, 
Is subject to their power ; nor less are we. 


aie 


es 


ns 


r: 


gor te a 


ee 


564 ITALIAN POETRY. 


In her, this star or that in barren hills 
Produces mines in rich variety : 

And those who buman nature wisely scan + 

May this discern peculiarly in man. 


Who would believe that.various minerals grew, 
And many metals, in our rugged mind; 
From gold to nitre? Yet the thing is true; 
But out, alas! the rub is how to find 
This ore. Some letters and some wealth pursue; 
Some fancy steeds; some dream, at ease re- 
clined ; 
These song delights, and those the cittern’s 
sound : 
Such are the mines which in our world abound. 


As these are worthier, more or less, so they 
Abound with lead or gold; and practised 
wight, 
The various soil accustomed to survey, 
Is fitted best to find the substance bright. 
And such in our Apulia is the way 
They heal those suffering from the spider’s 
bite, 
Who strange vagaries play, like men possessed ; 
Tarantulated, as ’t is there expressed. 


For this, ’t is needful, touching sharp or flat, 
To seek a sound which may the patients 
please ; 
Who, when they find the merry music pat, 
Dance till they sweat away the foul disease. 
And thus who should allure this man or that, 
And still with various offer tempt and tease, 
I wot, in little time, would ascertain 
And sound each different mortal’s mine and 
vein. 


"£ was so Brunello with Rogero wrought, 
Who offered him the armor and the steed. 
Thus by the cunning Greek his aid was brought, 
Who laid fair Ilion smoking on the mead : 
Which was of yore in clearer numbers taught ; 

Nor shall I now repeat upon my reed, 
Who from the furrow let my ploughshare stray, 
Unheeding how the moments glide away. 


As the first pilot by the shore did creep, 
Who launched his boat upon the billows dark, 
Afd where the liquid ocean was least deep, 
And without sails, impelled his humble bark ; 
But seaward next, where foaming waters leap, 
By little and by little steered his ark, 
With nothing but the wind and stars to guide, 
And round about him glorious wonders spied : 


Thus I, who still have sung a humble strain, 
And kept my little bark within its bounds, 
Now find it fit to launch into the main, 
And sing the fearful warfare which resounds 
Where Africa pours out her swarthy train, 
And the wide world with mustered troops 
abounds ; 
And, fanning fire and forge, each land and nation 
Sends forth the dreadful note of preparation. 


—_— 


BENEDETTO VARCHI. 


— 


Benepetto Varcuti, one of the most labori- 


‘ous men of Jetters in the sixteenth century, was 


a native of Florence, where he was born in 
1562. His father was a lawyer, and destined 
him for the same profession. He was sent first 
to the University of Padua, where he made 
great progress in polite literature, and after- 
wards to Pisa, for the purpose of studying the 
law. On the death of his father, he abandoned 
the law and gave himself wholly to literature. 
Among other things, he studied Greek under 
the learned Pier Vettori. When the civil wars 
broke out, he joined the party opposed to the 
Medici, and was driven into exile. He went to 
Venice, then to Bologna, then to Padua, and 
again to Bologna. In the two cities last -men- 
tioned he passed several years in study, and in 
the society of the learned men who were there 
in great numbers at that time. Notwithstanding 
the part he had taken, Duke Cosmo the First 
recalled him to Florence, and assigned him the 
office of writing the history of the late revolu- 
tions, with a fixed salary. While he was en- 
gaged in this work, some persons, whose con- 
duct was hkely to appear in an unfavorable 
light in his history, attacked him by night, and 
attempted to assassinate him. He recovered 
from his wounds, but refused to divulge the 
names of the assailants, though they were well 
known to him. Paul the Third invited him to 
Rome, but he preferred remaining in Florence. 
He died in 1565, of apoplexy. ° 

The principal work of Varchi is his volumi- 
nous history of Florence, from 1527 to 1538, 
which was left unfinished at his death. He 
also wrote many discourses, distinguished for 
their purity of language. His poetical works 
are “Rime,” ‘Capitoli,’”’ eclogues, a comedy, 
and several Latin poems; besides which, he 
translated parts of Seneca, and Boéthius “ De 
Consolatione.”” He read many papers before 
the Florentine Academy, on_morals, philosophy, 
criticism, and the arts, which were marked by 
erudition and elegance of style. 


“SONNET. 
ON THE TOMB OF PETRARCA. 


‘‘Yx consecrated marbles, proud and dear, 

Blest, that the noblest Tuscan ye infold, 

And in your walls his holy ashes hold, 

Who, dying, left none greater, — none his peer ; 

Since I, with pious hand, with soul sincere, 

Can send on high no costly perfumed fold 

Of frankincense, and o’er the sacred mould 

Where Petrarch lies no gorgeous altars rear; 

O, scorn it not, if humbly I impart 

My grateful offering to these lovely shades, 

Here bending low in singleness of mind!” 

Lilies and violets sprinkling to the wind, 

Thus Damon prays, while the bright hills and 
glades 

Murmur, “ The gift is small, but rich the heart.” 


GIOVANNI DELLA CASA. 


Giovanni DELLA Casa was descended, both 
on the father’s and mother’s side, from the no- 
blest families in Florence. He was born in 1503, 
but the place of his nativity is unknown. The 
troubles which agitated the city forced his pa- 
rents to expatriate themselves for a t.ne, and 
he received his early education at Bologna. 
Afterwards he returned to Florence, where, 
about 1524, he was under the instruction of 
Ubaldino Baldinelli. Having chosen the eccle- 
siastical career, he went to Rome, and was ap- 
pointed, in 1538, Clerk of the Apostolical Cham- 
ber. Here he divided his time between study 
and amusement, perfected his knowledge of 
Latin and Greek, and had a son to whom he 
gave the name of Quirinus. In 1040, he ‘vas 
sent to Florence, as Apostolical Commissary, to 
superintend the collection of the church tithes, 
and on that occasion was enrolled in the Floren- 
tine Academy, of which he was considered one 
of the brightest ornaments. Returning to Rome, 
he was promoted, three years after, in 1544, 
to the archbishopric of Benevento, and was sent 
in the same year, as Nuncio, to Venice. On the 
death of Paul the Third, Della Casa returned to 
Rome; but falling into disgrace with Julius the 
Third, retired to Venice, where he lived several 
years in the tranquil pursuit of literature, inter- 
rupted only by the gout. On the accession of 
Paul the Fourth, he was recalled to Rome, and 
nominated Secretary of State. He died there, 
November 14th, 1556. 

The early poetical writings of Della Casa 
were stained by the prevalent licentiousness of 
the age, and have cast reproach upon his name. 
But he was, nevertheless, an elegant and vigor- 
ous writer, both in Latin and Italian. In his 
“Rime,” published two years after his death, 
he surprised the world by a vigor of expression 
and a boldness of imagery to which the Pe- 
trarchists had long been strangers. 


SONNETS. 


Sweet lonely wood, that like a friend art found 
To soothe my weary thoughts that brood on 
woe, 
Whilst through dull days and short the north 
winds blow, 
Numbing with winter’s breath the air and 
ground ; 
Thy time-worn leafy locks seem all around, 
Like mine, to whiten with old age’s snow, 
Now that thy sunny banks, where late did 
grow 
The painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound. 
As I go musing on the dim, brief light 
That still of life remains, then I, too, feel 
The creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill : 
But I with sharper frost than thine congeal ; 
Since ruder winds my winter brings, and night 


| 


565 


VENICE. 


Turse marble domes, by wealth and genius 
graced 

With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian 
stone, 

Were once rude cabins ’midst a lonely waste, 

Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 

Pure from each vice, ’t was here a virtuous train, 

Fea~less, in fragile barks explored the sea; 

Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign : 

They sought these island-precincts — to be free. 

Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose ; 

No dream of avarice broke their calm’ repose ; 

Fraud, more than death, abhorred each artless 
breast : 

O, now, since Fortune gilds their brightening 

_day, 

Let not those virtues languish and decay, 

O’erwhelmed by luxury, and by wealth op- 
pressed ! 


LATER 


ANGELO DI COSTANZO. 


Turis writer, known as a’ historian and a 
poet, belonged to a noble family of Naples. 
He was born about the year 1507. His ac- 
quaintance with Sannazzaro and Poderico, 
whose friendship he enjoyed, stimulated and 
assisted him in his studies. He gained much 
reputation by his poems ; but the. work which 
chiefly occupied his attention was a history of 
the kingdom of Naples, which he undertook 
by the advice of his two friends, with whom 
he retired to a villa in the neighbourhood of 
Somma, during the plague of 1527. In the 
midst of his literary labors he was exiled from 
Naples, for some unknown cause, and probably 
never returned. He spent more than forty 
years in the preparation and composition of his 
historical work, which appeared first in 1572, 
and again, corrected and enlarged, in 1581. He 
probably died about the year 1591. 

Costanzo, as a poet, is ranked among the 
best writers of sonnets in his age. His style is 
lively and graceful. 


__—_— 


SONNET. 


Tux lyre that on the banks of Mincius sung 

Daphnis and Melibeus in such strains, 

That never on Arcadia’s hills or plains 

Have rustic notes with sweeter echoes rung ; 

When now its chords, more deep and tuneful 
strung, 

Had sung of rural gods to listening swains, 

And that great Exile’s deeds and pious pains 

Who from Anchises and the goddess sprung, 

The shepherd hung it on yon spreading oak, 

Where, if winds breathe the sacred strings 
among, 

It seems as if some voice in anger spoke: 

«Let none dare touch me of the unhallowed 


throng : 
VV 


Of greater length, and days more scant and chill. 
| 


DE ————————nt 


DELLA CASA.—COSTANZO. 


EE TSA ts nc om DN a ear 


I 


| 


| 


SOOO 


566 


Unless some kindred hand my strains awoke, 
To Tityrus alone my chords belong.’ 


Baek sie 


BERNARDINO ROTA. 


Brryarpino Rota wasa contemporary and 
| friend of Costanzo, and a Neapolitan, He was 
| born in 1509. In early youth he distinguished 
| himself by the elegance of his compositions, both 
| in Latin and in Italian. In his Italian pieces 
he imitated the style of Petrarch. He wrote 
sonnets and canzoni. Many of his poems are 
consecrated to the memory of Porzia Capece, 
his. wife, to whom he was tenderly attached. 
He died at Naples, in 1575. 


SONNET. 
ON THE DEATH OF PORZIA CAPECE. 


. My breast, my mind, my bursting heart shall be 
a Thy sepulchre, — and not this marble tomb, 
ant RY Which I prepare for thee in grief and gloom: 
No meaner grave, my wife, is fitting thee. 
ae O, ever cherished be thy memory, — 

tii And may thine image dear my path illume, 
And leave my heart for other hopes no room, 
While sad I sail o’er sorrow’s troubled <a ! 
Sweet, gentle soul, where thou wert used to 
. reign, 
i My spirit’s queen, when wrapt in mortal clay, 
There, when immortal, shalt thou rule again. 
Let death, then, tear my love from earth away ; 
Urned in my bosom, she will still remain, 
Alive or dead, untarnished by decay. 


—_¢—. 


LUIGI TANSILLO. 


Luie1 Tansitio was born in Venosa, about 
the year 1510. He lived chiefly in Naples, 
4 and served, successively, the viceroy, Don Pe- 
‘pe dro de Toledo, and his son, Don Garcia, the 
former of whom he accompanied in his Afri- 
? can expedition. He was a gentleman of many 

noble qualities, and highly accomplished in the 
sciences and in letters. His poems were much 
praised in their time, some even preferring them 
| to Petrarch’s. He has been called, also, the 
inventor of the pastoral drama. His death oc- 


i. pray, curred about 1596. 


0 wo” 


ae 
—— 


ad 
Smee 


7 =o wil eae ee 


eee 


FROM LA BALIA. 
THE MOTHER. 


Anp can ye, then, whilst Nature’s voice divine 
Prescribes your duty, to yourselves confine 
Your pleased attention ? Can ye hope to prove 
More bliss from selfish joys than social love ? 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Nor deign a mother’s best delights to share, 
Though purchased oft with watchfulness and 
care ? — 
Pursue your course, nor deem it to your shame 
That the swart African, or Parthian dame, 
In her bare breast a softer heart infolds 
Than your gay robe and cultured bosom holds: 
Yet hear, and blush, whilst I the truth disclose. 
Than you the ravening beast more pity knows. 
Not the wild tenant of the Hyrcanian wood, 
Intent on slaughter, and athirst for blood, 
E’er turns regardless from her offspring’s cries, | 
Or to their thirst the plenteous rill denies. | 
Gaunt is the wolf, — the tiger fierce and strong; |; 
Yet, when the safety of their helpless young 
Alarms their fears, the deathful war they wage 
With strength unconquered and resistléss rage. 
One lovely babe your fostering care demands ; 
And can ye trust it to a hireling’s hands, 
Whilst ten young wolvelings shelter find and 
rest 
In the soft precincts of their mother’s breast, 
‘Till forth they rush, with vigorous nurture bold, || 
Scourge of the plain, and terror of the fold? 


Mark, too, the feathered tenants of the air: 

What though their breasts no milky fountain | 
bear ? 

Yet well may yours a soft emotion prove, | 

From their example of maternal love. 

On rapid wing the anxious parent flies 

To bring her helpless brood their due supplies. 

See the young pigeon from the parent beak 

With struggling eagerness its nurture take! 

The hen, whene’er the long-sought grain is 
found, 

Calls with assiduous voice her young around; | 

Then to her breast the little stragglers brings, | 

And screens from danger by her guardian wings. 

Safe through the day, beneath a mother’s eye, 

In their warm nests the unfledged cygnets lie ; 

But when the sun withdraws his garish\beam, 

A father’s wing supports them down the stream. 

Yet still more wondrous (if the long-told tale 

Hide not some moral truth in fiction’s veil), 

The pelican her proper bosom tears, 

And with her blood her numerous offspring 
rears ; 

Whilst you the balmy tide of life restrain, 

And truth may plead, and fiction court, in vain, 


Yon favorite lap-dog, that your steps attends, 
Peru, or Spain, or either India sends. 

What fears ye feel, as slow ye take your way, 
Lest from its path the minion chance to stray ! 
At home on cushions pillowed deep he lies, 
And silken slumbers veil his wakeful eyes; 
Or still more favored, on your snowy breast 


He drinks your fragrant breath, and sinks to 


rest: 


Whilst your young babe, that from its mother’s 


side 


No threats should sever, and no force divide, 
In hapless hour is banished far aloof 
Not only from your breast, — but from your roof, 


ee eeOeewaua>—a_—=$1 


TANSILLO.—GUARINI. 


Se ee ETRE Oe Te ee Per a Pe a ee 
| 


THE HIRELING NURSE. 


Wuar ceaseless dread a mother’s breast alarms, 

Whilst her loved offspring fills another’s arms! 

Fearful of ill, she starts at every noise, 

And hears, or thinks she hears, her children’s 
cries ; 

Whilst, more imperious grown from day to day, 

The greedy nurse demands increase of pay. 

Vexed to the heart with anger and expense, 

You hear, nor murmur at, her proud pretence ; 

Compelled to bear the wrong with semblance 
mild, 

And soothe the hireling as she soothes your child. 

But not the dainties of Lucullus’ feast 

Can gratify the nurse’s pampered taste ; 

Nor, though your babe, in infant beauty bright, 

Spring to its mother’s arms with fond delight, 

Can all its gentle blandishments suffice 

To compensate the torments that arise 

From her to whom its early years you trust, 

Intent on spoil, ungrateful, and unjust. 


Were modern truths inadequate to show 

That to your young a sacred debt you owe, 

Not hard the task to lengthen out my rhymes 

With sage examples drawn from ancient times. 

Of Rome’s twin founders oft the bard has sung, 

For whom the haggard wolf forsook her young: 

True emblem she of all the unnatural crew 

Who to another give their offspring’s due. 

But say, when, at a Saviour’s promised birth, 

With secret gladness throbbed the conscious 
earth, 

Whose fostering care his infant wants repressed ? 

Who laved his limbs, and hushed his cares to 
rest ? 

She, at whose look the proudest queen might 
hide 

Her gilded state, and mourn her humbled pride: 

She all her bosom’s sacred stores unlocked, 

His footsteps tended, and his cradle rocked ; 

Or, whilst the altar blazed with rites divine, 

Assiduous led him to the sacred shrine : 

And, sure, the example will your conduct guide, 

If true devotion in your hearts preside. 


But whence these sad laments, these mournful 
sighs, 

That all around in solemn breathings rise ? 

The accusing strains, in sounds distinct and clear, 

Wake to the sense of guilt your startled ear. 

Hark in dread accents Nature’s self complain, 

Her precepts slighted, and her bounties vain ! 

See, sacred Pity, bending from her skies, 

Turns from the ungenerous deed her dewy eyes! 

Maternal fondness gives her tears to flow 

In all the deeper energy of woe ; 

Whilst Christian Charity, enshrined above, 

Whose name is mercy and whose soul is love, 

Feels the just hatred that your deeds inspire, 

And where she smiled in kindness burns with 
Ite; 

See, true Nobility laments his lot, 

Indignant of the foul, degrading blot ; 


And Courtesy and Courage o’er him bend, 

And all the virtues that his state attend ! 

But whence that cry that steals upon the sense ? 

’'T is the low wail of injured innocence ; 

Accents unformed, that yet can speak their 
wrongs 

Loud as the pleadings of a hundred tongues. 

See in dread witness all creation rise, 

The peopled earth, deep seas, and circling skies ; 

Whilst conscience, with consenting voice within, 

Becomes accomplice and avows the sin! 


—__¢——— 


GIOVANNI BATTISTA GUARINI. 


Grovannt Battista Guarini, the celebra- 
ted author of the ‘“‘ Pastor Fido,” was born at 
Ferrara, in 1537. He studied at Ferrara, Pisa, 
and Padua, and was for several years Professor 
of Belles-lettres in the University of the first- 
mentioned city. At the age of thirty, he enter- 
ed the service of the duke of Ferrara, from whom 
he received the honor of knighthood. In 1577, 
he was sent to congratulate the new doge of 
Venice, and the discourse which he delivered 
on that occasion was printed. Guarini was 
charged with many other important embassies 
by the duke. He was sent successively to the 
duke of Savoy, to the emperor, to Henry the 
Third, when he was elected king of Poland, 
and afterwards into Poland, to advocate the 


claims of Duke Alphonso, when the throne of | 


that country had been abandoned by Henry. He 
was appointed Secretary of State, in 1585, as a 
reward for his services, but was dismissed from 
office within two years. He was compelled, 
through the influence of the duke, who had be- 
come his enemy, to leave the courts of Savoy 
and Mantua; but after Alphonso’s death, went 
to Florence, and was received with great honor 
by the Grand Duke Ferdinand, into whose ser- 
vice he entered in 1597. Quitting this s2rvice 
in a short time, he went to Urbino, and then 
returned to Ferrara. In 1605, he was sent by 
his native city to congratulate Paul the Fifth on 
his accession to the papal chair. He died in 
1612, at Venice, whither he had been called by 
a lawsuit in which he had involved himself. 

Guarini is considered one of the best writers 
of Italy. His style, both in prose and poetry, 
is distinguished by purity and elegance. His 
chief works are, letters, a dialogue called “T] 
Segretario,” five orations in Latin, a comedy 
entitled ‘Idropica,” “Rime,” and especially 
the pastoral drama, already mentioned, called 
“¢I] Pastor Fido,’’ by which he is principally 
known to other nations. It has been translated 
into most of the languages of Europe, and, among 
the rest, five or six times into English. The 
translation by Sir Richard Fanshaw, originally 
published in 1647, has gone through several 
editions, besides being several times remodelled 
by other writers. 


568 


FROM IL PASTOR FIDO. 


How I forsook 

Klis and Pisa after, and betook 
Myself to Argos and Mycene, where 
An earthly god I worshipped, with what there 
I suffered in that hard captivity, 
Would be too long for thee to hear, for me 
Too sad to utter. Only thus much know ; — 
I lost my labor, and in sand did sow: 
I writ, wept, sung; hot and cold fits I had ; 
I rid, I stood, I bore, now sad, now glad, 
Now high, now low, now in esteem, now 

scorned ; 
And as the Delphic iron, which is turned 
Now to heroic, now mechanic use, 
I feared no danger, — did no pains refuse ; 


Was all things, —and was nothing; changed 
my hair, 

Condition, custom, thoughts, and life, — but 
ne’er 


Could change my fortune. Then I knew at last, 
And panted after, my sweet freedom past. 

So, flying smoky Argos, and the great 

Storms that attend on greatness, my retreat 

I made to Pisa, — my thought’s quiet port. 


Who would have dreamed ’midst plenty to grow 
poor; 

Or to be less, by toiling to be more? 

I thought, by how much more in princes’ courts 

Men did excel in titles and supports, 

So much the more obliging they would be, 

The best enamel of nobility. 

But now the contrary by proofs I’ve seen: 

Courtiers in name, and courteous in their mien, 

They are; but in their actions I could spy 

Not the least transient spark of courtesy. 

People, in show, smooth as the calmed waves, 

Yet cruel as the ocean when it raves: 

Men in appearance only did I find, — 

Love in the face, but malice in the mind ; 

With a straight look and tortuous heart, and least 

Fidelity where greatest was professed. 

That which elsewhere is virtue is vice there: 

Plain truth, fair dealing, love unfeigned, sincere 

Compassion, faith inviolable, and 

An innocence both of the heart and hand, 

They count the folly of a soul that’s vile 

And poor, —a vanity worthy their smile. 

To cheat, to lie, deceit and theft to use, 

And under show of pity to abuse, 

To rise upon the ruins of their brothers, 

And seek their own by robbing praise from oth- 
ers, 

The virtues are of that perfidious race, 

No worth, no valor, no respect of place, 

Of age, or law, — bridle of modesty, — 

No tie of love or blood, nor memory 

Of good received; nothing ’s so venerable, 

Sacred, or just, that-is inviolable 

By that vast thirst of riches, and desire 

Unquenchable of still ascending higher. 

Now I, not fearing, since I meant not ill, 

And in court-eraft not having any skill, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Wearing my thoughts charactered on my brow, 
And a glass window in my heart, — judge thou 
How open and how fair a mark my heart 
Lay to their envy’s unsuspected dart. 


—_o—-. 


TORQUATO TASSO. 


Toraquato Tasso, whose genius is so splen- 
did an ornament to the annals of his country, 
and whose misfortunes fill one of the most af- 
fecting chapters in the history of the human 
mind, was born at Sorrento, March 11th, 1544. 
His father was Bernardo Tasso, of whom a 
notice has already ‘been given; his mother 
was Porzia Rossi. The morning of his life 
opened under the fairest auspices. His father 
was distinguished and prosperous; high in rank, 
and enjoying the smiles of fortune and the favor 
of the great. Torquato was sent early to the 
schools of the Jesuits in Naples, and his biogra- 
phers describe his progress as rapid and marvel- 
lous. Bernardo Tasso, having been obliged to 
leave Naples, sent for his son to join him in 
Rome, where his education was carefully contin- 
ued under the superintendence of Maurizio Cat- 
taneo, and he acquired a thorough knowledge of 
the Latin and Greek languages. At the age of 
twelve, he went by his father’s direction to 
Padua, to study the severer sciences, and ap- 
plied himself with such diligence, that at the 
age of*seventeen he received the honors in the 
four departments of ecclesiastical and civil law, 
theology, and philosophy. The study of juris- 
prudence was not, however, to his taste; his 
genius attracted him to poetry, and, about a year 
after, his epic poem * Rinaldo ” appeared, which 
he dedicated to the Cardinal Luigi d’ Este. It 
spread the reputation of the young poet rapidly 
through Italy, and some pronounced it equal to 
the best works of the kind that had been written 
in Italian. Torquato was now permitted to de- 
vote himself wholly to letters. He accepted an 
invitation to the University of Bologna, recently 
established by Pope Pius the Fourth and Pier 
Donato Cesi, bishop of Narni. While pursuing 
his studies earnestly at this seat of literature, and 
enjoying the conversation of the learned ,men 
who had been collected there, Tasso commenced 
the execution of the plan he had previously 
formed, of writing an epic poem on the Con- 
quest of Jerusalem. Being falsely accused of 
having written some satirical verses, he left 
Bologna, and went to Padua, on the invitation 
of Scipio Gonzaga, who had founded an acade- 
my in that city. Here he continued his literary 
pursuits with unabated ardor, and made _ his 
studies centre upon the epic poem which was 
constantly in his mind. The dedication of his 
‘“Rinaldo”’ to the Cardinal Luigi commended 
him to the favorable notice of the powerful 
family of Este, and, in 1565, he was invited 
to the court of Alphonso the Second, duke of 


Ferrara, where he arrived in October, 1565, 
and was present at the splendid festivities with 
which the marriage of the duke and the arch- 
duchess Barbara of Austria was celebrated. 
Tasso was received with every demonstration 
of respect. The sisters of the duke, Lucretia 
and Leonora, gave him their friendship. The 
duke assigned him lodgings and a handsome 
support, being desirous that he should complete 
the poem on which he had now been some 
years engaged. In 1570, he accompanied the 
cardinal to France, and received from the king, 
Charles the Ninth, from the court, and from the 
learned men of the University the most flat- 
tering testimonials of regard. He acquired the 
friendship, among others, of the poet Ronsard. 
He returned to Italy the following year, and re- 
sumed the composition of his poem. Soon 
after this time, while Alphonso was absent on a 
journey to Rome, Tasso wrote the idyllic drama, 
«¢ Aminta,”’ which he had long been meditating. 
On the return of the duke, it was represented 
with the greatest splendor. Tasso then visited 
Pesaro, where he was kindly welcomed by the 
old prince Guidubaldo. He returned to Ferrara 
in afew months, and occupied himself again 
with his epic poem; but a fever which he con- 
tracted in a journey to Venice interrupted his 
labors. In 1575, however, he finished the 
poem, and wishing to subject it to the criticism 
of his friends, obtained leave to visit Rome, 
where he was well received by Scipione di 
Gonzaga, and the other eminent persons there. 
On his return to Ferrara, the duke conferred 
upon him the vacant office of Historiographer of 
the house of Este, and at this time the young 
and beautiful countess Leonora Sanvitale, whose 
name is interwoven with Tasso’s sad history, 
arrived there. 

And now commences the dark and inexpli- 
cable period of Tasso’s life. This is not the 
place to enter at great length into the melan- 
choly details. The poet’s exquisitely organized 
mind seems, by degrees, to have lost its bal- 
ance; the effects of repeated illness, and the 
vexations caused by several imperfect and sur- 
reptitious editions of his poems, reduced him to 
a morbid and unhappy state ; he became gloomy, 
suspicious, and irritable, and, at length, in 1577, 
fled from Ferrara, and reaching Sorrento in a state 
of great destitution, took refuge with his sister 
Cornelia. He returned to Ferrara, but his mel- 
ancholy again overcoming him, he escaped a 
second time, and after seeking refuge in Man- 
tua, Padua, and Venice, was received at the 
court of Urbino; but the kindness and friend- 
ship with which he was treated were all in 
vain. He left Urbino ina most unhappy state 
and went to Turin. Finally, he returned again 
to Ferrara, where he was coldly received, and 
his misfortunes consequently rose to their height. 
Irritated beyond endurance by this treatment, 
he broke forth into violent reproaches against 
| the duke and his court, and was arrested and 


shut up in the hospital of Santa Anna as a 
72 


TORQUATO TASSO. 


eee 


in this dreary abode, surrounded by the most 
appalling sights and sounds of human misery, 
more than seven years, notwithstanding the 
repeated and urgent intercessions of the most 
eminent persons in Italy for his liberation. 
During this time, he was visited by the most 
distinguished men, who lightened his suffering 
by spontaneous and heartfelt tributes to his 
genius. Nor was his pen idle in this sad in- 
terval. Innumerable letters, poetical composi- 
tions, and admirable replies to the assailants 
of his epic were written by him in his lucid 
moments. The motive of this long and appar- 
ently cruel imprisonment of Tasso, which has 
left an indelible blot on the name of Alphonso, 
has been the subject of many inquiries, but has 
never been satisfactorily explained. The most 
thorough and scholarlike investigation of this 
part of the poet’s history is contained in a work 
by Richard Henry Wilde, entitled ‘¢ Conjectures 
and Researches concerning the Love, Madness, 
and Imprisonment of Torquato Tasso” (2 vols. 
12mo., New York, 1842), to which the reader | 
is referred. 

At length, in 1586, Alphonso yielded to the 
intercession of his brother-in-law, Vincenzo 
Gonzaga, prince of Mantua, and liberated Tas- 
so. He went in the autumn of the same year 
to Mantua, where he was kindly received, and || 
resumed his literary labors, completing, among | 
other things, the poem of ‘«‘ Floridante,’’ which 
had been commenced by his father. After the 
death of the duke of Mantua, Tasso went to 
Rome, and in 1588, to Naples, for the purpose 
of settling some lawsuits concerning the fortune 
of his parents. The last years of his life were 
divided between Rome and Naples, except a 
few months in 1590, which he passed in Flor- 
ence, by the invitation of the Grand Duke Fer- 
dinand. His sufferings both of mind and body, 
and the destitution to which he was often re- 
duced, present one of the most piteous specta- 
cles of the vicissitudes of fortune. e arrived 
at Rome for the last time in November, 1594; 
his friend, the cardinal Cintio Aldobrandini, 
having procured for him from the pope the 
honor of a coronation in the Capitol. The 
ceremony was, however, postponed until the 
spring. During the winter, his health rapidly 
failed, and conscious that his death was ap- 
proaching, he ordered himself to be carried to 
the monastery of Saint Onofrio, where he died 
April 25th, 1595, the day which had been fixed | 
for his coronation. 

To high attributes of genius Tasso united a 
passionate love of learning, and an industry in 
its acquisition which made him one of the pro- 
foundest scholars in an erudite age. His works 
were wrought out with the most conscientious 
care, and with consummate art. He had bril- 
liant powers of invention, and a strength of 
imagination unsurpassed ; he possessed at the 
same time a love of order and a keen sense of 


just proportion, which led him toa nice arrange- 
vv 2 


569 | 
madman. The unfortunate poet was confined 


ee 


—— 


genius to transcend the bounds of good taste. 
His writings are so humerous, that we find it dif. 
ficult to conceive how he could have produced 
them all in so short and troubled a life. They 
embrace every species of verse and many kinds 
of prose, — epic, lyric, and dramatic poetry, let- 
ters, essays, and critical discourses. His great 
work, “La Gerusalemme Liberata,” though 
criticised with unsparing severity on its first ap- 
pearance, and since then by some of the ablest 
French writers, —particularly by Boileau, — 
has become one of the most popular epics in 
modern literature, and may be placed very 
nearly, if not quite, at the head of all the epics 
that have been written since the days of Virgil. 
His principal works have passed through innu- 
merable editions, and have been transferred into 
most of the languages of Europe. The “ Ge- 
rusalemine Liberata” has been translated into 
English at least eight times. Of these transla- 
tions, the most in repute is that of Fairfax. 


FROM AMINTA. 


THE GOLDEN AGE. 


O LovELy age of gold ! 

Not that the rivers rolled 

With milk, or that the woods wept honeydew ; 

Not that the ready ground 

Produced without a wound, 

Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew , 

Not that a cloudless blue 

For ever was in sight, 

Or that the heaven, which burns 

And now is cold by turns, 

Looked out in glad and everlasting light ; 

No, nor that even the insolent ships from far 

Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse 
than war: 


But solely that that vain 

And breath-invented pain, 

That idol of mistake, that worshipped cheat, 

That Honor, — since so called 

By vulgar minds appalled, — 

Played not the tyrant with our nature yet. 

It had not come to fret 

The sweet and happy fold 

Of gentle human-kind ; 

Nor did its hard law bind 

Souls nursed in freedom; but that law of gold, 

That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted, 

Which Nature’s own hand wrote, — What 
pleases is permitted. 


Then among streams and flowers 
The little winged powers 
Went singing carols without torch or bow ; 
The nymphs and shepherds sat 

| Mingling with innocent chat 

| Sports and low whispers ; and with whispers low, 
Kisses that would not go. 

The maiden, budding o’er, 

' 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


ment of the parts and a thorough elaboration of 
his designs, and rarely permitted his exuberant 


Kept not her bloom uneyed, 

Which now a veil must hide, 

Nor the crisp apples which her bosom bore ; 

And oftentimes, in river or in lake, 

The lover and his love their merry bath would 
take. 


"T was thou, thou, Honor, first 

That didst deny our thirst 

Its drink, and on the fount thy covering set; 

Thou bad’st kind eyes withdraw 

Into ‘constrained awe, 

And keep the secret for their tears to wet ; 

Thou gather’dst in a net 

The tresses from the air, 

And mad’st the sports and plays 

Turn all to sullen ways, 

And putt’st on speech a rein, in steps 4 care. 

Thy work it is, — thou shade, that wilt not 
move, — 

That what was once the gift is now the theft 
of Love. 


Our sorrows and our pains, 

These are thy noble gains.. 

But, O, thou Love’s and Nature’s masterer, 

Thou conqueror of the crowned, 

What dost thou on this ground, 

Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere ? 

Go, and make slumber dear 

To the renowned and high ; 

We here, a lowly race, 

Can live without thy grace, 

After the use of mild antiquity. 

Go, let us love; since years 

No truce allow, and life soon disappears ; 

Go, let us love; the daylight dies, is born ; 

But unto us the light 

Dies once for all; and sleep brings on eternal 
night. 


—_ 


FROM LA GERUSALEMME. 
ARRIVAL OF THE CRUSADERS AT JERUSALEM. 


Tue purple morning left her crimson bed, 
And donned her robes of pure vermilion hue ; 
Her amber locks she crowned with roses red, 
In Eden’s flowery gardens gathered new ; 
When through the camp a murmur shrill was 
spread : 
“Arm! arm!” they cried; “Arm! arm!” 
the trumpets blew : 
Their merry noise prevents the joyful blast ; 
So hum small bees, before their swarms they cast. 


Their captain rules their courage, guides their 
heat, 
Their forwardness he stayed with gentle rein ; 
And yet more easy, haply, were the feat, 
To stop the current near Charybdis’ main, | 
Or calm the blustering winds on mountains great, 
Than fierce desires of warlike hearts restrain ; 
He rules them yet, and ranks them in their» 
haste, P 
For well he knows disordered speed makes 
waste. 


te al EARS ES EAP ASSESSES 


CESARE Name Be nt 


Feathered their thoughts, their feet in wings 
were dight ; 
Swiftly they marched, yet were not tired 
thereby ; 
For willing minds make heaviest burdens light: 
But when the gliding sun was mounted high, 
Jerusalem, behold, appeared in sight ; 
Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy ; 
Jerusalem with merry noise they greet, 
With joyful shouts, and acclamations sweet. 


As when a troop of jolly sailors row, 
Some new-found land and country to descry, 
Through dangerous seas and under stars unknow, 
Thrall to the faithless waves and trothless 
sky ; 
If once the wished shore begin to show, 
They all salute it with a joyful cry, 
And each to other show the land in haste, 
Forgetting quite their pains and perils past. 


To that delight which their first sight did breed, 
That pleased so the secret of their thought, 
A deep repentance did forthwith succeed, 
That reverend fear and trembling with it 
brought. 
Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispread 
Upon that town, where Christ was sold and 
bought, 
Where for our sins he, faultless, suffered pain, 
There where he died, and where he lived again. 


Soft words, low speech, deep sobs, sweet sighs, 
salt tears 
Rose from their breasts, with joy and pleasure 
mixed ; 
For thus fares he the Lord aright that fears ; 
Fear on devotion, joy on faith is fixed: 
Such noise their passions make, as when one 
hears 
The hoarse sea-waves roar hollow rocks be- 
twixt ; 
Or as the wind in holts and shady greaves 
A murmur makes, among the boughs and leaves. 


Their naked feet trod on the dusty way, 
Following the ensample of their zealous guide ; 
Their scarfs, their crests, their plumes, and feath- 
ers ga 
They quickly doffed, and willing laid aside ; 
Their molten hearts their wonted pride allay, 
Along their watery cheeks warm tears down 
slide, 
And then such secret speech as this they used, 
While to himself each one himself accused : — 


«Flower of goodness, root of lasting bliss, 
Thou well of life, whose streams were purple 
blood, 
That flowed here to cleanse the foul amiss 
Of sinful man, behold this brinish flood, 
That from my melting heart distilled is! 
Receive in gree these tears, O Lord so good! 
For never wretch with sin so overgone 
Had fitter time or greater cause to moan.” 


TORQUATO TASSO. 


This while the wary watchman looked over, 
From top of Sion’s towers, the hills and dales, 

And saw the dust the fields and pastures cover, 
As when thick mists arise from moory yales: 

At last the sun-bright shields he ’gan discover, 
And glistering helms, for violence none that 

fails ; 
The metal shone like lightning bright in skies, 
And man and horse amid the dust descries. 


Then loud he cries, *¢O, what a dust ariseth ! 
O, how it shines with shields and targets clear! 

Up! up! to arms! for valiant heart despiseth 
The threatened storm of death, and danger 

near ; 

Behold your foes!”” Then further thus deviseth : 
«Haste! haste! for vain delay increaseth fear: 

These horrid clouds of dust, that yonder fly, 

Your coming foes do hide, and hide the sky.” 


The tender children, and the fathers old, 
The aged matrons, and the virgin chaste, 
That durst not shake the spear, nor target hold, 
Themselves devoutly in their temples placed ; 
The rest, of members strong and courage bold, 
On hardy breasts their harness donned in haste; 
Some to the walls, some to the gates them dight; 
Their king meanwhile directs them all aright. 


— 


ERMINIA’S FLIGHT. 


Erwinta’s steed this while his mistress bore 
Through forests thick among the shady treen, 
Her feeble hand the bridle-reins forlore, 
Half in a swoon she was for fear I ween ; 
3ut her fleet courser spared ne’er the more 
To bear her through the desert woods unseen 
Of her strong foes, that chased her through the 
plain, 
And still pursued, but still pursued in vain. 


Like as the weary hounds at last retire, 
Windless, displeased, from the fruitless chase, 
When the sly beast, tapised in bush and brier, 
No art nor pains can rouse out of his place ; 
The Christian knights, so full of shame and ire, 
Returned back, with faint and weary pace: 
Yet still the fearful dame fled swift as wind, 
Nor ever staid nor ever looked behind. 


Through thick and thin, all night, all day, she 
drived, 
Withouten comfort, company, or guide ; 
Her plaints and tears with every thought revived, 
She heard and saw her griefs, but naught be- 
side ; 
But when the sun his burning chariot dived 
In Thetis’ wave, and weary team untied, 
On Jordan’s sandy banks her course she stayed 
At last; there down she light, and down she laid. 


Her tears her drink, her food her sorrowings, 
This was her diet that unhappy night : 

But sleep, that sweet repose and quiet brings 
To ease the griefs of discontented wight, 


t 
i} 
i 


oer arm 


 (qancieneniaseenaisannsee ce ee re 


i SSS eae ee Te cintoutinienseiiameemmae ee 


rc 


572 


Spread forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings, 
In his dull arms folding the virgin bright , 

And Love, his mother, and the Graces kept 

Strong watch and ward, while this fair lady slept. 


The birds awaked her with their morning song, 
Their warbling music pierced her tender ear; 
The murmuring brooks and whistling winds 
among 
The rattling boughs and leaves their parts did 
bear ; 
Her eyes unclosed beheld the groves along, 
Of swains and shepherd grooms that dwellings 
were ; 
And that sweet noise, birds, winds, and waters 
sent, 
Provoked again the virgin to lament. 


Her plaints were interrupted with a sound 
That seemed from thickest bushes to proceed ; 
Some jolly shepherd sung a lusty round, 
And to his voice had tuned his oaten reed ; 
Thither she went; an old man there she found, 
At whose right hand his little flock did feed, 
Sat making baskets, his three sons among, 
That learned their father’s art, and learned his 
song. 


Beholding one in shining arms appear, 
The seely man and his were sore dismayed ; 
But sweet Erminia comforted their fear, 
Her vental up, her visage open laid: 
‘You happy folk, of Heaven beloved dear, 
Work on,” quoth she, ‘‘upon your harmless 
trade ; 
These dreadful arms I bear no warfare bring 
To your sweet toil, nor those sweet tunes you 
sing. 


** But, father, since this land, these towns and 
towers, 
Destroyed are with sword, with fire, and spoil, 
How may it be, unhurt that you and yours 
In safety thus apply your harmless toil ?”’ 
‘My son,”’ quoth he, « this poor estate of ofirs 
Is ever safe from storm of warlike broil ; 
This wilderness doth us in safety keep; 
No thundering dram, no trumpet, breaks our 
sleep. 


ne 


‘¢ Haply just Heaven’s defence and shield of right 
Doth love the innocence of simple swains; 

The thunderbolts on highest mountains light, 
And seld or never strike the lower plains : 

So kings have cause to fear Bellona’s might, 
Not they whose sweat and toil their dinner 

gains ; 

i 


Nor ever greedy soldier was enticed 
By poverty, neglected and despised. 


“O Poverty! chief of the heavenly brood! 
Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crown! 
No wish for honor, thirst of others’ good, 
Can move my heart, contented with mine 
own: 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


We quench our thirst with water of this flood, 
Nor fear we poison should therein be thrown; 

These little flocks of sheep and tender goats 

Give milk for food, and wool to make us coats. 


‘We little wish, we need but little wealth, 
From cold and hunger us to clothe and feed ; 
These are my sons, their care preserves from 
stealth 
Their father’s flocks, nor servants more I need: 
Amid these groves I walk oft for my health, 
And to the fishes, birds, and beasts give heed, 
How they are fed in forest, spring, and lake, 
And their contentment for ensample take, 


‘Time was (for each one hath his doting time, — 
These silver locks were golden tresses then) 
That country life I hated as a crime, 
And from the forest’s sweet contentment ran ; 
To Memphis’ stately palace would I climb, 
And there became the mighty caliph’s man, 
And though I but a simple gardener were, 
Yet could I mark abuses, see and hear. 


‘“‘Enticed on with hope of future gain, 

I suffered long what did my soul displease ; 
But when my youth was spent, my hope was || 

vain; 

I felt my native strength at last decrease ; 
I ’gan my loss of lusty years complain, 

And wished I had enjoyed the country’s peace; 
I bade the court farewell, and with content 
My later age here have I quiet spent.”’ 


While thus he spake, Erminia, hushed and still, 
His wise discourses heard with great atten- 
tion ; 
His speeches grave those idle fancies kill, 
Which in her troubled soul bred such dissen- 
sion. 
After much thought reformed was her will, 
Within those woods to dwell was her inten- 
tion, 
Till fortune should occasion new afford 
To turn her home to her desired lord. 


She said, therefore, — *O shepherd fortunate ! 
That troubles some didst whilom feel and 
prove, 
Yet livest now in this contented state, 
Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move, 
To entertain me as a willing mate 
In shepherd's life, which I admire and love ; 
Within these pleasant groves perchance my heart 
Of her discomforts may unload some part. 


“Tf gold or wealth, of most esteemed dear, 
If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize, 
Such store thereof, such plenty, have I here, 
As to a greedy mind might well suffice.” 
With that down trickled many a silver tear, 
Two crystal streams fell from her watery 
eyes; 
Part of her sad misfortunes then she told, 
And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old. 


~easergeneeeesee ee 


TORQUA 


With speeches kind he ’gan the virgin dear 
Towards his cottage gently home to guide ; 
His aged wife there made her homely cheer, 
Yet welcomed her, and placed her by her side 
The princess donned a poor pastora’s gear, 
A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied ; 
But yet her gestures and her looks, I guess, 
Were such as ill beseemed a shepherdess. 


The heavenly beauty of her.angel’s face, 
Nor was her princely offspring damnified 

Or aught disparaged by those labors base. 
Her little flocks to pasture would she guide, 


place ; 


frame 
Herself to please the shepherd and his dame. 


rays, 
Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made, 


bays ; 
She told how Cupid did her first invade, 
How conquered her, and ends with Tancred’ 
praise : 
And when her passion’s writ she over read, 
Again she mourned, again salt tears she shed. 


“You happy trees, forever keep,” quoth she, 
“This woful story in your tender rind ; 
Another day under your shade, maybe, 
Will come to rest again some lover kind, 
Who, if these trophies of my griefs he see, 
Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind.” 


There is no truth in Fortune, trust in Love. 


“Yet may it be, if gracious Heavens attend 
The earnest suit of a distressed wight, 
At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send 

To these huge deserts that unthankful knight ; 
That, when to earth the man his eyes shall bend, 

And see my grave, my tomb, and ashes light, 
My woful death his stubborn heart may move 
With tears and sorrows to reward my love. 


|| «So, though my life hath most unhappy been, 
At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest ; 

My ashes cold shall, buried on this green, 
Enjoy that good this body ne’er possessed.” 

Thus she complained to the senseless treen ; 
Floods in her eyes, and fires were in her breast; 

But he for whom these streams of tears she 

shed 
Wandered far off, alas! as chance him led. 


He followed on the footsteps he had traced, 
Till in high woods and forests old he came, 
Where bushes, thorns, and trees so thick were 
placed, ‘ 
And so obscure the shadows of the same, 


ee 


Not those rude garments could obscure and hide 


And milk her goats, and in their folds them 


Both cheese and butter could she make, and 


But oft, when underneath the greenwood shade 
Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus’ scorching 


And them engraved in bark of beech and 


5 


With that she sighed, and said, ‘¢ Too late I prove 


TO TASSO. os) 


Be ee eee oe ere ee ee rete a 


That soon he lost the track wherein he paced ; 
Yet went he on, which way he could not aim; 

But still attentive was his longing ear, 

If noise of horse or noise of arms he hear. 


If with the breathing of the gentle wind 
An aspen-leaf but shaked on the tree, 
If bird or beast stirred in the bushes blind, 
Thither he spurred, thither he rode to see. 
Out of the wood, by Cynthia’s favor kind, 
At last with travail great and pains got he, 
And following on a little path, he heard 
A rumbling sound, and hasted thitherward. 


It was a fountain from the living stone, 
That poured down clear streams in noble store, 
Whose conduit pipes, united all in one, 
Throughout a rocky channel ghastly roar. 
Here Tancred stayed, and called, yet answered 
none, 
Save babbling echo from the crooked shore ; 
And there the weary knight at last espies 
The springing daylight red and white arise. 


He sighed sore, and guiltless Heaven ‘can blame, 
That wished success to his desires denied, 
And sharp revenge protested for the same, 
If aught but good his mistress fair betide. 
Then wished he to return the way he came, 
Although he wist not by what path to ride ; 
And time drew near when he again must fight 
With proud Argantes, that vainglorious knight. 


CANZONE. 
TO THE PRINCESSES OF FERRARA. 


Farr daughters of Rene! my song 

Is not of pride and ire, 

Fraternal discord, hate, and wrong, 
Burning in life and death so strong, 
From rule’s accursed desire, 

That even the flames divided long 

Upon their funeral pyre : * 

But you I sing, of royal birth, 


Nursed on one breast like them ; 

Two flowers, both lovely, blooming forth 
From the same parent stem, — 

Cherished by heaven, beloved by earth, — 
Of each a treasured gem! 


To you I speak, in whom we see 

With wondrous concord blend 

Sense, worth, fame, beauty, modesty, — 
Imploring you to lend 

Compassion to the misery 

And sufferings of your friend. 

The memory of years gone by, 

O, let me in your hearts renew, — 

The scenes, the thoughts o’er which I sigh, 
The happy days I spent with you! 


And what, I ask, and where am I, — 


1 Eteocles and Polynices, who fell by each other’s hands, 
and whose ashes are said to have separated on the funeral 
pile. 


APL SPL OEE LILI ICEL IES - SII ae eer] 


Re EIS 


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MS ed Se 


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Ir Love his captive bind with ties so dear, 

| How sweet to be in amorous tangles caught ! 
If such the food to snare my freedom brought, 

How sweet the baited hook that lured me near! 

How tempting sweet the limed twigs appear ! 

The chilling ice that warmth like mine has 


ODF ee eee 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


And what I was, and why secluded, — 


Sweet, too, each painful unimparted thought ! 
Whom did I trust, and who deluded ? 


The moan how sweet that others loathe to hear! 
Nor less delight the wounds that inward smart, 
The tears that my sad eyes with moisture stain, 
And constant wail of blow that deadly smote, 
If this be life, —I would expose my heart 

To countless wounds, and bliss from each should 

gain ; 
If death, — to death I would my days devote. 


Daughters of heroes and of kings, 

Allow me to recall 

These and a thousand other things, — 

Sad, sweet, and mournful all ! 

From me few words, more tears, grief 
wrings, — 

Tears burning ag they fall. 

For royal halls and festive bowers, 

Where, nobly serving, I 

Shared and beguiled your private hours, 

Studies, and sports, I sigh ; 

And lyre, and trump, and wreathed flowers ; 

Nay more, for freedom, health, applause, 

And even humanity’s lost laws ! 


Tuy unripe youth seemed like the purple rose 

That to the warm ray opens not its breast, 

But, hiding still within its mossy vest, 

Dares not its virgin beauties to disclose ; 

Or like Aurora, when the heaven first glows,— 

For likeness from above will suit thee best, — 

When she with gold kindles each mountain crest, 

And o’er the plain her pearly mantle throws. 

No loss from time thy tiper age receives, 

Nor can young beauty decked with art’s display 

Rival the native graces of thy form : 

Thus lovelier is the flower whose full-blown 
leaves 

Perfume the air, and more than orient ray 

The sun’s meridian glories blaze and warm. 


Why am I chased from human kind? 
What Circe in the lair 

Of brutes thus keeps me spell-confined ? 
Nests have the birds of air, 

The very beasts in caverns find 
Shelter and rest, and share 

At least kind Nature’s gifts and laws; 
For each his food and water draws 
From wood and fountain, where, 
Wholesome, and pure, and safe, it was 
Furnished by Heaven’s own care ; 
And all is bright and blest, because 
Freedom and health are there ! 


— 


I sex the anchored bark with streamers gay, 

The beckoning pilot, and unruffled tide, 

The south and stormy north their fury hide, 

And only zephyrs on the waters play : 

But winds and waves and skies alike betray ; 

Others who to their flattery dared confide, 

And late when stars were bright sailed forth in 
pride, 

Now breathe no more, or wander in dismay. 

I see the trophies which the billows heap, 

Torn sails, and wreck, and graveless bones that 
throng 

The whitening beach, and spirits hovering round: 

Still, if for woman’s sake this cruel deep 

I must essay, — not shoals and rocks among, 

But ’mid the Sirens, may my bones be found! 


I merit punishment, I own; 

I erred, I must confess it; yet 

The fault was in the tongue alone, — 
The heart is true. Forgive ! forget! — 
I beg for mercy, and my woes 

May claim with pity to be heard; 

If to my prayers your ears you close, 
Where can I hope for one kind word, 
In my extremity of ill ? ‘ 

And if the pang of hope deferred 

Arise from discord in your will, 

For me must be revived again 

The fate of Metius, and the pain .? 

I pray you, then, renew for me 

The charm that made you doubly fair; 
In sweet and virtuous harmony 

Urging resistlessly my prayer 

With him, for whose loved sake, I swear, 
I more lament my fault than pains, 
Strange and unheard-of as they are. 


Taree high-born dames it was my lot to see, 
Not all alike in beauty, yet so fair, 

And so akin in act, and look, and air, 

That Nature seemed to say, ‘Sisters are we!” 
I praised them all, — but one of all the three 
So charmed me, that I loved her, and became 
Her bard, and sung my passion, and her name 
Till to the stars they soared past rivalry. 

Her only I adored, —and if my gaze 

Was turned elsewhere, it was but to admire 
Of her high beauty some far-scattered rays, 
And worship her in idols, — fond desire, 
False incense hid; — yet I repent my praise, 
As rank idolatry ’gainst Love’s true fire. 


SONNETS. 


wrought ! 


Wuix of the age in which the heart but ill 


2 Metius was torn asunder by wild horses, Defends itself, — and in thy native land, 


Love and thine eyes unable to withstand, — 
They won me, and, though distant, dazzle still. 
Hither I came, intent my mind to fill 

With wisdom, study-gathered from on high ; 
But loathed to part, so that to stay or fly 

Kept and still keep sore struggle in my will. 
And now, all careless of the heat and cold, 
With ceaseless vigils, Laura, night and day, 
That thou a worthier lover may’st behold, 

For thee to fame I strive to win my way: 
Then love me still, and let me be consoled 
With hope until I meet thine eyes’ bright ray. 


—— 


Titt Laura! comes,— who now, alas! else- 
where 

Breathes, amid fields and forests hard of heart, — 

Bereft of joy I stray from crowds apart 

In this dark vale, ’mid grief and ire’s foul air, 

Where there is nothing left of bright or fair, 

Since Love has gone a rustic to the plough, 

Or feeds his flocks, —or in the summer now 

Handles the rake, now plies the scythe with care. 

Happy the mead and valley, hill and wood, 

Where man and beast, and almost tree and 
stone, 

Seem by her look with sense and joy endued! 

What is not changed on which her eyes e’er 
shone ? 

The country courteous grows, the city rude, 

Even from her presence or her loss alone. 


TO HIS LADY, THE SPOUSE OF ANOTHER. 


Sue, who, a maiden, taught me, Love, thy woes, 

To-morrow may become a new-made bride, 

Like, if I err not, a fresh-gathered rose, 

Opening her bosom to the sun with pride : 

But him, for whom thus flushed with joy it 
blows, 

Whene’er I see, my blood will scarcely glide; 

If jealousy my ice-bound heart should close, 

Will any ray of pity thaw its tide ? 

Thou only know’st. And now, alas! I haste 

Where I must mark that snowy neck and breast 

By envied fingers played with and embraced: 

How shall I live, or where find peace or rest, 

If one kind look on me she will not waste 

To hint not vain my sighs, nor all unblest ? 


TO THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA, WHO APPEARED 
MASKED AT A FETE. 


'T was night, and underneath her starry vest 
The pratthing Loves were hidden. and their arts 
Practised so cunningly upon our hearts, 

That never felt they sweeter scorn and jest: 
Thousands of amorous thefis their skill attest, — 
All kindly hidden by the gloom from day ; 

A thousand visions in each trembling ray 
Flitted around, in bright, false splendor ‘dressed. 


1 In this sonnet the reader will observe that there is a 
play upon the name Laura ; — L’ aura signifying, in Ital- 
ian, the breeze. 


TORQUATO TASSO. 975 


The clear, pure moon rolled on her starry way 

Without a cloud to dim her silver light; 

And high-born beauty made our revels gay, 

Reflecting back on heaven beams as bright, — 

Which even with the dawn fled not away, 

When chased the sun such lovely ghosts from 
night. ' 


—— 


ON TWO BEAUTIFUL LADIES, ONE GAY AND 
ONE SAD. 


I saw two ladies once, — illustrious, rare ; — 
One asad sun; her beauties at mid-day 

In clouds concealed ;— the other, bright and gay, 
Gladdened, Aurora-like, earth, sea, and air. 
One hid her light, lest men should call her fair, 
And of her praises no reflected ray 

Suffered to cross her own celestial way ; — 

To charm and to be charmed, the other’s care. 
Yet this her loveliness veiled not so well, 

But forth it broke ; — nor could the other show 
All hers, which wearied mirrors did not tell. 
Nor of this one could I be silent, though 
Bidden in ire ;— nor that one’s triumphs swell; 
Since my tired verse, o’ertasked, refused to flow. 


TO THE COUNTESS OF SCANDIA. 


Sweer pouting lip! whose color mocks the rose, 

Rich, ripe, and teeming with the dew of bliss, — 

The flower of Love’s forbidden fruit, which 
grows 

Insidiously to tempt us with a kiss. 

Lovers, take heed! shun the deceiver’s art ; 

Mark between leaf and leaf the dangerous snare, 

Where serpent-like he lurks to sting the heart; 

His fell intent I see, and cry, ‘¢ Beware!” 

In other days his victim, well I know 

The wiles that cost me many a pang and sigh. 

Fond, thoughtless youths! take warning from 
my woe ; 

Apples of Tantalus, — those buds on high, 

From the parched lips they court, retiring go ; 

Love’s flames and poison only do not fly. 


TO AN UNGRATEFUL FRIEND. 


Fortune’s worst shafts could ne’er have reached 
me more, 

Nor Envy’s poisoned fangs. By both assailed, 

In innocence of soul completely mailed, 

I scorned the hate whose power to wound was 
o’er 5 

When thou—whom in my heart of hearts I 
wore, 

And as my rock of refuge often sought — 

Turned on myself the very arms I wrought ; 

And Heaven beheld, and suffered what I bore! 

O holy Faith! O Love! how all thy laws 

Are mocked and scorned !—I throw my shield 
away, 

Conquered by fraud. — Go, seek thy feat’s ap- 
plause, 


576 


delay, — 
The hand, not blow, is of my tears the cause, 
And more thy guilt than my own pain I weigh! 


TO LAMBERTO, AGAINST 4 CALUMNY. 


Fase is the tale by envious Rumor spread, — 
False are the hearts wherein it sprung and grew, 


| And false the tongues that first its poison shed, 


And others to believe their malice drew. 
But that the Furies lent it gall is true, — 
And true it is that Megara supplies 


——: 


Its thousand slanders, heaping old on new, 

And grieving still she cannot add more lies: 

O, were they ever to be reached by steel, 

Shorn from her bust, on earth should writhe 
and trail 

Her slimy snake-like folds, — thus taught to 
fee]! 

But thou, Lamberto, the detested tale 

Wilt banish from men’s minds with friendly 
zeal, 


And Falsehood’s overthrow fair Truth shall 
hail! 


es 


HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ULYSSES. 


WanveERING Ulysses on the storm-vexed shore 

Lay amid wrecks, upon the sand scarce dry, 

Naked and sad ; hunger and thirst he bore, 

And hopeless gazed upon the sea and sky ; 

When there appeared — so willed the Fates on 
high — 

A royal dame to terminate his woe: 

“Sweet fruits,” she said, « sun-tinged with every 
dye, 

My father’s garden boasts, — wouldst 
them? Go!” 

For me, alas! though shivering in the blast 

I perish, —a more cruel shipwreck mine, — 

Who from the beach, where famishing I’m cast, 

Will point to royal roofs, for which [ pine, 

If ’tis not thou,—moved by my prayers at 
last ?— 

What shall I call thee ?— Goddess! 


sign. 


taste 


by each 


TO ALPHONSO, DUKE OF FERRARA. 


At thy loved name my voice grows loud and 
clear, 
Fluent my tongue as thou art wise and strong, 


And soaring far above the clot 
But soon it droops, languid and faint to hear ; 
And if thou conquerest not my fate, I fear, 
Invincible Alphonso, Fate ere long 

Will conquer me, — freezing in d 
And closing eyes 


ids my song ; 


eath my tongue 
, NOw opened with a tear. 
Nor dying merely grieves me, let me own, 

But to die thus, — with faith of dubious sound, 
And buried name, to future times unknown, 

In tomb or pyramid, of brass or stone, 

For this, no consolation could be found ; 


My monument [| sought in verse alone, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


Traitor! yet still half mourned, — with fond 


A. HELL of torment is this life of mine ; 

My sighs are as the Furies breathing flame ; 
Desires around my heart like serpents twine, 
A bold, fierce throng no skill or art may tame. 
As the lost race to whom hope never came, 
So am I now, —for me all hope is o’er; 


My tears are Styx, and my complaints and 


shame 

The fires of Phlegethon but stir the more. 

My voice is that of Cerberus, whose bark 

Fills the abyss, and echoes frightfully 

Over the stream, dull as my mind, and dark: 

In this alone less hard my fate may be, 

That there poor ghosts are of foul fiends the 
mark, 


While here an earthly goddess tortures me. 


TO THE DUKE ALPHONSO. 


My gracious lord! if you, indeed, complain 

Of the rude license of my angry tongue, 

Not from my heart, believe me, sprang the 
wrong, — 

It honors you, and feels itself 

Nor should afew rash, d 

Weigh against praises, well matured and long, 

By love and study woven into song, 

Which neither ire nor avarice can stain. 

Why tedious suffering, then, for transient crime, 

And brief rewards for ever-during fame ? 

Such was not royal guerdon in old time! 

Yet my right reasoning is perhaps to blame: 

Honor you gave, not borrowed, from my 
rhyme, — 

Which to your merit’s grandeur never came ! 


the pain: 
aring words, and vain, 


TO THE DUKE ALPHONSO, ASKING TO BE 
LIBERATED. 


A new Ixion upon Fortune’s wheel, 

Whetker I sink prefound or rise sublime, 

One never-ceasing martyrdom I feel, 

The same in woe, though changing all the time. 

I wept above, where sunbeams sport and climb 

The vines, and through their foliage sighs the 
breeze ; 

I burned and froze, languished and prayed in 
thyme; 

Nor could your ire, nor my own grief appease : 

Now in my prison, deep and dim, have grown 

My torments greater still and keener far, 

As if all sharpened on the dungeon-stone. 

Magnanimous Alphonso! burst the bar, 

Changing my fate, and not my cell alone; 

And let my fortune wheel me where you are! 


— 


TO THE PRINCESSES OF FERRARA. 


SIsTERS of great Alphonso! to the west 
Three times have sped the coursers of the sun, 
Since sick and outraged I became a jest, 
And sighed o’er all that cruel Fate has 
Wretched and vile whatever meets my 


done: 
eye 


—————_____, 


— eee 


TORQUATO TASSO.—CHIABRERA. 


a 


Without me, wheresoe’er I gaze around ; 

Within, indeed, my former virtues lie, 

Though shame and torment ’s the reward they 
ve found. 

Ay! in my soul are truth and honor still, — 

Such as, if seen, the world were proud to own ; 

And your sweet images my bosom fill : 

But lovely idols ne’er content alone 

True hearts; and mine, though mocked and 
scorned at will, 

Is still your temple, altar, shrine, and throne. 


TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND SERENE LORD 
DUKE. 


I swore, my lord! but my unworthy oath 
Was a base sacrilege which cannot bind, 

Since God alone directs and governs, both, 
The greatest of his works, the human mind. 
Reason [ hold from Him. Who would not loathe 
Such gift, a pledge in Power’s vile hands to find ? 
Do not forget, my lord, that even the sway 

Of sovereign kings has bounds at which it ends; 
Past them they rule not, nor should we obey. 
He, who to any mortal being bends, 


577 


| One step beyond, sins ’gainst the light of day. 


Thus, then, my soul her servile shackles rends! 

And my sound mind shall hencefofth none 
obey 

But Him whose reign o’er, kings and worlds 
extends. 


TO SCIPIO GONZAGA. 


Sure, Pity, Scipio, on earth has fled 

From royal breasts to seek abode in heaven ; 

For if she were not banished, scorned, or dead, 

Would not some ear to my complaints be given? 

Is noble faith at pleasure to be riven, 

Though freely pledged that I had naught to 
dread, 

And I by endless outrage to be driven 

To worse than death, —the death-like life I’ve 
led? 

For this is of the quick a grave ; and here 

Am I, a living, breathing corpse, interred, 

To go not forth till prisoned in my bier. 

O earth! O heaven! if love and truth are heard, 

Or honor, fame, and virtue worth a tear, 

Let not my prayers be fruitless or deferred ! 


FOURTH PERIOD.—FROM 1600 TO 1844. 


GABRIELLO CHIABRERA. 


GABRIELLO CuraBrERA, called by Tirabos- 
chi, the “honor of his country,’ was born at 
Savona, June 8th, 1552. At the age of nine 
years, he was sent to Rome, and educated under 
the eye of his father’s brother. He completed 
his studies under the Jesuits of the Roman 
College, in his twentieth year. The friendship 
he formed here with Muretus, Paulus Manutius, 
Speroni, and other learned men, encouraged 
him to prosecute further his literary studies. 
After the death of his uncle, he entered the 
service of Cardinal Cornaro, as Chamberlain ; 
but a quarrel he had with a Roman gentleman 
compelled him to leave Rome and return to his 
own country, where he quietly occupied himself 


with his studies, and especially with Italian | 


poetry. At the age of fifty, he married Lelia 
Pavese. He died, full of years and honors, 
October 14th, 1637. 

The poetical genius of Chiabrera was not 
early developed. He was an excellent Greek 
scholar, and especially admired Pindar, whom 
he strove to imitate. He thus created a new 
style in Italian poetry, and gained for himself 
the name of the Italian Pindar. He says of 


himself, that ‘he followed the example of his 
73 


countryman, Christopher Columbus; that he 
determined to discover a new world, or drown.” 
He was a voluminous author, there being scarce- 
ly any species of poetry which he did not at- 
tempt. But he owes his celebrity chiefly to his 
canzoni. His larger works are, the ‘Italia Li- 
berata,” ‘Firenze,’ ‘ Gothiade,” or the Wars 
of the Goths, “ Amadeide,” and “ Ruggiero.” 
His ‘‘Opere”’ appeared at Venice, in six vol- 
umes, 1768; and in five volumes, 1782. Sin- 
gle works have been many times republished. 


TO HIS MISTRESS’S LIPS. 


Sweet, thornless. rose, 
Surpassing those 
With leaves at morning’s beam dividing ! 
By Love’s command, 
Thy leaves expand 
To show the treasure they were hiding. 


O, tell me, flower, 
When hour by hour 
I doting gaze upon thy beauty, 
Why thou the while 
Dost only smile 
On one whose purest love is duty! 


Does pity give, 
That I may live, 
That smile, to show my anguish over? 
Or, cruel coy, 
Is it but joy 
To see thy poor expiring lover? 


Whate’er it be, 
Or cruelty, 
Or pity to the humblest, vilest ; 
Yet can I well 
Thy praises tell, 
If while I sing them thou but smilest. 


When waters pass 
Through springing grass, 
With murmuring song their way beguiling ; 
And flowerets rear 
Their blossoms near, — 
Then do we say that Earth is smiling. 


When in the wave 
The Zephyrs lave 
Their dancing feet with ceaseless motion, 
And sands are gay 
With glittering spray, — 
Then do we talk of smiling Ocean. 


When we behold 
A vein of gold 
O’erspread the sky at morn and even, 
And Pheebus’ light 
Is broad and bright, — 
Then do we say ’t is smiling Heaven. 


rr 8 i eee 


Though Sea and Earth 
May smile in mirth, 
And joyous Heaven may return it; 
Yet Earth and Sea 
Smile not like thee, 
And Heaven itself has yet to learn it. 


—_——— 


EPITAPHS, 


I. 


Weep not, beloved friends! nor let the air 

For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life 

Have I been taken ; this is genuine life, 

And this alone, — the life which now I live 

In peace eternal; where desire and joy 

Together move in fellowship without end. — 

Francesco Ceni after death enjoined 

That thus his tomb should speak for him. And 
surely 

Small cause there is for that fond’ wish of ours 

Long to continue in this world, — a world 

That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope 

To good, whereof itself is destitute. 


— 


II. 


Preruaps some needful service of the state 
Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers, 
And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, 


Se 


sianeeninsoendiserpresdhensiaameaiedare rte ea ee OT aE ne 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


a cree ee LT 


Where gold determines between right and 
wrong. 

Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 

And his pure native genius, lead him back 

To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses, 

Whom he had early loved. And not in vain 

Such course he held. Bologna’s learned schools 

Were gladdened by the sage’s voice, and hung 

With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. 

There pleasure crowned his days; and all his 
thoughts 

A roseate fragrance breathed. O human life, 

That never art secure from dolorous change ! 

Behold, a high injunction suddenly 

To Arno’s side hath brought him, and he charmed 

A Tuscan audience : but full soon was called 

To the perpetual silence of the grave. 

Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 

A champion steadfast and invincible, 

To quell the rage of literary war! 


III. 


O ruov who movest onward with a mind 

Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! 

"T will be no fruitless moment. J was born 

Within Savona’s walls, of gentle bloéd. 

On Tiber’s banks my youth was dedicate 

To sacred studies ; and the Roman Shepherd 

Gave to my charge Urbino’s numerous flock. 

Well did I watch, much labored, nor had power 

To escape from many and strange indignities ; 

Was smitten by the great ones of the world, 

But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks, 

Upon herself resting immovably, 

Me did a kindlier fortune then invite 

To serve the glorious Henry, king of France, 

And in his hands I saw a high reward 

Stretched out for my acceptance: but Death 
came. 

Now, reader, learn from this my fate, how 
false, 

How treacherous to her promise, is the world, 

And trust in God, — to whose eternal doom 

Must bend the sceptred potentates of earth. 


Iv. 


THERE never breathed a man, who, when his life 

Was closing, might not of that life relate 

Toils long and hard. The warrior will report 

Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the 
field, 

And blast of trumpets. 
doomed 

To bow his forehead in the courts of kings 

Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 

Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 

From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 

I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 

Could represent the countenance horrible 

Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage 

Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 

Over the well steered galleys did I rule. 

From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic Pillars, 


He who hath been 


CHIABRERA. 


Vee rrr cnn cnn vsoucrnnn nNOS cma 


Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown ; 
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft — and — oft. 
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir 
I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea’s pride 
Availed not to my vessel’s overthrow. 

What noble pomp, and frequent, have not i 
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end 

I learned that one poor moment can suffice 

To equalize the lofty and the low. 

We sail the sea of life, —a calm one finds, 
And one a tempest, —and, the voyage over, 
Death is the quiet haven of us all. 

If more of my condition ye would know, 
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 

Of noble parents: seventy years and three 
Lived I, —then yielded to a slow disease. 


Vv. 


TRvuE is it that Ambrosio Salinero, 

With an untoward fate, was long involved 

In odious litigation; and full long, 

Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults 
Of racking malady. And true it is 

That not the less a frank, courageous heart 
And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain ; 

And he was strong to follow in the steps 

Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path 

Leads to the dear Parnassian forest’s shade, 
That might from him be hidden; not a track 
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he 

Had traced its windings. This Savona knows, 
Yet no sepulchral honors to her son 

She paid; for in our age the heart is ruled 
Only by gold. And now a simple stone, 
Inscribed with this memorial, here is raised 
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. 

Think not, O passenger who read’st the lines, 
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me : 
No, — he was one whose memory ought to spread 
Where’er Permessus bears an honored name, 
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow. 


Vi. 


Destinep to war from very infancy 

Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took 

In Malta the white symbol of the Cross. 
Nor in life’s vigorous season did I shun 
Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen 
Of Libya, and not seldom, on the banks 
Of wide Hungarian Danube, ’t was my lot 
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. 
So lived I, and repined not at such fate: 
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
That stripped of arms I to my end am brought 
On the soft:down of my paternal home. 
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt 
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
How fleeting and how frail is human life! 


Vil. 


O rrower of all that svrings from gentle blood, 
And all that generous nurture breeds, to make 


™~_{_o8OoOom™3[[ TFN Nee" 


Youth amiable! O friend so true of soul 

To fair Aglaia! by what envy moved, 

Lelius, has Death cut short thy brilliant day 

In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap 
Has from Savona torn her best delight ? 

For thee she mourns, nor e’er will cease to 


mourn ; 
And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice 
not 


For her heart’s grief, she will entreat Sebeto 
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, — Sebeto, 
Who saw thee on his margin yield to death, 

In the chaste arms of thy beloved love! 

What profit riches ? what does youth avail ? 
Dust are our hopes! —TI, weeping bitterly, 
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray 
That every gentle spirit hither led 

May read them not without some bitter tears. 


Vill. 


Nor without heavy grief of heart did he 

On whom the duty fell (for at that time 

The father sojourned in a distant land) 

Deposit in the hollow of this tomb 

A brother’s child, most tenderly beloved! 
Francesco was the name the youth had borne, — 
Pozzobonnelli his illustrious house ; 

And when beneath this stone the corse was laid, 
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. 
Alas! the twentieth April of his life 

Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time, 
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope 

That greatly cheered his country ; to his kin 
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts 
His friends had in their fondness entertained 
He suffered not to languish or decay. 

Now is there not good reason to break forth 
Into a passionate lament ? O soul! 

Short while a pilgrim in our nether world, 

Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air ; 

And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,— 
An everlasting spring !— in memory 

Of that delightful fragrance which was once 
From thy mild manners quietly exalted. 


Ix. 


Pause, courteous spirit !— Balbi supplicates, 
That thou, with no reluctant voice, for him 
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer 
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world. 
This to the dead by sacred right belongs ; 
All else is nothing. Did occasion suit 
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb 
Would ill suffice: for Plato’s lore sublime, 
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, 
Enriched and beautified his studious mind ; 
With Archimedes, also, he conversed, 
As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave 
Those laureate wreaths ungathered which the 
Nymphs 
Twine near their loved Permessus. Finally, 
Himself above each Jower thought uplifting, 
His ears he closed to listen to the songs 


St 


580 


Which Sion’s kings did consecrate of old; 
And his Permessus found on Lebanon. 

A blessed man! who of protracted days 
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep ; 
But truly did he live his life. Urbino, 

Take pride in him!—_O passenger, farewell ! 


—_@——- 


ALESSANDRO TASSONI. 


1565. 


zaro Labadini, a celebrated teacher at that time 
in Modena. 
| Bologna to study the severer sciences, and af- 
terwards to Ferrara, where he attended chiefly 
to jurisprudence. About the year 1597, he 
entered the service of Cardinal Ascanio Colon- 
na, in Rome, whom he accompanied to Spain 
in 1600. During the cardinal’s stay in Spain, 
Tassoni was twice despatched to Italy by him 
on important business; and on one of these 
journeys, he wrote his famous ‘ Considerazioni 
sopra il Petrarca.’’ While in Rome, he was 
elected a member of the Academy of Humor- 
ists. For several years after the death of Car- 
dinal Colonna, which happened in 1608, Tasso- 


the means of an independent livelihood, he 
entered the service of the duke of Savoy in 
1613. He left this service in 1623, and devoted 
the three following years to the tranquil pur- 
suit of literature. In 1626, Cardinal Ludovi- 
sio, a nephew of Gregory the Fifteenth, took 
him into his service, and assigned him an annu- 
al stipend of four hundred Roman scudi, with 
lodgings in the palace. After the death of the 
cardinal, in 1632, Tassoni was made a Coun- 
cillor by his native sovereign, Duke Francis 
the First, with an honorable allowance, and a 
residence at court. He died three years after, 
in 1635. 

Tassoni wrote several works in prose. The 
‘“¢ Considerations on Petrarch,” above mentioned, 
gave rise to a vehement literary controversy. 
His “ Pensieri Diversi,” a part of which, entitled 
* Quesiti,”” was published in 1608, and again, 
enlarged, in 1612, is a work marked by ingenu- 
ity, wit, and elegance. But his fame rests upon 
the poem entitled  Secchia Rapita,”’ or the Rape 
of the Bucket; an heroi-comic poem, which 
describes, in twelve burlesque cantos, the efforts 
of the Bolognese to recover a bucket, which, 
in a war of the thirteenth century, the Moden- 
ese, having entered Bologna, carried off as a 
trophy to Modena, where it is preserved down 
to the present day. The life of Tassoni has 
been written in English by J. C. Walker, Lon- 
don, 1815. The “ Secchia Rapita”’ was trans- 
lated by Ozell, London, 1710. - 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


ALESSANDRO T'Asson1 was born at Modena, 
of an ancient and noble family, September 28th, 
Bereaved of his parents in his child- 
hood, and suffering from a feeble constitution, 
he devoted himself, nevertheless, to the study 
of Greek and Latin under the direction of Laz- 


About the year 1585, he went to 


ni was without a patron ; and being destitute of 


FROM LA SECCHIA RAPITA, 
THE ATTACK ON MODENA. 


Now had the sun the heavenly Ram forsook, 

Darting through wintry clouds his radiant look; 

The fields with stars, the sky with flowers, 
seemed dressed ; 

The winds lay sleeping on the sea’s calm breast ; 

Soft Zephyr only, breathing o’er the meads, 

Kissed the young grass, and waved the tender 
reeds ; 

The nightingales were heard at peep of day, 

And asses singing amorous roundelay : 

When the new season’s warmth, which cheers 
the earth, 

And moves the cricket-kind to wonted mirth, 

The Bolonois to mischief did excite, 

And, like a gathering storm, prepared their spite. 

Under two chiefs they rushed in separate bands, 

Armed, to lay waste Panaro’s fruitful lands: 

Fearless, like wading boys, they passed the 
stream, 

And broke with horrid rout Modenia’s morning 
dream. 


Modenia in a spacious opening sits; 

No hostile foot the south or west admits ; 

Nature those points has guarded with a line, — 

The freezing back of woody Apennine : 

That Apennine which shoves so high his head 

To view the sun descending té his bed, 

It seems as if upon his snowy. face 

The heavenly orbs had chose a resting-place., 

The eastern bounder famed Panaro laves, 

Noted for flowery banks and limpid waves ; 

Bolonia opposite; and on the left 

The stream where Phaéton fell thunder-cleft ; 

Nor’ward, meandering Secchia takes a range, 

Unconstant to its bed, and fond. of change : 

Swallowing its banks, and strewing fruitless 
sand, 

The teeming fields become a barren strand. 

The Modenois no watchful sentries kept, 

But, fearless, like the ancient Spartans slept; 

Nor walls, nor ramparts did the town inclose: 

The ditch, filled up, was free for friends or foes. 


No more let Tagus or the Maése recite 
The celebrated Cursio’s feats in fight ! 
Justly Panaro may in Gerard pride ! 
Gerard did more than Cursio ever lied: 
The sun ne’er saw so many on their backs. 
The first he slew was Cuthbert, prince of quacks ; 
Cuthbert for others, not himself, was born ; 
None drew a tooth like him, or cut a corn ; 

He powder, washballs, passatempos made : 
Better had Cuthbert far ha’ kept his trade ! 
Next him, Phil Littigo, deprived of day, 
A fat, facetious pettifogger, lay : 

As Phil had many others, during life, 

So now the Devil drew Phil into a strife : 
Yet honest Phil his calling ne’er belied ; 
For, as he lived by quarrel, so he died. 
Viano next he down the body cleft ; 

Then Doctor Hirco’s face he noseless left: 


As for this doctor’s nose, some authors write, 

He lost it not in sword, but scabbard fight. 

Left-handed Crispaline he then unsouls, 

Renowned for making perching-sticks for owls. 

Bartlet, sore wounded next, renounced the light ; 

The well fed friar, in his own despite, 

Fell headlong to the waves: fantastic death ! 

That what his lips abhorred? should stop his 
breath ! 

Two fools in masks against Gerardo join, 

A horseblock heave and hit him on the groin - 

One dexterous blow despatched this loving pair} 

Thrice sprung their headless bodies up in alt ; 

As if some engine had the sword controlled, 

At once they fell, and o’er each other rolled. 

Torrents of crimson hue ran pouring down, 

And swelled Panaro’s banks with streams un- 
known: 

So Trojan gore o’erflowed fair Xanthus’ strand, 

Tapped by the son of Thetis’ wrathful hand ; 

So, near the Theban walls, with hostile blood, 

Hippomedon distained Asopus’ flood. 

Glutted with lists of dead, the Muse grows sick, 

Nor can on all bestow the immortal prick. 

Mine host o’ th’ Scritchowl, famed for musca- 
dine, 

Drew human blood as freely as his wine. 

Hat he had none, and helmet he despised, 

In a huge highway periwig disguised ; 

Him Bruno met: Bruno, whose fertile thought 

Your long, small sausage to perfection brought. 

Fortune awhile stood neuter to the strife ; 

The Thrummy-sconce rebates the Chopping- 
knife : 

At length mine host, unperiwigged 1 th’ fray, 

At once lost both his skull-cap and the day. 


— 


THE BUCKET OF BOLOGNA. 


Meanwuice the Potta, where the battle droops, 
Sends fresh detachments of his foremost troops. 
Himself was mounted on a female mule, 
Which, though a magistrate, he scarce could 
tule: 

She bit, and winched, and such excursions made, 
As if her legs a game at draughts had played ; 
At length, not minding whether wrong or right, 
Full speed she run amidst the thick o’ th’ fight. 
About this time La Grace received a wound, 
And, much against his will, went off the ground. 


When the most ancient race of Boil saw 

One captain prisoner made, and one withdraw 5 
They, who before had made a bold retreat, 
Renounce their hands, and solely trust their feet. 
Forwards the Potta urges with his spear, 

And like some devil flashes in their rear. 

Such quantities of blood the brook distained, 

It many days both warm and red remained ; 
That brook which heretofore had scarce a name, 
Baptized in blood, Il Tepido became. 


1 Water. 
2 At Modena are made this sort of sausages, at Bologna 


: the short and thick. Qui bene distinguit, bene docet. 


TASSONL. 


Such crowds went reeking to the Elysian shore, 

Charon complained there was no room for more. 

All the day long, and all the following night, 

The poor Bolonians prosecute their flight. 

Three hundred horse, Manfredi at their head, 

Fill every road and river with their dead: 

So close the warlike youth oppressed their heels, 

Returning day the city walls reveals. 

The gate Saint Felix, opening soon, admits, 

In one confusion, foreigners and cits ; 

So thick they crowd, the watch no difference 
knew 3 

In went the conquered and the conquerors too. 

Far as an arrow’s flight, and quick as thought, 

Manfredi’s men within the town were got: 

Manfred, who ne’er left any thing to chance, 

Halts at the gate, nor further would advance 5 

By drums and trumpets sounding from the walis, 

The endangered troops he suddenly recalls. 


Radaldo, Spinamont, Griffani fierce, 

And other names too obstinate for verse, 

Fainting with heat, and harassed with the chase, 

Espied a well belonging to the place : 

They thanked the gods with lifted hands and 
eyes } 

Then hastily despatched to nether skies 

The bone of discord, apple of the war, — 

A bran new bucket, made of fatal fir. 

Low was the water, and the well profound ; 

The pulley, dry and broke, went hobbling round ; 

The unlucky hemp, knotting, increased delay, 

And all their hopes hung dangling in midway. 

Some with still sighs the bucket’s absence mourn, 

Others, impatient, curse its slow return ; 

At length it weeping comes, as if it knew 

The sanguinary work that was to ensue. 

Greedy they all advance to seize their prey: 

Radaldo’s happy lips first pulled away. 

Scarce had he drunk, when, lo! a numerous ring 

Of adverse swords surround the ravished spring : 

Rushing from every alley through the town, 

«Kill! kill!” was all the cry, and “ Knock ’em 
down!” 

The Potta-men alarmed, with active feet 

Regain their steeds, and leap into their seat : 

Sipa, not liking much their threatening face, 

Began to keep aloof, and slack their pace. 

The bucket chanced to be at Griffon’s nose: 

His tip thus spoiled, away the water throws} 

Cuts the retaining cord, and then applied 

The vehicle to shield his near-hand side ; 

His off-hand grasps a sword, and, thus prepared, 

Defies the world, and stands upon his guard : 

Nimbly the men of Potta intervene, 

And from the foe their brave companion screen. 

Clear of this scrape, Manfredi’s squadrons join, 

And treading back their steps repass the Rhine. 2 

Their captain, who no worthier spoils could 
show 

Than this same bucket conquered from the foe, 

PA Li AL, VA a me ES 

3 There isa little river near Bologna, called the Rhine. 


Parvique Bononia Rheni. — Sus Iraicus. 
ww 2 


582 


Caused it in form. of trophy to advance 

Before the troops, sublime upon a lance: 

To think how he in open day had scoured 
Bolonia, and their virgin-spring deflowered ; 
To think how he had ravished from the place 
An everlasting pledge of their disgrace ; 

Elate and glorying in his slit-deal prize, 

Not victory seemed so noble in his eyes. 
Straight from Samogia’s plains he sends express 
To Modena the news of his success ; 

And straight the town resolves in form to meet 
The conquering army, and their general greet. 


pee eee 


GIAMBATTISTA MARINI. 


GIAMBATTISTA Marini, or Marino, known 
as the creator of a school of Italian poets, who 
have been called, from him, the Marinisti, was 
born at Naples, in 1569. His father, a learned 
lawyer, intended him for the same career; on 
which Tiraboschi remarks, that it would have 
been well for Italian poetry had it so fallen 
out. But Marini, instead of following the in- 
structions of the masters under whom he had 
been placed, occupied himself constantly with 
the study of the poets. His father, indignant 
at such persevering resistance to his desires, 
turned him out of his house ; but the duke of 
Borino, the prince of Conca, and the marquis 
of Villa, who admired his talents, gave him a 
refuge for the next three years, at the end of 
which time a youthful indiscretion led to bis 
arrest, and on obtaining his liberty he went to 
Rome. He there received the patronage of.the 
Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, whom he accom- 
panied to Ravenna and Turin. In this latter 
city he became notorious by the violent literary 
controversies in which he was entangled. He 
obtained such favor with the prince, that he 
was made a knight of the order of Saint Mau- 
rice and Saint Lazarus. This favor, however, 
was interrupted by the intrigues of his rivals 
and enemies. In 1615, Marini went to France, 
on the invitation of Queen Margaret. When 
he arrived, his patroness was dead, but he was 
wel’ received by Maria de’ Medici, who set- 
tled on him a pension of fifteen hundred scudi, 
afterwards raised to two thousand. He remain- 
ed in France until 1622, when, being invited 
by the Cardinal Ludovisio, he returned to 
Rome, where he was chosen President of the 
Academy of Humorists. On the death of Pope 
Gregory the Fifteenth, he went back to Naples, 
where he was received in a friendly manner by 
the viceroy, the duke of Alba. 
March 25th, 1625. 

Marini was a poet felicitously endowed by 
nature ; but his genius was perverted by his 
ambition to surpass all other poets. He had 
wit, fancy, subtilty, and vivacity ; but his pas- 
sion to say what was new and striking led 
him into forced expressions, far-fetched figures, 
and various affectations of style, on which he 


He died there, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


relied for his effect. He was much applauded 
in his day, and found many imitators, whose 
influence was injurious to the language and 
literature of Italy. 
as the “most pestilent corrupter of good taste 
in Italy.” 
been greatly praised, and ranked among the 
best in the language. 
fectation, Marini’s writings are, in places, deep- 
ly stained with licentiousness, 
works are the “ Adone,” first published at Paris, 
in 1623, and a narrative poem on the slaughter 
of the Innocents. 
large number of miscellaneous pieces. 


Tiraboschi denounces him 
Some of his sonnets, however, have 
Besides the fault of af 


His principal 


Besides these, he wrote a 


FADING BEAUTY. 


Brauty —a beam} nay, flame, 
Of the great lamp of light — 
Shines for a while with fame, 
But presently makes night : 
Like Winter’s short-lived bright, 
Or Summer’s sudden gleams ; 
As much more dear, so much less lasting 
beams. 


Winged Love away doth fly, 
And with him Time doth bear ; 
And both take suddenly 
The sweet, the fair, the dear: 
To shining day and clear 
Succeeds the obscure night ; 
And sorrow is the heir of sweet delight. 


With. what, then, dost thou swell, 
O youth of new-born day? 
Wherein doth thy pride dwell, 
O Beauty, made of clay? 
Not with so swift a way 
The headlong current flies, 
As do the lively rays of two fair eyes. 


That which on Flora’s breast, 
All fresh and flourishing, 
Aurora newly dressed 
Saw in her dawning spring ; 
Quite dry and languishing, 
Deprived of honor quite, 
Day-closing Hesperus beholds at night. 


Fair is the lily ; fair 
The rose, of flowers the eye ! 
Both wither in the air, 
Their beauteous colors die: 
And so at length shall lie, 
Deprived of former grace, 
The lilies of thy breasts, the roses of thy 
face. 


Do not thyself betray 
With shadows; with thy years, 

O Beauty (traitors gay !) 
This melting life, too, wears, — 
Appearing, disappears ; 

And with thy flying days, 

Ends all thy good of price, thy fair of praise. 


Trust not, vain creditor, 
Thy oft deceived view 
In thy false counsellor, 
That never tells thee true : 
Thy form and flattered hue, 
Which shall so soon transpass, 
Are far more frail than is thy looking-glass. 


Enjoy thy April now, 
Whilst it doth freely shine : 
This lightning flash and show, 
With that clear spirit of thine, 
Will suddenly decline ; 
And those fair murdering eyes 
Shall be Love’s tomb, where now his cra- 
dle lies. 


Old trembling age will come, 
With wrinkled cheeks and stains, 
With motion troublesome, 
With void and bloodless veins ; 
That lively visage wanes, 
And, made deformed and old, 
Hates sight of glass it loved so to behold. 


Thy gold and scarlet shall 
Pale silver-color be ; 
Thy row of pearls shall fall 
Like withered leaves from tree ; 
And thou shalt shortly see 
Thy face and hair to grow 
All ploughed with furrows, over-swollen 
with snow. 
What, then, will it avail, 
O youth advised ill, 
In lap of beauty frail 
To nurse a wayward will, 
Like snake in sun-warm hill ? 
Pluck, pluck betime thy flower, 
That springs and parches in the self-same 
hour. 


—_4—— 


FRANCESCO REDI. 


Francesco Repi was a native of Arezzo, 
where he was born February 18th, 1626. His 
family was noble. He studied in the Univer- 
sity of Pisa, where he took his degrees in phi- 
losophy and medicine. The proofs he soon gave 
of genius attracted the attention of those great 
patrons of the sciences, the Grand Duke Fer- 
dinand the Second, and Prince Leopold. By 
the former, and afierwards by Cosmo the Third, 
he was appointed principal physician, a place 
he held until his death. Towards the end of 
his life, he retired to Pisa for the benefit of the 
air. He was found dead in his bed, on the 
morning of March Ist, 1694. 

Redi was especially distinguished by the ex- 
tent and variety of his attainments and discov- 
eries in the natural sciences, his writings upon 
which acquired great celebrity. Besides being 
a member of numerous scientific societies, he 


| ge 


MARINL—REDI. 


—) 


583 


belonged to the Della Cruscan Academy, and 
rendered valuable contributions to the edition 
of their Dictionary, published in 1691. As a 
poet, he is distinguished by grace and elegance. 
His most famous piece is the dithyrambic enti- 
tled * Bacco in Toscana”’; a poem, in its kind, 
scarcely equalled by any thing in Italian litera- 
ture. It has been well translated by Leigh 
Hunt. Should it be found too Bacchanalian 
for the taste of the present age, let the reader 
remember that Redi himself was one of the 
most temperate men of his day, and never drank 
wine without diluting it. 


FROM BACCHUS IN TUSCANY. 


BACCHUS’S OPINION OF WINE, AND OTHER 
BEVERAGES. 


Giver me, give me Buriano, 

Trebbiano, Colombano, — 

Give me bumpers, rich and clear! 

’T is the true old Aurum Potabile, 

Gilding life when it wears shabbily : 

Helen’s old Nepenthe ’t is, 

That in the drinking 

Swallowed thinking, 

And was the receipt for bliss. 

Thence it is, that ever and aye, 

When he doth philosophize, 

Good old glorious Rucellai 

Hath it for light unto his eyes; 

He lifteth it, and by the shine 

Well discerneth things divine: 

Atoms with their airy justles, 

And all manner of corpuscles ; 

And, as through a crystal skylight, 

How morning differeth from evening twilight ; 

And further telleth us the reason why go 

Some stars with such a lazy light, and some 
with a vertigo. 


Who in search of verity 

Keeps aloof from glorious wine ! 

Lo, the knowledge it bringeth to me! 

For Barbarossa, this wine so bright, 

With its rich red look and its strawberry light, 
So inviteth me, 

So delighteth me, 

I should infallibly quench my inside with it, 

Had not Hippocrates 

And old Andromachus 


O, how widely wandereth he, 


Strictly forbidden it 

And loudly chidden it, 

So many stomachs have sickened and died with it. 
Yet, discordant as it is, 

Two good biggins will not come amiss ; 
Because I know, while I’m drinking them down, 
What is the finish and what is the crown. 

A cup of good Corsican 

Does it at once; 

Or a glass of old Spanish 

Is neat for the nonce: 

Quackish resources are things for a dunce. 


oa 


ga re Ta en eee le oe 


ITALIAN 


Talk of Chocolate! 

Talk of Tea! 

Medicines, made — ye gods! — as they are, 
Are no medicines made for me. 

I would sooner take to poison 

Than a single cup set eyes on 

Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye 

Talk of by the name of Coffee. 

Let the Arabs and the Turks 

Count it ’mongst their cruel works: 
Foe of mankind, black and turbid, 

Let the throats of slaves absorb it. 
Down in Tartarus, 

Down in Erebus, 

"T was the detestable Fifty invented it; 
The Furies then took it 

To grind and to cook it, 

And to Proserpina all three presented it. 
If the Mussulman in Asia 

Doats on a beverage so unseemly, 

I differ with the man extremely. 


There ’s a squalid thing, called Beer: 
The man whose lips that thing comes near 
Swiftly dies ; or falling foolish, 

Grows, at forty, old and owlish. 

She that in the ground would hide her, 
Let her take to English Cider: 

He who ’d have his death come quicker, 
Any other Northern liquor. 

Those Norwegians and those Laps 

Have extraordinary taps: 

Those Laps especially have strange fancies ; 
To see them drink, 

I verily think, 

Would make me lose my senses. 

But a truce to such vile subjects, 

With their impious, shocking objects. 

Let me purify my mouth 

In a holy cup o’ th’ South; 

In a golden pitcher let me 

Head and ears for comfort get me, 

And drink of the wine of the vine benign 
That sparkles warm in Sansovine. 


ICE NECESSARY TO WINE. 


You know Lamporecchio, the castle renowned 

For the gardener so dumb, whose works did 
abound ; 

There ’s a topaz they make there ; pray, let it 
go round. 

Serve, serve me a dozen, 

But let it be frozen ; 

Let it be frozen and finished with ice, 

And see that the ice be as virginly nice 

As the coldest that whistles from wintery skies. 

Coolers and cellarets, crystal with snows, 

Should always hold bottles in ready repose. 

Snow is good liquor’s fifth element ; 

No compound without it can give content; 

For weak is the brain, and I hereby scout it, 

That thinks in hot weather to drink without it. 


POETRY. 


Bring me heaps from the Shady Valley: # 
Bring me heaps 

Of all that sleeps 

On every village hill and alley. 

Hold there, you satyrs, 

Your beard-shaking chatters, 

And bring me ice duly, and bring it me doubly, 
Out of the grotto of Monte di Boboli. 

With axes and pickaxes, 

Hammers and rammers, 

Thump it and hit it me, 

Crack it and crash it me, 

Hew it and split it me, 

Pound it and smash it me, 

Till the whole mass (for I’m dead-dry, I think) 
Turns to a cold, fit to freshen my drink. 

If with hot wine we insack us, 

Say our name ’s not Bacchus. 

If we taste the weight of a button, 

Say we ‘re a glutton. 

He who, when he first wrote Verses, 

Had the Graces by his side, 

Then at rhymers’ evil courses 

Shook his thunders far and wide 

(For his great heart rose and burned, 

Till his words to thunder turned), 

He, I say, Menzini,? he 

The marvellous and the masterly, 

Whom the leaves of Phcebus crown, 
Admirable Anacreon, — 

He shall give me, if I do it, 

Gall of the satiric poet, 

Gall from out his blackest well, 

Shuddering, unescapable. 

But if still, as I ought to do, 

I love any wine iced through and through, 
If I will have it (and none beside) 
Superultrafrostified, 

He that reigns in Pindus then, 

Visible Phaebus among men, 

Filicaia, shalt exalt 

Me above the starry vault ; 

While the other swans divine, 

Who swim with their proud hearts in wine, 
And make their laurel groves resound 
With the names of the laurel-crowned, 
All shall sing, till our goblets ring, 
‘Long live Bacchus, our glorious king 
Evoé! Jet them roar away ! 

Evoé ! 

Evoe! 

Evoé! let the lords of wit 

Rise and echo, where they sit, 

Where they sit enthroned each, 
Arbiters of sovereign speech, 

Under the great Tuscan dame 

Who sifts the flour and gives it fame :3 


ended 


cheep neppereeraeranmeararmeanremeeeneee ee ee ee 


1 Vallombrosa. The convent there is as old as the time 
of Ariosto, who celebrates the monks for their hospitality. 

2 The poets, whose names here follow, were contempo- 
raries and friends of Redi. 

3 The Della Cruscan Academy, professed sifters of words. 
Hence their name, from the word erusea (bran), and their 
device of flour and a mill. 


Let the shout by Segni be 
Registered immortally, 

And despatched by a courier 
A Monsieur V Abbé Regnier.* 


BACCHUS GROWS MUSICAL IN HIS CUPS. 


Tur ruby dew that stills 

Upon Valdarno’s bills 

Touches the sense with odor so divine, 

That not the violet, 

With lips with morning wet, 

Utters such sweetness from her little shrine. 

When I drink of it, I rise 

Far o’er the hill that makes poets wise, 

And in my voice and in my song 

Grow so sweet and grow so strong, 

I challenge Phebus with his Delphic eyes. 

Give me, then, from a golden measure, 

The ruby that is my treasure, my treasure ; 

And like to the lark that goes maddening above, 

I ll sing songs of love: 

Songs will I sing more moving and fine 

Than the bubbling and quaffing of Gersole wine. 

Then the rote shall go round, 

And the cymbals kiss, 

And I'll praise Ariadne, 

My beauty, my bliss ; 

I ‘ll sing of her tresses, 

I il sing of her kisses: 

Now, now it increases, 

The fervor increases, 

The fervor, the boiling and venomous bliss. 

The grim god of war and the arrowy boy 

Double-gallant me with desperate joy : 

Love, love, and a fight ! 

I must make me a knight; 

I must make me thy knight of the bath, fair 
friend, 

A knight of the bathing that knows no end. 


GOOD WINE A GENTLEMAN. 


O Boys, this Tuscan land divine 

Hath such a natural talent for wine, 

We ’Il fall, we ’II fall 

On the barrels and all; 

We'll fall on the must, we ‘ll fall on the presses, 

We'll make the boards groan with our grievous 
caresses ; 

No measure, I say; no order, but riot ; 

No waiting nor cheating; we ‘ll drink like a 
Sciot : 

Drink, drink, and drink when you ’ve done; 

Pledge it and frisk it, every one ; 

Chirp it and challenge it, swallow it down: 

He that ’s afraid is a thief and a clown. 

Good wine ’s a gentleman; 

He speedeth digestion all he can, 

No headache hath he, no headache, I say, 

For those who talked with him yesterday. 


4 Regnier Desmarais, Secretary of the French Academy, 
himself a writer of Italian verses. 


REDL 


1 


SP IIE IT 


If Signor Bellini, besides his apes, 

Would anatomize vines, and anatomize grapes, 
He ’d see that.the heart that makes good wine 
Is made to do good, and very benign. 


THE PRAISE OF CHIANTI WINE, AND DENOUNCE- 
MENT OF WATER. 


True son of the earth is Chianti wine, 
Born on the ground of a gypsy vine ; 

Born on the ground for sturdy souls, 

And not the lank race of one of your poles : 
I should like to see a snake 

Get up in August out of a brake, 

And fasten with all his teeth and caustic 
Upon that sordid villain of a rustic, 

Who, to load my Chianti’s haunches 

With a parcel of feeble bunches, 

Went and tied her to one of these poles, — 
Sapless sticks without any souls ! 


Like a king, 

In his conquering, 

Chianti wine with his red flag goes 

Down to my heart, and down to my toes: 
He makes no noise, he beats no drums ; 
Yet pain and trouble fly as he comes. 

And yet a good bottle of Carmignan, 

He of the two is the metrrier.man ; 

He brings from heaven such a rain of joy, 
I envy not Jove his cups, old boy. 

Drink, Ariadne! the grapery 

Was the warmest and brownest in Tuscany : 
Drink, and whatever they have to say, 
Still to the Naiads answer, Nay! 

For mighty folly it were, and a sin, 

To drink Carmignano with water in. 


He who drinks water, 

I wish to observe, 

Gets nothing from me ; 

He may eat it and starve. 

Whether it’s well, or whether it ’s fountain, 

Or whether it comes foaming white from the 
mountain, 

I cannot admire it, 

Nor ever desire it ; 

’'T isa fool, and a madman, and.impudent wretch, 

Who now will live in a nasty ditch, 

And then, grown proud and full of his whims, 

Comes playing the devil and cursing his brims, 

And swells and tumbles, and bothers his margins, 

And ruins the flowers, although they be virgins. 

Moles and piers, were it not for him, . 

Would last for ever, 

If they ’re built clever ; 

But no, — it’s all one with him, — sink or swim. 

Let the people yclept Mameluke 

Praise the Nile without any rebuke ; 

Let the Spaniards praise the Tagus ; 

I cannot like either, even for negus. 


Away with all water, 
Wherever I come ; 


ITALIAN POETRY. 

— EE eee 

O, how it kisses me, tickles me, bites me! 

O, how my eyes loosen sweetly in tears! 

I’m ravished! I’m rapt! Heaven finds me ad- 
missible ! 

Lost in an ecstasy! blinded! invisible! 


Sag 


I forbid it ye, gentlemen, 
All and some ; 
Lemonade water, 

|| Jessamine water, 

Our tavern knows none of ’em: 
Water ’s a hum. 

| Jessamine makes a pretty crown ; 

| But as a drink, ’t will never go down. 
| All your hydromels and flips 

|| Come not near these prudent lips. 

| All your sippings and sherbets, 

|| And a thousand such pretty sweets, 
Let your mincing ladies take ’em, 

And fops whose little fingers ache ’em. 
Wine! Wine! is your only drink ; 
Grief never dares to look at the brink ; 
| Six times a year to be mad with wine, 
| 

| 

i} 


Aa Clie 


Hearken, all earth! 

We, Bacchus, in the might of our great mirth, 

To all who reverence us, and are right think- 
ers ; — 

Hear, all ye drinkers ! 

Give ear, and give faith, to our edict divine: — 

Monreputciano ’s Tur Kine or att Wine. 


At these glad sounds, 

The Nymphs, in giddy rounds, 

Shaking their ivy diadems and grapes, 

Echoed the triumph in a thousand shapes. 

The Satyrs would have joined them ; but, alas! 
They could n’t; for they lay about the grass, 
As drunk as apes. 


I hold it no shame, but a very good sign. 


A TUNE ON THE WATER. 


O, war a thing 

'T is for you and for me, 

On an evening in spring, 

To sail in the sea! 

The little fresh airs 

Spread their silver wings, 

And o’er the blue pavement 

Dance love-makings : 

To the tune of the waters, and tremulous glee, 
They strike up a dance to people at sea. 


—_¢—— 


VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 


Tuts excellent poet and estimable man was 
born at Florence, in 1642. He commenced his 
studies in the public schools of his native city, and 
continued them at the University of Pisa, where 
he gave proof of rare abilities, insatiable eager- 
ness for learning, and ardent piety. On his re- 
turn to Florence, he was chosen a member of 
the Della Cruscan Academy. At the age of 
thirty-one, he married Anna Capponi. After 
the death of his father, he retired to the coun- 
try, where he lived in tranquillity, dividing his 
time between the study of poetry, the education 
of his children, and the duties of religion. He 
wrote a great number of Latin and Italian po- 
ems; but his modesty was so great that he 
hardly ventured to show them to a few friends, 
who, however, made the secret known. The 
beautiful canzoni, six in number, which he 
wrote on the deliverance of Vienna from the 
Turks by John Sobieski, king of Poland, and 
the duke of Lorraine, excited universal admira- 
tion, and established his fame as the first poet of 
his age., Queen Christina, of Sweden, was so 
charmed with them, that she sent him a letter 
of congratulation ; and when, afterwards, he 
wrote a magnificent canzone in her praise, she 
loaded him with honors, enrolled him among 
the members of the Academy she had estab- 
lished at Rome, and charged herself with the 
support of his two sons, on condition only that 
the benefaction should not. be disclosed to the 
public, because she was ashamed to have it 
known that she had done so little for so great a 
man. The grand duke of Tuscany also gave 
him the rank of Senator, and then made him 
Governor of Volterra and Pisa. In these and 
other offices with which he was honored, he 
performed his duties with such fidelity, that he 
secured at once the esteem of the prince and 


MONTEPULCIANO INAUGURATED. 


A sMALL glass, and thirsty ! Be sure never ask it: 

Man might as well serve up soup in a basket. 

This my broad, and this my high 

Bacchanalian butlery 

Lodgeth not, nor doth admit 

Glasses made with little wit ; 

Little bits of would-be bottles 

Run to seed in strangled throttles : 

Such things are for invalids, 

Sipping dogs that keep their beds. 

As for shallow cups like plates, 

Break them upon shallower pates, 

Such glassicles, 

And vesicles, 

And bits of things like icicles, 

Are toys and curiosities 

For babies and their gaping eyes; 

Things which ladies put in caskets, 

Or beside ’em in work-baskets : 

I do n’t mean those who keep their coaches; 

But those. who make grand foot approaches, 

With flowered gowns, and fine huge broaches. 

’T is in a magnum’s world alone 

The Graces have room to sport and be known. 

Fill, fill, let us all have our will! 

But with what, with what, boys, shall we fill ? 

Sweet Ariadne, —no, not that one, — ah, no! 

Fill me the manna of Montepulciano: 

Fill me a magnum, and reach it me. Gods! 

How it slides to my heart by the sweetest of 
roads ! b 


oe 


FILICAJA. 


aaa anne UTNE TED I nero er nna SINInOLDOU SO 


the affection of the people. Thus, enjoying the 
love both of the great and the humble, he lived 
to the age of sixty-five. He died at Florence, 
September 24th, 1707. 

As a poet, he was one of the most strenuous 
opponents of the bad taste which had begun to 
pervert the writings of his countrymen. His 
style is lively, energetic, and elevated. He ex- 
celled particularly in the canzone and the son- 
net. At the time of his death, he was engaged 
upon a revised edition of his works, which was 
afterwards published by his son, under the title 
of «« Poesie Toscane di Vincenzo da Filicaja.” 
Another edition appeared in 1720, and a third 
in 1762, which has been followed by several 
other editions. 


ns 


CANZONE. 
THE SIEGE OF VIENNA. 


How long, O Lord, shall vengeance sleep, 
And impious pride defy thy rod? 

How long thy faithful servants weep, 
Scourged by the fierce barbaric host? 
Where, where, of thine almighty arm, O God, 
Where is the ancient boast? 

While Tartar brands are drawn to steep 
Thy fairest plains in Christian gore, 

Why slumbers thy devouring wrath, 

Nor sweeps the offender from thy path? 
And wilt thou hear thy sons deplore 

Thy temples rifled, shrines no more, 

Nor burst their galling chains asunder, 
And arm thee with avenging thunder? 


See the black cloud on Austria lower, 

Big with terror, death, and woe! 

Behold the wild barbarians pour 

In rushing torrents o’er the land! 

Lo! host on host, the infidel foe 

Sweep along the Danube’s strand, 

And darkly serried spears the light of day 
o’erpower ! 

There the innumerable swords, 

The banners of the East unite ; 

All Asia girds her loins for fight : 

The Don’s barbaric lords, 

Sarmatia’s haughty hordes, 

Warriors from Thrace, and many a swarthy 
file 

Banded on Syria’s plains, or by the Nile. 


Mark the tide of blood that flows 
Within Vienna’s proud imperial walls! 
Beneath a thousand deadly blows, 
Dismayed, enfeebled, sunk, subdued, 
Austria’s queen of cities falls : 

Vain are her lofty ramparts to elude 
The fatal triumph of her foes ; 

Lo! her earth-fast battlements 

Quiver and shake; hark to the thrilling cry 
Of war, that rends the sky, 

The groans of death, the wild laments, 
The sobs of trembling innocents, 


Tee ae nre ees pePRC Hid! 


Of wildered matrons, pressing to their breast 
All which they feared for most and loved 
the best ! 


Thine everlasting hand 

Exalt, O Lord, that impious men may learn 
How frail their armor to withstand 

Thy power, the power of God supreme ! 
Let thy consuming vengeance burn 

The guilty nations with its beam: ! 

Bind them in slavery’s iron band ; 

Or, as the scattered dust in summer flies, 
Chased by the raging blast of heaven, 
Before thee be the Thracians driven! 

Let trophied columns by the Danube rise, 
And bear the inscription to the skies : 

«© Warring against the Christian Jove in vain, 
Here was the Ottoman Typheeus slain !”’ 


a eI IT 


If Destiny decree, 

If Fate’s eternal leaves declare, 

That Germany shall bend the knee 
Before a Turkish despot’s nod, 

And Italy the Moslem yoke shall bear, 
I bow in meek humility, 

And kiss the holy rod. 

Conquer, if such thy will, — 

Conquer the Scythian, while he drains 
The noblest blood from Europe’s veins, 
And Havoc drinks her fill: 

We yield thee trembling homage still ; 
We rest in thy command secure ; 

For thou alone art just, and wise, and pure. 


But shall I live to see the day, 

When Tartar ploughs Germanic soil divide, 
And Arab herdsmen fearless stray 

And watch their flocks along the Rhine, 
Where princely cities now o’erlook his tide? 
The Danube’s towers no longer shine, 

For hostile flame has given them to decay: 
Shall devastation wider spread ? 

Where the proud ramparts of Vienna swell, 
Shall solitary Echo dwell, 

And human footsteps cease to tread? 

O God, avert the omen dread ! 

If Heaven the sentence did record, 

O, let thy mercy blot the fatal word ! 


Hark to the votive hymn resounding 
Through the temple’s cloistered aisles! 

See, the sacred shrine surrounding, 
Perfumed clouds of incense rise ! 

The pontiff opes the stately piles 

Where many a buried treasure lies ; 

With liberal hand, rich, full, abounding, 

He pours abroad the gold of Rome. 

He summons every Christian king 

Against the Moslemim to bring 

Their forces leagued for Christendom: 

The brave Teutonic nations come, 

And warlike Poles like thunderbolts descend, 
Moved by his voice their brethren to defend. 


He stands upon the Esquiline, 
And lifts to heaven his holy arm, 


588 


Sar ann ermrerestne saree nee ee 


Like Moses, clothed in power divine, 
While faith and hope his strength sustain. 
Merciful God, has prayer no charm 

Thy rage to soothe, thy love to gain ? 
The pious king of Judah’s line 

Beneath thine anger lowly bended, 

And thou didst give him added years ; 
The Assyrian Nineveh shed tears 

Of humbled pride, when death impended, 
And thus the fatal curse forefended : 

And wilt thou turn away thy face, 

When Heaven’s vicegerent seeks thy grace ? 


Sacred fury fires my breast, 

And fills my laboring soul. 

Ye, who hold the lance in rest, 

And gird you for the holy wars, 

On, on, like ocean waves to conquest roll, 

| Christ and the Cross your leading star! 

Already he proclaims your prowess blest : 

Sound the loud trump of victory, 

Rush to the combat, soldiers of the Cross! 

High let your banners triumphantly toss; 

For the heathen shall perish, and songs of the 
free 

Ring through the heavens in jubilee ! 

Why delay ye? Buckle on the sword and 
targe, 

And charge, victorious champions, charge ! 


SONNETS, 


TO ITALY. 
Iraia, O Italia! hapless thou, 
Who didst the fatal gift of beauty gain, 
A dowry fraught with never-ending pain, — 
A seal of sorrow stamped upon thy brow: 
O, were thy bravery more, or less thy charms! 
Then should thy foes, they whom thy loveliness 
Now lures afar to conquer and possess, 
Adore thy beauty less, or dread thine arms! 
No longer then should hostile torrents pour 
Adown the Alps; and Gallic troops be laved 
In the red waters of the Po no more ; 
Nor longer then, by foreign courage saved, 
Barbarian succour should thy sons implore, — 
Vanquished or victors, still by Goths enslaved. 


—— 


ON THE EARTHQUAKE OF SICILY. 


Tov buried city, o’er thy site I muse! — 

What! does no monumental stone remain, 

To say, “Here yawned the earthquake-riven 
plain, 

Here stood Catania, and here Syracuse ”’? 

Along thy sad and solitary sand, 

I seek thee in thyself, yet find instead 

Naught but the dreadful stillness of the dead. 

Startled and horror-struck, I wondering stand, 

And cry: O, terrible, tremendous course 

Of God’s decrees! I see it, and I feel it here: 

Shall I not comprehend and dread its force ? 

Rise, ye lost cities, let your ruins rear 

Their massy forms on high, portentous corse, 

That trembling ages may behold and fear ! 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


TIME. 


I saw a mighty river, wild and vast, 
Whose rapid waves were moments, which did 


glide 
So swiftly onward in their silent tide, 
That, ere their flight was heeded, they were 
past ; 
A river, that to death’s dark shores doth fast 
Conduct all living with resistless force, 


And, though unfelt, pursues its noiseless course, 
To quench all fires in Lethe’s stream at last. 


Its current with creation’s birth was born ; 

And with the heavens commenced its march 
sublime 

In days and months, still hurrying on untired. — 

Marking its flight, I inwardly did mourn, 

And of my musing thoughts in doubt inquired 

The river’s name: my thoughts responded, 
Time. 


es 


BENEDETTO MENZINI. 


Brneprtto Menzinit was born of humble 
parents in Florence, March 29th, 1646. Not- 
withstanding his poverty, he studied in the pub- 
lic schools, and made such progress that his 
abilities attracted the attention of the Marquis 
Gianvincenzo Salviati, who took him into his 
house. When still very young, he was appoint- 
ed Professor of Eloquence in Florence and Pra- 
to, and greatly distinguished himself. Being 
disappointed in his hope of obtaining a chair in 
the University of Pisa, he went to Rome in 
1685, where the queen of Sweden took him 
into her service, and enrolled him in her Acad- 
emy. For some years, he occupied himself 
quietly with his studies, and during this period 
wrote the greater part of his poems. But after 
the death of his protectress, he found himself 
again without resources, and was obliged to 
support himself by writing for pay. In 1691, 
Cardinal Ragotzchi invited Menzini to accom- 
pany him to Poland as his secretary ; but being 
unwilling to leave Italy, he finally obtained, 
through the friendly offices of Cardinal Gian- 
francesco Albani, afterwards Pope Clement the 
Eleventh, the patronage of Pope Innocent the 
Twelfth. He died September 7th, 1708. 

Menzini attempted various kinds of poetry. 
He wrote sonnets, canzoni, elegies, hymns, sat- 
ires, and a ‘+ Poetica”’ in terza rima. Though 
inferior to Chiabrera and Filicaja in lyrie poe- 
try, his style is lively and elegant. His works, 
Italian and Latin, were published at Florence, 


in four volumes, in 1731. 


CUPID’S REVENGE. 


Listen, ladies; listen ! 
Listen, while I say 

How Cupid was’‘in prison 
And peril, t’ other day : 


—_— — — 


All ye who jeer and scoff him, 
Will joy to hear it of him. 


Some damsels proud, delighted, 
Had caught him, unespied ; 
And, by their strength united, 
His hands behind him tied: 
His wings of down and feather 
They twisted both together. 


His bitter grief, I’m fearful, 
Can never be expressed, 
Nor how his blue eyes tearful 
Rained down his ivory breast : 
To naught can I resemble 
What I to think of tremble. 
These fair but foul prardrestest 
Then stripped his beamy wings, 
And cropped his golden tresses 
That flowed in wanton rings: 
He could not choose but languish, 
While writhing in such anguish. 


They to an oak-tree took him, 
Its sinewy arms that spread, 
And there they all forsook him, 
To hang till he was dead : 

Ah, was not this inhuman? 
Yet still ’t was done by woman ! 


This life were mere vexation, 
Had Love indeed been slain, 
The soul of our creation! 
The antidote of pain! 
Air, sea, earth, sans his presence, 


Would lose their chiefest pleasance. 


But his immortal mother 
His suffering chanced to see ; 
First this band, then the other, 
She cut, and set him free. 
He vengeance vowed, and kept it ; 
And thousands since have wept it. 


For, being no forgiver, 
With gold and leaden darts | 
He filled his rattling quiver, 
And pierced with gold the hearts 
Of lovers young, who never 
Could hope, yet loved for ever. 


With leaden shaft, not forceless, 
’Gainst happy lovers’ state 

He aimed with hand remorseless, 
And turned their Jove to hate : 

Their love, long cherished, blasting 

With hatred everlasting. 


Ye fair ones, who so often 
At Cupid’s power have Jaughed, 
Your scornful pride now soften, 
Beware his vengeful shaft ! 
His quiver bright and burnished 
With love or hate is furnished. 


MENZINI.—GUIDI. 589 


ALESSANDRO GUIDI. 


Atrssanpro Guip1 was born in Pavia, in 
1650. He studied at Parma, where he enjoyed 
the protection of Duke Ranuccio the Second, 
and where, at the age of thirty-one, he published 
some of his lyrical poems, and a drama entitled 
«« Amalasunta in Italia.’”’ These works were 
in the prevalent style of the age. Soon after 
this he went to Rome, and attracting the favor- 
able notice of Queen Christina, entered her 
service, and in 1685, took up his abode in 
Rome, with the consent of Ranuccio. Here 
he connected himself with several distinguished 
poets, and resolved, in conjunction with them, 
to effect a revolution in the popular taste. He 
gave himself up ardently to the study of Pindar, 
the qualities of whose style he endeavoured to 
transfuse into his own. By command of the 
queen, be composed his ‘«¢ indymion,” a pas- 
toral drama, in which Christina inserted some 
of her own verses. He made an unsuccessful 
attempt in tragedy, taking for his subject the 
fortunes of Sophonisba. After this he began a 
translation of the Psalms, but was interrupted 
by a mission which was intrusted to him by 
Pavia, his native place, to the court of Eugenio, 
the governor of Lombardy, in which he was so 
successful that he was rewarded by being raised 
to the ranks of nobility. On his return to 
Rome, he set about the completion of a trans- 
lation he had some time before begun of the 
homilies of Clement the Eleventh. When this 
was printed, he set out for Castel Gandolfo, 
where the pope » as then staying, to present his 
Holiness a c py; but as he was reading the 
book on the way, he found it full of errors; 
and his vexation was so excessive, that he fell 
ill, on his arrival at Frascati, and died there of 
apoplexy, June 12th, 1712. 

The poems of Guidi are full of spirit and 
enthusiasm. Tiraboschi says, ‘‘He is one of 
the few who have happily succeeded in trans- 
fusing the inspiration and the fire of Pindar into 
Italian poetry.” 


CANZONI. 
FORTUNE. 


A apy, like to Juno in her state, 

Upon the air her golden tresses streaming, 
And with celestial eyes of azure beaming, 
Entered whilere my gate. 

Like a barbaric queen 

On the Euphrates’ shore, 

In purple and fine linen was she palled ; 

Nor flower nor laurel green, 

Her tresses for their garland wore 

The splendor of the Indian emerald. 

But through the rigid pride and pomp unbending 
Of beauty and of haughtiness, 

Sparkled a flattery sweet and condescending 3: 
And, from her inmost bosom sent, 

Came accents of most wondrous gentleness, 


xx 


7 


ITALIA | 


N POETRY. 


rent te sn ene megane nee 


Officious and intent 
To thrall my soul in soft imprisonment. 


And, * Place,” 
hair, 

And all around thou ’It see 

Delightful Chances fair 

On golden feet come dancing unto thee. 

Me Jove’s daughter shalt thou own, 

That with my sister Fate 

Sits by his side in state 

On the eternal throne. 

Great Neptune to my will the ocean gives : 

In vain, in well appointed strength secure, 

The Indian and the Briton strives 

The assaulting billows to endure ; 

Unless their flying sails I guide 

Where over the smooth tide 

On my sweet spirit’s wings I ride. 

I banish to their bound 

The storms of dismal sound, 

And o’er them take my stand with foot serene ; 

The Holian caverns under 

The wings of the rude winds I chain, 

And with my hand I burst asunder 

The fiery chariot-wheels of the hurricane: 

And in its fount the horrid, restless fire 

I quench, ere it aspire 

To heaven to color the red comet’s train. 


she said, * thy hand within my 


“This is the hand that forged on Ganges’ shore 

The Indian’s empire ; by Orontes set 

The royal tiar the Assyrian -vore ; 

Hung jewels on the brow of Babylon; 

By Tigris wreathed the Persian’s coronet, 

And at the Macedonian’s foot bowed every 
throne. 

It was my lavish gift, 

The triumph and the song 

Around the youth of Pella loud uplift, 

When he through Asia swept along, 

A torrent swift and strong ; 

With me, with me the conqueror ran 

To where the sun his golden course began ; 

And the high monarch left on earth 

A faith unquestioned of his heavenly birth; 

By valor mingled with the gods above, 

And made a glory of himself to bis great father 
Jove. 


*¢ My royal spirits oft 

Their solemn mystic round 

On Rome’s great birthday wound; 
And I the haughty eagles sprung aloft, 
Unto the star of Mars upborne, 

Till, poising on their plumy sails, 
They ’gan their native vales 

And Sabine palms to scorn ; 

And I on the Seven Hills to Sway 
That senate-house of kings convened. 
On me, their guide and stay, 

Ever the Roman counsels leaned, 

In danger’s lofty way: 

[ guerdoned the wise delay 

Of Fabius with the laurel crown, 


And not Marcellus’ fiercer battle-tone ; 

And I on the Tarpeian did deliver 

Afric a captive, and through me Nile flowed 

Under the laws of the great Latin river, 

And of his bow and quiver 

The Parthian reared a trophy high and broad; 

The Dacian’s fierce inroad 

Against the gates of iron broke; 

Taurus and Caucasus endured my yoke: 

Then my vassal and my slave 

Did every native land of every wind become, 

And when I had o’ercome 

All earth beneath my feet, I gave 

The vanquished world in one great gift to 
Rome. 


“IT know that in thine high imagination 

Other daughters of great Jove 

Have taken their imperial station, 

And queen-like thy submissive passions move: 

From them thou hop’st a high and godlike 
fate ; 

From them thy haughty verse presages 

An everlasting sway o’er distant ages, 

And with their glorious rages 

Thy mind intoxicate 

Deems ’t is in triumphal motion 

On courser fleet or winged bark 

Over earth and over ocean. 

While in shepherd hamlet dark 

Thou liv’st, with want within, and raiment coarse 
without, 

And none upon thy state hath thrown 

Gentle regard ; I, I alone, 

To new and lofty venture call thee out: 

Then follow, thus besought ; 

Waste not thy soul in thought ; 

Brooks nor sloth nor lingering 

The great moment on the wing.”’ 


“¢ A blissful lady, and immortal, born 

From the eternal mind of Deity,”’ 

I answered bold and free, 

‘My soul hath in her queenly care : 

She mine imagination doth upbear, 

And steeps it in the light of her rich morn, 
That overshades and sicklies all thy shining. 
And though my lowly hair 

Presume not to bright crowns of thy entwin- 


Yet in my mind I bear 

Gifts nobler and more rare 

Than the kingdoms thou canst lavish, 

Gifts thou canst nor give nor ravish. 

And though my spirit may not comprehend 
Thy Chancessbright and fair, 

Yet neither doth her sight offend 

The aspect pale of miserable Care. 

Horror to her is not 

Of this coarse raiment and this humble cot: 
She with the golden Muses doth abide; 
And, O, the darling children of thy pride 
Shall then be truly glorified, 

When they may merit to be wrapt around 
With my Poesy’s eternal sound ! ” 


GUIDI. 591 


LLL eR Ae Ia OE APD ta Leva SD 


She kindled at my words, and flamed, as when | Yet will I make its fearful sound 


A cruel star hath wide dispread _ | Hoarse and slow rebound, 

Its locks of bloody red 5 ' | Till seem the gentle pipings low 

She burst in wrathful menace then: To equal the fierce trampet’s brazen glow.” 

‘¢ Me fears the Dacian, me the band 
‘| Of wandering Scythians fears, Then sprung she on her flight, i 

Me the rough mothers of barbaric kings; Furious; and, at her call, 

In woe and dread amid the rings Upon my cottage did the storms alight, 

Of their encircling spears Did hurricanes and thunders fall. i 

The purple tyrants stand ; But I, with brow serene, | 

And a shepherd here forlorn Beheld the angry hail, | 

Treats my proffered boons with scorn, And lightning flashing pale, 

And fears he not my wrath ? Devour the promise green 

And knows he not my works of scath ; Of my poor native vale. | 


Nor how with angry foot I went, 
Of every province in the Orient 
Branding the bosom with deep tracks of death ? TO THE TIBER. 


From three empresses I rent Tinrr! my early dream, 
The tresses and imperial wreath, My boyhood’s vision of thy classic stream, 
And bared them to the pitiless element. Had taught my mind to think 
Well I remember, when, his armed grasp That over sands of gold 
Fie als stretched, rash Xerxes took his Thy limpia waters rolled, 
stan : : . 
Upon the formidable bridge, to clasp And ever-verdant laurels grew upon thy brink. | 
And manacle sad Europe’s trembling hand: But in far other guise 
In the great day of battle there was I, The rude reality hath met mine eyes : | 
Busy with myriads of the Persian slaughter, Here, seated on thy bank, | 
The Salaminian Sea’s fair face to dye, All desolate and drear | 
That yet admires its dark and bloody water : Thy margin doth appear, 
Full vengeance wreaked I for the affront With creeping weeds, and shrubs, and vegeta- 
Done Neptune at the fettered Hellespont. tion rank. 
To the Nile then did I go, 
The fatal collar wound Fondly I fancied thine 
The fair neck of the Egyptian queen around ; The wave pellucid, and the Naiad’s shrine, | 
And I the merciless poison made to flow In crystal grot below ; | 
Into her breast of snow. But thy tempestuous course 
Ere that, within the mined cave, Runs turbulent and hoarse, | 
I forced dark Afric’s valor stoop And, swelling with wild wrath, thy wintry wa- 
Confounded, and its dauntless spirit droop, ters flow. 
When to the Carthaginian brave, 
With mine own hand, the hemlock draught I : Upon thy bosom dark, ; 
gave. Peril awaits the light, confiding bark, 
And Rome through me the ravenous flame In eddying vortex swamped ; 


Foul, treacherous, and deep, 
Thy winding waters sweep, 
Enveloping their prey in dismal ruin prompt. 


In the heart of her great rival, Carthage, cast, 

That went through Lybia wandering, a scorned 
shade, 

Till, sunk to equal shame, 

Her mighty enemy at last 

A shape of mockery was made ; 

Then miserably pleased, 

Her fierce and ancient vengeance she appeased, 


Fast in thy bed is sunk 
The mountain pine-tree’s broken trunk, 
Aimed at the galley’s keel ; | 
And well thy wave can waft 


And even drew a sigh on Upon that broken shaft ; 

Ovarthe raing +ast i 1e barge, whose shattered wreck thy bosom | 

Of the deep-hated Latin majesty. will conceal. | 

I will not call to mind the horrid sword, The dog-star’s sultry power, | 

Upon the Memphian shore, The summer heat, the noontide’s fervid hour, 

Steeped treasonously in great Pompey’s gore ; That fires the mantling blood, 

Nor that for rigid Cato’s death abhorred ; Vanldanticusiswaitcan‘t-irge 

Nor that which in the hand of Brutus wore To tempt thy dangerous surge, 

The first deep coloring of a Cwsar's blood. Or cool his limbs within thy dark, insidious 

Nor will I honor thee with my high mood RY 

Of wrath, that kingdoms doth exterminate ; 

Incapable art thou of my great hate, I ’ve marked thee in thy pride, F 

As my great glories. Therefore shall be thine When struggle fierce thy disemboguing tide | 
one my revenge a slighter sign ; With Ocean’s monarch held ; 


os 


But quickly overcome 
By Neptune’s masterdom, 
Back thou hast fled as oft, ingloriously repelled. 


Often athwart the fields 
A giant’s strength thy flood redundant wields, 
Bursting above its brims, — 
Strength that no dike can check : 
Dire is the harvest-wreck ! 
Buoyant, with lofty horns, the affrighted bullock 
swims. 


But still thy proudest boast, 
Tiber, and what brings honor to thee most 
Is, that thy waters roll 
Fast by the eternal home 
Of Glory’s daughter, Rome ; 
And twat thy billows bathe the sacred Capitol. 


Famed is thy stream for her, 
Clelia, thy current’s virgin conqueror ; 
And him who stemmed the march 
Of Tuscany’s proud host, 
When, firm at honor’s post, 
He waved his blood-stdined blade above the 
broken arch. 


Of Romulus the sons 
To torrid Africans, to frozen Huns, 
Have taught thy name, O flood! 
And to that utmost verge 
Where radiantly emerge 
Apollo’s car of flame and golden-footed stud. 


For so much glory lent, 
Ever destructive of some monument, 
Thou makest foul return ; 
Insulting with thy wave 
Each Roman hero’s grave, 
And Scipio’s dust that fills yon consecrated urn ! 


eee 


CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 


CoRNELIO BENTIVOGLIO was born at Ferrara, 
in 1668. He distinguished himself early by 
his taste in the fine arts, and by his literary 
acquirements. Clement the Eleventh appointed 
him Secretary to the Apostolical Chamber. In 
1712, he was sent as Nuncio to Paris. In 1719; 
he received a cardinal’s hat. He died at Rome, 
in 1732. 

Cardinal Bentivoglio amused his leisure with 
poetry. He wrote sonnets, and translated the 
“Thebais’”’ of Statius into Italian, 


SONNET. 


Tue sainted spirit, which from bliss on high 

Descends like dayspring to my favored sight, 

Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, 

Scarce do I know that form intensely bright ! 

But with the sweetness of her well known 
smile, — 

That smile of peace !—she bids my doubts de- 
part, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, 

And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart. 

Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, 

And noy, e’en now, in thought my wings un- 
fold 

To soar with her and mingle with the blest: 

But, ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 

That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, 

Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds de- 
pressed. 


——_4——. 


GIOVANNI COTTA. 


Giovanni Corra was born at Verona, in 
1668. His family was in humble circumstances. 
He distinguished himself in letters and poetry, 
and made considerable progress in the mathe- 
matics. His poems are few in number, but 
they have enjoyed considerable reputation. He 
died at the early age of twenty-eight. 


SONNET. 


‘‘ THERE is no God,” the fool in secret said: 

‘There is no God that rules or earth or sky.’’ 

Tear off the band that folds the wretch’s head, 

That God may burst upon his faithless eye! 

Is there no God ? — the stars in myriads spread, 

If he look up, the blasphemy deny ; 

Whilst his own features, in the mirror read, 

Reflect the image of Divinity. 

Is there no God? — the stream that silver flows, 

The air he breathes, the ground he treads, the 
trees, 

The flowers, the grass, the sands, each wind 
that blows, 

All speak of God; throughout one voice agrees, 

And eloquent his dread existence shows: 

Blind to thyself, ah, see him, fool, in these! 


eS eee 


GIOVANNI BARTOLOMMEO CASAREGI. 


THIS poet was born at Genoa, in 1676. From 
his earliest youth, he devoted himself to the 
study of belles-lettres. At the age of twenty- 
three, he went to Rome, where the elegance 
of his poetical productions made him known, 
and he was admitted into the Arcadian Acade- 
my. In 1716, he went to Siena, and thence 
to Florence, where .he appears to have estab- 
lished himself. He became a member of the 
Florentine and Della Cruscan Academies. He 
seems to have been a person of pure char- 
acter and agreeable conversation, and to have 
enjoyed the friendship of the principal literary 
men of his time. He died at Florence, in 1755. 

The principal works of Casaregi are,’ an 
Italian translation of Sannazzaro’s poem, * De 
Partu Virginis,” ‘“Sonetti e Canzoni,” and a 
translation of the Proverbs of Solomon. 


the Second. 


CASAREGI.— 


SONNET, 


Orv the dull joys that maddening crowds en- 
chain 

I fly, and, seated in some lonely place, 

Traverse in thought the wide-extended space, 

Where ancient monarchs held successive reign. 

I range o’er Persia and Assyria’s plain, 

And of their mighty cities find no trace ; 

And when toward Greece and Rome [ turn my 
face, 

What scanty relics of their power remain ! 

Arise, proud Asia’s lords, avenge the wrong! 

Up, Philip’s son! great Caesars, where are ye, 

To whom the trophies of the world belong? 

Dust are they all! Ifsuch their destiny, 

Who founded thrones, and heroes ranked among, 

Say, Spoiler Time, what ruin threatens me? 


care Qe 


PIETROs METASTASIO. 


Pierro Mertastasio, whose original name 
was Trapassi, was born at Assisi, tn 1698. His 
parents were poor, but respectable. His talents 
for poetry were early displayed, and gained 
him the favor of Gravina, who took him under 
his protection, superintended his education, and, 
dying in 1717, made him his heir. , Metastasio, 
being now placed in easy circumstances, re- 
nounced the study of the law, which he had 
undertaken in compliance with the wishes of 
his patron, and occupied himself with poetry 
and the pleasures of society. Some time after- 
wards he removed to Naples, and resumed the 
study of the Jaw for a short period; but the 
brilliant success of a dramatic poem, publish- 
ed by him anonymously, on the celebration of 
the birthday of the Empress Elizabeth Chris- 
tina, and the persuasions of the singer Mari- 
anna Bulgarelli, who had detected the author- 
ship of the piece, at length fixed his determina- 
tion to give himself wholly to poetry. In 1724, 
he produced his ** Didone Abbandonata.”” Soon 
after this, he accompanied Marianna to Rome, 
where he remained until 1729. In this inter- 
val he composed several of his dramas, and his 
reputation had so much increased, that Charles 
the Sixth invifed him to Vienna, made him 
Poet Laureate, and settled on him a pension of 
four thousand guilders. In 1730, he took up 
his residence at the imperial court, where he 
was received with every mark of admiration 
and regard. His life now was prosperous, and, 
on the whole, happy; his affluent genius and 
great industry secured him the highest public 
estimation; and the long series of dramatic 
poems, which were brought out with the great- 
est magnificence, and which surrounded the 
court of Vienna with the glories of literature, 
placed him in a position beyond the reach of 
rivalry. He enjoyed the uninterrupted favor 
of Charles the Sixth, Maria Theresa, and Joseph 


He died April 12th, 1782. 
75 


Sp aR AIS I MS TI I ST OI basa a A RAI FE IER EH a ee, 
RES 


METASTASIO. 


593 


sacritns ee i 


etastasio may be said to have created the 
modern Italian opera. The purity, sweetness, 
grace, and harmony of his style have made 
him a classic in Italian poetry, though his pres- 
ent reputation is far from according with the 
wonderful success he enjoyed in his lifetime. 
His works were published at Venice, in sixteen 
volumes, in 1781. His ‘*Opere Postume ”’ ap- 
peared at Vienna, in three volumes, in 1795. 
Several of his pieces have been translated into 
English. An edition containing eighteen plays, 
translated by John Hoole, appeared in London, 
in 1767. Other translations have been made 


by Olivari and Beloe. 


at 


FROM THE DRAMA OF TITUS. 


TITUS, PUBLIUS, ANNIUS, AND SEXTUS. 


[ The scene represents a place before the temple of Jupiter 
Stator, celebrated for the meeting of the Senate: behind 
isa view of part of the Roman Forum, decorated with 
arches, obelisks, and trophies: on the side is a distant 
prospect of the Palatine Hill, and a great part of the Sa- 
cred Way : a front view of the Capitol, which is ascended 
by a magnificent flight of steps. 

Publias and the Roman Senators; the deputies of the sub- 
ject provinces attending to present their annual tribute 
to the Senate. While the ensuing Chorus is sung, Titus 
descends ftom the Capitol, preceded by the Lictors, fol- 
lowed by the Pretors, and surrounded by a numerous 


cd f noenn 
crowd of people. ] 


CHORUS. 

O cuarpian gods! in whom we trust 
To watch the Roman fate ; 

Preserve in Titus, brave and just, 
The glory of the state! 

For ever round our Cesar’s brows 
The sacred laurel bloom ; 

In him, for whom we breathe our vows, 
Preserve the weal of Rome ! 

Long may your glorious gift remain 
Our happy times to adorn: 

So shall our age the envy gain 
Of ages yet unborn ! 


PUBLIUS. 

This day the Senate style thee, mighty Cesar, 
The father of thy country ; never yet 

More just in their decree. 


ANNIUS, 

Thou art not only 

Thy country’s father, but her guardian god: 
And since thy virtues have already soared 
Beyond mortality, receive the homage 

We pay to Heaven! The Senate have decreed 
To build a stately temple, where thy name 
Shall stand enrolled among the powers divine, 
And Tiber worship at the fane of Titus. 


PUBLIUS. 
These treasures, gathered from the annual tribute 
Of subject provinces, we dedicate 
To effect this pious work: disdain not, Titus, 


This public token of our grateful homage. 
xx 2 


ee eee ecenernerera bin rTacbey Tar TaaeeS maaenaapesanesets | 


| 


594 ITALIAN POETRY. 


TITUS. 

Romans . believe that every wish of Titus 

Is centred in your love; but let not, therefore, 

Your love, forgetful of its proper bounds, 

Reflect disgrace on Titus, or yourselves, 

Is there a name more dear, more tender to me, 

Than father of my people? Yet even this 

I rather seek to merit than obtain. 

My soul would imitate the mighty gods 

By virtuous deeds, but shudders at the thought 

Of impious emulation. He who dares 

To rank himself their equal forfeits all 

His future title to their guardian care. 

O, fatal folly, when presumptuous pride 

Forgets the weakness of mortality ! 

Yet think not I refuse your proffered treasures: 

Their use alone be changed. Then hear my 
purpose. 

Vesuvius, raging with unwonted fury, 

Pours from her gaping jaws a lake of fire, 

Shakes the firm earth, and spreads destruction 
round 

The subject fields and cities; trembling fly 

‘The pale inhabitants, while all who "scape 

The flaming ruin meagre want pursues. 

Behold an object claims our thoughts! dispense 

- These treasures to relieve your suffering breth- 
ren; 

Thus, Romans, thus your temple build for Titus. 


TITUS. © 
To take from Rome 


The least suspicion that the hand of Titus 
Shall e’er be joined in marriage to the queen. 


SEXTUS. 
For this the queen’s departure may suffice, 


TITUS, 
No, Sextus; once before, she left our city, 
And yet returned; twice have we met, — the 
third 
May prove a fatal meeting ; while my bed 
Receives no other partner, all who know 
My soul’s affection may with show of reason | 
Declare the place reserved for Berenice. 
Too deeply Rome abhors the name of queen, 
But wishes on the imperial seat to view 
A daughter of her own; — let Titus, then, 
Fulfil the wish of Rome. Since Jove in vain 
Formed my first choice, let friendship fix the 
second. 
Sextus, to thee shall Cesar’s blood unite ; 
This day thy sister is my bride 


SEXTUS, 
Servilia ? 


TITUS, 


Servilia. 


ANNIUS (aside). 
Wretched Annius! 


ANNIUS, 


O, truly great ! 


SEXTUS. 


O ye gods! 


PUBLIUS. ° : 
Annius is lost ! 


‘How poor were ail rewards, 
‘How poor were praise, to such transcendent 
virtue ! 


TITUS. 
Thou hear’st not; speak, my friend, — 
What means this silence ? 


CHORUS. 

O guardian gods! in whom we trust, 
To watch the Roman fate ; 

Preserve in Titus, brave and just, 
The glory of the state ! 


SEXTUS. 
Can I speak, my lord? 
Thy goodness overwhelms my grateful mind, — 
Fain would I 


ANNIUS (aside). 
Sextus suffers for his friend ! 


TITUS. 
Enough, — enough ! — Sextus, my friend, draw 
near ; 
Depart not, Annius; all besides, retire. 


TITUS, 


Declare thyself with freedom, — every wish 
Shall find a grant. 


ANNIUS (aside to Sextus). 
Now, Sextus, plead my cause, SEXTUS (aside). 


Be just, my soul, to Annius ! 


SEXTUS, 


And could you, Sir, 
Resign your beauteous queen ? 


ANNIUS (aside). 
Annius, be firm! 


SEXTUS, 
TITUS. 


Alas, my Sextus ! O Titus! 


That moment, sure, was dreadful, —yet I 


ANNIUS. 


thought Mighty Cesar ! 
= . 
No more, —’t is past; the struggle ’s o’er! she | 1 know the heart of Sextus: from our infancy, 
’*s gone! A mutual tenderness has grown between us. 
Thanta, to the gods, I ’ve gained the painfal I read his thoughts ; with modest estimation 
conquest ! He rates his worth, as disproportioned far 


To such alliance, nor reflects that Cesar 
Ennobles whom he favors. Sacred Sir! 
Pursue your purpose. Can a bride be found 
More worthy of the empire or yourself? 
What more remains, my lord? Beauty and virtue in Servilia meet; 


"T is just I now complete the task begun ; 
‘The greater part is done; the less remains. 


SEXTUS. 


dts ace ne SRE EL he Bt NE OI RI NSIS 


She seemed, whene’er I viewed her, born to 
reign ; 
And what I oft presaged your choice confirms, 


sBxtus (aside). 
Is this the voice of Annius? Do I dream ? 


TITUS. 
‘Tis well: thou, Annius, with despatchful care, 
Convey the tidings to her. Come, my Sextus, 
Cast every vain and cautious doubt aside ; 
Thou shalt with me so fat partake of greatness, 
I will exalt thee to such height of honor, 
That little of the distance shall remain 
At which the gods have placed thee now fiom 

Titus. 

SEXTUS. 
Forbear, my lord! O, moderate this goodness ! 
Lest Sextus, poor and bankrupt in his thanks, 
Appear ungrateful for the gifts of Cesar. 


: TITUS. 

What wouldst thou leave me, friend, if thou 
deni’st me 

The glorious privilege of doing good! 


This fruit the monarch boasts alone, 
The only fruit that glads a throne: 
All, all besides is toil and pain, 
Where slavery drags the galling chain. 


Shall I my only joy forego? 
No more my kind protection show 
To those by fortune’s frown pursued ? 
No more exalt each virtuous friend, 
No more a bounteous hand extend, 
To enrich the worthy and the good? 


ANNIUS (alone). 
Shall I repent? —O, no!—TI ’ve acted well, 
As suits a generous lover; had I now 
Deprived her of the throne, to insure her mine, 
I might have loved myself, but not Servilia. 
Lay by, my heart, thy wonted tenderness! 
She who was late thy mistress 1s become 
Thy sovereign ; let thy passion, then, be changed 
To distant homage ! — But, behold, she 's mere! 
O Heaven! methinks she ne’er before appeared 
So beauteous in my eyes! 


— 


ANNIUS AND SERVILIA. 
SERVILIA. 
My life! my love! 
ANNIUS. 
Cease, cease, Servilia; for ’t is criminal 
To call me still by those endearing names. 


SERVILIA. 
And wherefere ? 


ANNIUS. 
Cesar has elected thee — 
O, torture !— for the partner of his bed. 
He bade me bring, myself, —I cannot bear it! 
The tidings to thee. —O, my breaking heart! 
And {—I have been once I cannot speak! 
Empress, farewell ! 


METASTASIO.~GOLDONI. 


What can this mean ?— Yet stay, 
Servilia Casar’s wife?—-Ah! why? 


Because 


Beauty and virtue never can be found 

More worthy of the throne. My life!-_O 
Heaven ! 

What would I dare to say ?-— Permit me, em- 
press, 

Permit me to retire. 


And wilt thou leave me 


In this confusion ? 


By what strange means, — declare each circum- 
stance ——=+ 


I’m lost, unless I go. — My heart’s best treasure ! 


ace. 


ice, in 1707. 


boy, wisl 
that of medicine. 
young poet’s inclination, and he soon gained 
permission to study the law at Venice. He 
went afterward to the University of Pavia} but 
having been detected in writing a satire upon 
some of the most respectable families there, he 
was expelled from the University. At the age 
of twenty-two, he received an appointment in 
Feltre, where he amused his leisure by appear- 
ing in private theatricals at the governot’s pal- 


My tongue its wonted theme pursues, 


Accustomed 


Then let my former love excuse 
What from my lips unwary fell, 


I hoped that reason would suffice 


To calm the 


But, ah! unguarded, fond surprise 


Each secret 


SERVILIA (alone). 

Shall I be wife to Cesar? in one moment 
Shake off my former chains? consign to oblivion 
Such wondrous faith? Ah, no! from me the 


throne 


Can never merit such a sacrifice ! 
ry . . 9 
Fear it not, Annius, —it shall never be! 


Thee long I ’ve loved, and still I ‘Il love ; 
Thou wert the first, and thou shalt prove 
The last dear object of my flame : 

The love which first our breast inspires, 
When free from guilt, such strength acquires, 
It lasts till death consumes our frame. 


CARLO GOLDONI. 


Carto Goxpont, the greatest writer of com- 
edy in the Italian language, was born at Ven- 
He showed an early predilection 
for the drama; but his father, though delighted 
with the manifestations of genius given by the 
ned him to study his own profession, 


He settled a 


Paice iis Ne ar ae a ee 


SERVILIA, 


ANNIUS. 


SERVILIA. 


Speak, — relate at full 


ANNIUS. 


on thy name to dwell; 


emotions love might raise: 


I would hide betrays. 


—4— 


——— 


This did not agree with the 


fterwards in the practice of 


pl nN a ae ai all LS bh lag SEE he et 


A hea aN ll ee 


the law at Venice, where he had considerable 
success. He was soon forced, however, by an 
intrigue in which he involved himself, to leave 
Venice. He took with him to Milan an opera 
die had written, entitled « Amalasonta,”’ by 
which he had hoped to make his fortune. Being 
disappointed in the reception he met with, he 
composed the musical interlude of “The Vene- 
tian Gondolier,” which was successful. He 
was driven from place to place by the Italian 
wars in 1733, and, finally, meeting a troop of 
comedians in Verona, he returned with them to 
Venice, where he brought out his tragedies of 
“¢ Belisarius”” and “ Rosamund.” In 1736, he 
married the daughter of a notary in Genoa, and, 
establishing himself in Venice, began to culti- 
vate comedy,on which his fame is chiefly found- 
ed. In 1741, he was obliged to leave Venice, 
and seek the means of subsistence elsewhere, 
For some time he was director of the theatre at 
Rimini. He then went to Florence and Siena, 
where he was well received. At Pisa he re- 
turned to the law, in which for a time he had 
an extensive business. He then accompanied a 
troop of players to Mantua, and again returned 
to Venice after an absence of five years. In 
1758, he was invited to Parma, where he wrote 
some operas that were set to music. In 1761, 
he went to Paris, where his pieces were re- 
ceived with great applause, and he procured the 
appointment of reader and Italian teacher to the 
daughters of Louis the Fifteenth. Three years 
after, he received a pension of three thousand 
six hundred livres, which was discontinued at 
the breaking out of the Revolution; it was re- 
stored, however, by a decree of the Convention, 
January 7th, 1793. But Goldoni, being now 
in his eighty-sixth year, died the next day. 
His widow received the arrears of his pension, 
and a pension for herself. " 
Goldoni’s writings are distinguished for fer- 
tility uf invention and excellent delineation of 
character. As a reformer of the Italian theatre, 
by resisting the predominant taste for masques 
and extemporary pieces, and substituting for 
them the regular comedy, his merits are very 
great. A complete edition of his works was 
published at Lucca, in 1809, in twenty-six vol- 
umes, Several of his pieces have been translate 
ed into most of the languages of Europe. 


CECILIA’S DREAM, 


I preamep that ina garden I reposed, 

Beside a fount fed by a mountain stream 

Precipitous ; where the waves’ murmuring flow 

And music of sweet birds my heart entranced 

‘Twixt joy and grief. Then to the air, me- 
thought, 

And to the woods, I uttered my complaint ; 

Reproached my cold heart with its long disdain, 

And called on Heaven to sway my lover’s heart 

To reconcilement, and to soothe mine own 

To kindness, — when amid the laurel bowers, — 

| O, blissful chance ! — sudden my love appeared 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


And fell before my feet. « Forgive,” he cried 
‘The transport of mine anger, in the hour 
Thou bad’st me wait upon the midnight air ; 
And, for the future, cheerfully I ’Il brave 

The scorching sunbeams or the evening dews, 
Or linger the lone night beneath these walls j— 
Thy day be mine, or clouded or serene. 

Ah! then, relent, and let my heart have rest!” 
At these sweet words, how shall I tell my joy? | 
I called him to my side. He rose, approached, 
And trembling seized the hand I proffered him, 
A pledge of reconciled love ; and, ah! 

So fervent kissed it, that my very heart 
Leaped in my bosom; then full many a sigh 
He breathed, with sweet regards and fond caress. 


Oa. 


CARLO GOZZI. 


Count Carto Gozzr was born at Venice, 
about 1718. He showed very early a poetical” 
spirit, and acquired a command of the Tuscan 
style. The condition of his family made it 
necessary for him to enter the military service 
in his sixteenth year. Three years after, he 
returned to Venice and resumed his studies. 
He was hostile to the taste created by Chiari’s 
bombastic dramas, and defended the commedia 
dell’ arte and the harlequin Sacchi against the | 
attacks of Goldoni. He drew the materials of 
his own dramatic compositions from the fairy 
tales, by which he produced great popular ef- 
fects. His pieces are rather sketcRes than 
complete artistic productions. About the year 
1771, he deserted his original career, and began 
to translate from the French, and other lan- 
guages, in order to adapt tragic parts for the 
actress Signora Ricci, who had acquired great 


influence over him. He died about the year 
1800. An edition of his works was published 
in eight volumes, in 1772; to which he added a 
ninth, in 1799. 


eee 


FROM TURANDOT. 


[A march. Truffaldin, the chief of the eunuchs, advances, 
his scymitar on his shoulder, followed by blacks, and by 
several female slaves beating drums. After them Adelma 
and Zelima, the former in Tartar costume, both veiled. 
Zelima bears a tray with various sealed papers. Truffal- 
din and the eunuchs prostrate themselves before the em- 
peror as they pass, and then rise up; the female slaves 
kneel with their hands on their foreheads. At length 
appears Turandot, veiled, in rich Chinese costume, with 
a haughty and majestic air. The councillors and doctors 
throw themselves down before her, with their faces to 
the earth. Altoum rises; the princess makes an obei- 
sance to him with her hand on her brow, and then seats 
herself upon her throne. Zelima and Adelma take their 
places on each side of her, the latter nearest to the spec- 
tators. Truffaldin takes the tray from Zelima, and dis- 
tributes with comic ceremony the billets among the doc- 
tors, then retires with the same obeisance as before, and 
the march ceases. ] 


TURANDOT (after a long pause), 
WHERE is this new adventurer, who thus, 
Despite the sad experience of the past, 


Would vainly strive to solve my deep enigmas, 
And comes to swell the catalogue of death ? 


ALTOUM (pointing to Calaf, who stands, as if struck with 
astonishment, in the centre of the divan). 
There, daughter, — there he stands, and worthy, 

too, 
To be the husband of thy choice, without 
This frightful test, which clouds the land with 
mourning, 
And fills with sharpest pangs thy father’s breast. 


TURANDOT (after gazing at him for some time—aside to 
Zelima). 


O Heaven! what feeling ’s this, my Zelima? 


ZELIMA. 
What is the matter, Princess ? 


TURANDOT. 

Never vet 

Did mortal enter this divan, whose presence 
Could move my soul to pity, until now. 


ZELIMA. 
Three simple riddles, then, and pride farewell ! 


TURANDOT. 
Presumptuous girl, dost thou forget my honor ? 


ADELMA (who has in the mean time been regarding the 
prince with astonishment — aside). 

Is this a dream? Great God, what do I see? 

"Tis he, the youth whom at my father’s court 

I knew but asa slave. He was a prince, 

A monarch’s son. My heart foreboded it. 

Love’s deep presentiments are ever sure, 


TURANDOT. 
Still there is time, O Prince ; abandon yet 
This wild attempt, —turn from this hall for ever. 
Heaven knows, those tongues belie me that ac- 
cuse 
My heart of harshness or of cruelty. 
I am not cruel, I would only live 
In freedom, — would not be another’s slave ; 
That right, which even the meanest of man- 
kind 
Inherits from his mother’s womb, would f, 
The daughter of an emperor, maintain. 
I see, throughout the East, unhappy woman 
Degraded, bent beneath a slavish yoke ; 
I will avenge my sex’s injuries 
On haughty man, whose sole advantage o’er us 
Lies, like the brute’s, in strength. Yes, nature’s 
self 
Hath armed me with the weapons of invention 
And subtilty, and skill to guard my freedom. 
Of man I’ll hear no more. I hate him,— 
hate 
His pride and his presumption. Every treasure 
He grasps with greedy hand ; whate’er, for- 
sooth, 
His fancy longs for, he must straight possess. 
O, why did Heaven endow me with these graces, 
These gifts of mind, if noblest natures still 
Are doomed on earth to be the mark at which 


Each savage hunter aims, while meaner things 
Lie tranquil in their insignificance ? 
Shall beauty be the prize of one? 
Free as the universal sun in heaven, 
Which lightens all, which gladdens every eye, 
But is the slave and property of none. 


No, rather 


CALAF. 

Such lofty thought, such nobleness of soul, 

Enshrined in such a godlike form! O, who 

Shall censure the fond youth who gladly sets 

His life upon a cast for such a prize ? 

The merchant, for a little gain, will venture 

His ships and crews upon the stormy sea; 

The hero hunts the shadow of renown 

Across the gory field of death; and shall 

Beauty alone be without peril won, — 

Beauty, the best, the brightest good of all? 

Princess, I charge thee not with cruelty ; 

But blame not thou, in turn, the youth’s pre- 
sumption, — 

O, hate him not, that with enamoured soul 

He strives for that which is invaluable ! 

Thyself hast fixed the treasure’s price ; the lists 

Are open to the. worthiest. I am 

A prince, —I have a life to hazard for thee, — 

No happy one, but ’t is my all, — and had I 

A thousand lives, I ’d sacrifice them all. 


ZELIMA (aside to Turandot). 
O Princess, dost thou hear? For Heaven’s sake, 
Three simple riddles, — he deserves it of thee. 


ADELMA (aside). 
What nobleness! what loving dignity ! 
O, that he might be mine, — that I had known 
him 
To be a prince, when at my father’s court 
I dwelt of yore in freedom“and in joy ! 
How love flames up at once within my heart, 
Now that I know his lineage equals mine! 
Courage, my heart! I must possess him still. 
{To Turandot. 
Princess, thou art confused, — thou ’rt silent. 
Think, 
Think of thy glory; honor is at stake. 


TURANDOT (aside). 
And none till now had moved me to compas- 
sion. — 
Hush, Turandot!— thou must suppress thy 
feelings. 
Presumptuous youth, so be it, then, — prepare ! 


ALTOUM. 
Prince, is thy purpose fixed ? 


: CALAF. 
Fixed as the pole. 


Or death, or Turandot. 


ALTOUM. 
Then read aloud 
The fatal edict; hear it, Prince, and tremble. 
[Tartaglia takes the Book of the Law out of his bosom, 
lays it on his breast, then on his forehead, and de- 
livers it to Pantalon. 


eee 


a 


’ 
{ 
5 
| PANTALON (receives the book. prostrates himself, then rises, 
and reads aloud), 
The hand of Turandot to all is free, 
But first three riddles must the suitor read ; 
f Who solves them not must on the scaffold 
bleed, 
| And his head planted o’er the gate shalt be; 
Solves he the riddles, then the bride is won: 
| So runs the law, — we swear it by the Sun. 


ALTOUM (raising his right hand, and laying it upon the 
book). 
O bloody law, sad source of grief to me, 
I swear by Fo that thou fulfilled shalt be! 
{Tartaglia puts the book again in his bosom. A long 
pause. 


TURANDOT (rising, andina declamatory tone). 
The tree within whose shadow 
Men blossom and decay, 
Coeval with creation, 
Yet still in green array ; — 
One side for ever turneth 
Its branches to the sun, 
But coal-black is the other, 
And seeks the light to shun. 
New circles still surround i, 
So often as it blows; 
The age of all around it, 
It tells us-as it grows ; 
And names are lightly graven 
Upon its verdant rind, 
Which, when its bark grows shrivelled, 
Man seeks in vain to find. 
Then tell me, Prince, — this tree, 
What may its likeness be ? 
[Sits down. 
CALAF (after considering fora time, with his eyes raised 
makes his obeisance to the princess), 
Too happy, Princess, would thy slave be, if 
No riddles more obscure than this await him. 
The ancient tree that still renews its verdure ; 
On which men blossom and decay ; whose leaves 
On one side seek, on the other flee the sun; 
On whose green rind so many names are graven, 
Which only last so long as it is green, — 
That tree is Time, with all its nights and days. 


3 


PANTALON ( joyfully). 
Tartaglia, he has hit it! 


: TARTAGLIA. 
To a hair! 
DOCTORS (breaking open the sealed packet). 
Optime, optime, optime! — Time, Time, Time, 
It ts Time. 


j [Music. 
ALTOUM ( joyfully), 


The favor of the gods go with thee, son, 
And help thee also through the other riddles ! 


ZELIMA. 
O Heaven, assist him ! ’ 


ADELMA (aside), 
Heaven assist him not! 
Let it not be, that she, the cruel one, 
Should gain him, and the loving-hearted lose. 


ITALIAN POETRY, 


TURANDOT (in anger). 
And shall he conquer? shall my pride be hum- 
bled ? 
No, by the gods! — Thou self-contented fool, 
[To Calaf. 
Listen and interpret. 
[Rises again and declaims as before. 
Know’st thou the picture softly rounded 
That lights itself with inward gleam, 
Whose hues are every moment changing, 
Yet ever fair and perfect seem ; 
Within the narrowest panel painted, 
Set in the narrowest frame alone, 
Yet all the glorious scenes around us 
Are only through that picture shown? 
Or know’st thou that serenest crystal 
Whose brightness shames the diamond’s 
blaze, 
That shines so clear, yet never scorches, 
That draws a world within its rays ; 
The blue of heaven its bright reflection 
Within its magic mirror leaves, 
And yet the light that sparkles from it 
Seems lovelier oft than it receives? 


Joy not so early. 


CALAF (bending low to the princess, after a short consid- 
eration). 

Chide not, exalted beauty, that thy servant 

Thus dares again to hazard a solution. 

This tender picture, which, with smallest frame 

Encompassed, mirrors even immensity ; 

The crystal in which heaven and earth are 
painted, ; 

Yet renders back things lovelier even than they ; 

It is the Eyr, the world’s receptacle, — 

Thine eye, when it looks lovingly on me. 


PANTALON (springing up joyfully). 
Tartaglia, by my soul, he hath hit the mark, 
Even in the centre! 


‘ ; TARTAGLIA. 
As I live, ’t is true! 
DOCTORS (opening the packet). 
Optime, optime, optime ! — the Kye, the Eye, it 
as the Eye. 


[Music. 
ALTOUM. 


What unexpected fortune! Gracious gods, 
Let him but reach the mark once more ! 


ZELIMA, 
O, that it were the last ! 


ADELMA, 
Woe ’s me, he conquers! he is lost to me! 
- . [To Turandot. 
Princess, thy glory is departed. Canst thou 
Submit to this? shall all thy former triumphs 
Be tarnished in a moment ? 


TURANDOT (rising in the highest indignation), 
Sooner shall 
Earth crumble into ruin! No! T tell thee, 
Presumptuous youth, I do but hate thee more, 
The more thou hop’st to conquer—to possess me. 
Wait not my last enigma. Fly at once. 
Leave this divan for ever. Save thyself. 


ae en 


GOZZI.—PARINI. 


CALAF. 


It is thy hate alone, adored Princess, 
That could appall or agitate my heart; 
Let my unhappy head sink in the dust, 
If it unworthy be to touch thy bosom. 


ALTOUM. 

O, yield, beloved son, and tempt no farther 

The gods, who twice have favored thee! Now 
safe, 

Nay, crowned with honor, thou canst leave the 
field. ' 

Two conquests naught avail thee, if the third, 

The all-decisive, be not won. ‘The nearer 

The summit, still the heavier is the fall. 

And thou, —O, be content with this, my daugh- 
ter. 

Desist, and try him with no more enigmas. 

He hath done what never prince before him did. 

Give him thy hand, then,— he is worthy of it,— 

And end the trial. 

[Zelima makes imploring, and Adelma menacing ges- 

tures to Turandot. 


TURANDOT. 

End the trial, say’st thou ? 

Give him my hand? No, never. Three enigmas 
The law hath said. The law shall take its course. 


CALAF. 
Let the law take its course. My life is placed 
In the gods’ hands. Death, then, or Turandot. 


TURANDOT. 
Death be it, then, —death. Dost thou hear me, 
Prince? 
[Rising and proceeding to declaim as before. 

What is the weapon, prized by few, 

Which in a monarch’s hand we view ; 

Whose nature, like the murderous blade, 

To trample and to wound seems made, 

Yet bloodless are the wounds it makes; 

To all it gives, from none it takes ; 

It makes the stubborn earth our own, 

It gives to life its tranquil tone ; 

Though mightiest efpires it hath grounded, 

Though oldest cities it hath founded, 

The flame of war it never lit, 

And happy they who hold by it? 

Say, Prince, what may that weapon be, 

Or else farewell to life and me. 

[With these last words she tears off her veil. 

Look here, and, if thou canst, preserve thy senses. 
Die, or unfold the riddle ! 


CALAF (confused, and holding his hand before his eyes). 
O dazzling light of heaven! O blinding beauty! 


ALTOUM. 
O God ! he grows confused, —his senses wander ; 
Compose thyself, my son, collect thy thoughts. 


ZELIMA. 
How my heart beats ! 


ADELMA (aside). 
Mine art thou yet, beloved, — 
I ll save thee yet. Love will find out the way. 


PANTALON (to Calaf). 
O, for the love of Heaven, let not his senses 
Take leave of him! Courage, look up, my 
prince ! — 
O, woe is me! I fear me all is over! 


TARTAGLIA (with mock gravity to himself). 
Would dignity permit, we ’d fly in person 
To fetch him vinegar. 


TURANDOT (looking with a steady countenance on the 
prince, who still stands immovable). 

Unfortunate ! 

Thou wouldst provoke thy ruin, — take it, then! 


CALAF (who has recovered his composure, turns With a 
calm smile and obeisance to Turandot). 

It was thy beauty only, heavenly Princess, 

That with its blinding and o’erpowering beam 

Burst on me so, and for a moment took 

My senses prisoners. I am not vanquished. 

That iron weapon, prized of few, yet gracing 

The hand of China’s emperor itself, 

On the first day of each returning yéar ; 

That weapon, which, more harmless than the |! 
sword, 

To industry the stubborn earth subjected ; — 

Who, from the wildest wastes of Tartary, 

Where only hunters roam and shepherds pas- 
ture, 

Could enter here, and view this blooming land, 

The green and golden fields that wave around us, 

Its many hundred many-peopled towns 

Blest in the calm protection of the law, 

Nor reverence that goodliest instrument, 

That gave these blessings birth, — the gentle 

PLovueH? 


PANTALON. 
O, God be praised at last ! Let me embrace thee ; 
I scarcely can contain myself for joy: 


TARTAGLIA. 
God bless his Majesty the emperor ! 


Is over; sorrow has an end at last. 


All 


pocrors (breaking open the packet). 
The Plough, the Plough, it zs the Plough ! 


[All the instruments join in a loud crash. Turandot 
sinks upon her throne in @ swoon. 


a 


GIUSEPPE PARINI. 


Givseprr Parryi was born at Busisio, a Mi- 
lanese village, in 1729. He studied at Milan, 
and devoted himself to theology in compliance 
with his father’s desires. He early made some 
poetical attempts, and, in 1752, published a 
collection of his pieces, which occasioned his 
being admitted into the Academy of the Arca- 
dians at Rome. Being appointed preceptor in 
the Borromeo and Serbelloni families, he was 
placed more at his ease, and had more leisure 
for his studies. He died in 1799. 

The principal work of Parini is the didactic 


= 


s 


satire entitled I] Giorno,” or The Day, in 
which he attempts a delineation of the manners 
of the great. It is divided into “Il Mattino,”’ 
or Morning, ‘Il Mezzogiorno,” or Noon, “II 
Vespero,’’ or Evening, and La Notte,” or 
Night. This poem gave hima great reputation, 
and procured him a professorship of belles-let- 
tres in the Palatine School in Milan. He was 
a writer of profound feeling, delicate taste, and 
correct judgment. His language is simple, well 
chosen, and beautiful. His works were pub- 


lished by Reina, in six volumes, at Milan, 
1801 —4. 


ee 


t FROM IL GIORNO. 


ALREADY do the gentle valets hear 

Thy tinkling summons, and with zealous speed 

Haste to unclose the barriers that exclude 

The gairish day, — yet soft and warily, 

Lest the rude sun perchance offend thy sight. 

| Now raise thee gently, and recline upon 

The obsequious pillow that doth woo thy weight; 

Thine hand’s forefinger lightly, lightly pass 

O’er thine half-opened eyes, and chase from 
thence 

The cursed Cimmerian that durst yet remain ; 

And bearing still in mind thy delicate lips, 

Indulge thee in a graceful yawn betimes. 

In that luxurious act if once beheld 

By the rude captain, who the battling ranks 

Stentorian-like commands, what shame would 
seize 

On the ear-rending, boisterous son of Mars ! 

Such as of old pipe-playing Pallas felt, 

When her swollen cheek and lip the fount be- 
trayed. 


But now, behold, thy natty page appears, 

Anxious to learn what beverage thou wouldst 
sip. 

If that thy stomach need the sweet ferment, 

Restorative of heat, and to the powers 

Digestive so propitious, — choose, I pray, 

The tawny chocolate, on thee bestowed 

By the black Carib of the plumed crown. 

Or should the hypochondria vex my lord, 

Or round his tapering limbs the encroaching 

| flesh 

Unwelcome gather, let his lip prefer 

The roasted berry’s juice, that Mocha sends, — 

Mocha, that of a thousand ships is proud. 

"T was fate decreed that from the ancient world 

Adventurers should sail, and o’er the main, 

’Gainst storm and doubt, and famine and despair, 

Should have achieved discovery and conquest ;— 

'T was fate ordained that Cortés should despise 

The blood of sable man, and through it wade, 

O’erturning kingdoms and their generous kings, 

That worlds, till then unknown, their fruits and 
flowers 

Should cater to thy palate, gem of heroes! 

But Heaven forefend, that, at this very hour 

To coffee and to breakfast dedicate, 

Some menial indiscreet should chance admit 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


senators under the papal government. 
came, however, more docile under the Cispadan 
‘republic, and was sent asa deputy to Paris to 


made Professor of Diplomacy in the University 
of Bologna. 


The tailor, — who, alas! is not contented 

To have with thee divided his rich stuffs, 

And now with infinite politeness comes, 
Handing his bill. Ahimé! unlucky ! 

The wholesome liquor turns to gall and spleen, 
And doth at home, abroad, at play or park, 
Disorganize thy bowels for the day. 


But let no portal e’er be closed on him 

Who sways thy toes, professor of the dance. 

He at his entrance stands firm on the threshold; 

Up mount his shoulders, and down sinks his 
neck, 

Like to a tortoise, while with graceful bow 

His lip salutes his hat’s extremity. 

Nor less be thy divine access denied 

To the sweet modulator of thy voice, 

Or him for whom the harmonious string vibrates, 

Waked into music by his skilful bow. 

But, above all, let him not fail to join 

The chosen synod of my lord’s levee, 

Professor of the idiom exquisite : 

He, who from Seine, the mother of the Graces, 

Comes generous, laden with celestial sounds, 

To grace the Jips of nauseous Italy. 

Lo! at his bidding, our Italian words, 

Dismembered, yield the place unto their foe ; 

And at his harmony ineffable, 

Lo! in thy patriot bosom rises strong 

Hate and disgust of that ignoble tongue, 

Which in Valchiusa to the echoes told 

The lament and the praise of hopeless love. 

Ah! wretched bard, who knew not yet to mix 

The Gallic graces with thy rude discourse ; 

That so to delicate spirits thou might’st be 

Not grating as thou art, and barbarous ! 


Fast with this pleasant choir flits on the morn, 

Unvexed by tedium or vacuity, 

While ’twixt the light sips of the fragrant cup 

Is pleasantly discussed, — What name shall bear, 

Next season, the theatric palm away ? 

And is it true that Frine has returned, — 

She that has sent a thousand dull Milords, 

Naked and gulled, unto the banks of Thames? 

Or comes the dancer, gay Narcissus, back 

(Terror of gentle husbands), to bestow 

Fresh trouble to their hearts, and honors to their 
heads? 


4 


LUIGI VITTORIO SAVIOLI. 


Lurer Virrorio Savior, a politician as well 
as poet, was born at Bologna, in 1729. Although 
he manifested an early passion for poetry, he 
involved himself in the opposition of the aris- 
tocracy to the reforms of Cardinal Buoneam- 
pagni, and was one of the number of disgraced 


He be- 


treat with the Directory. He was afterwards 


He died September Ist, 1804. 


published in his 
They had 


The poems of Savioli were 
youth, under the title of “ Amori.” 
an immense success, and placed him among the 
first Anacreontic writers of the age. His style 
is gay and elegant. He also wrote a translation 
of Tacitus, and began a historical work enti- 
tled «“ Annali Bolognesi,” which was interrupt- 
ed by his death. 


TO SOLITUDE. 


Away with fabled names that shine 
In modern knightly story ; 

I tune my lyre to sing the deeds 
Of nobler ancient glory. 


Old Sparta, sternly virtuous, made 
The pure and spotless maiden 

To join the wrestler’s ring, by naught 
But nature’s vesture laden. 


No crimson hues along the cheek 
Arose to mar her beauty ; 

Why feel dishonest shame, if true 
To honor and to duty? 


Nor word, nor look, betrays the fire 
Which in the bosom gathers 

Of Lacedemon’s youths, who sit 
Beside their warlike fathers. 


But Beauty yielded not the palm 
To gold or false devices ; 

«‘Arm in your country’s cause !” they cried ; 
And Hope each heart entices. 


How boldly fought the Spartan host, 
When Love the victor cherished, 

And tears of secret grief were shed 
O’er the brave men who perished! 


O, wherefore have ye fled, ye days 
Pure, holy, ever glorious ; 

While avarice, luxury, and fraud 
Now reign o’er all victorious ? 


Then haste away, O dearest one, 
To scenes where peace abideth ; 
Far from the haunts of haughty men, 
The day in calmness glideth. 


Lo! there, ’mid lovely verdant slopes, 
On high the mountain towers ; 
Penelope, in all her pride, 
Dwelt in less regal bowers. 


The cypress there, pale Hecate’s tree, 
Its sacred leaves uncloses ; 

And, o’er each rocky dell, the fir 
Dark shade to shade opposes. 


There, too, the tree, which, as it sighed 
Above the lonely fountain, 
The Berecynthian goddess loved 
To hear on Phrygia’s mountain. 
76 


SAVIOLI-~-ALFIERI. 


Erst a lone grot, with native marks ’ 
Of rudeness on it clinging, 

Was opened by the living stream, 
Fresh from the soil upspringing. 


'T’ was found by Art, who emulous 
With Nature joined her treasure ; 

And Thetis drew from all her stores 
To deck the abode of pleasure. 


In tranquil grace, beside the cave, 
Its guardian Naiad, standing, 
Pours from her mossy shell a fount 


To silvery streams expanding. 


= o—— 


VITTORIO ALFIERI. 


Tris remarkable man, whose diversified life 
presents an eminent example of the power of 
resolution in overcoming difficulties, belonged 
to a rich and noble family of Asti, in Piedmont. 
He was born January 17th, 1749. He lost his 
father before he was a year old. In 1758, he 
was sent, by the advice of his uncle, the Cava- 
lier Pellegrino Alfiero, to a school in Turin, 
where his education was miserably neglected 
by those to whose care he was intrusted, and, 
after several years wasted in idleness and fri- 
volity, he left the academy nearly as ignorant as 
he had entered it. In 1766, he joined a pro- 
vincial regiment; but finding the duties, though 
few and unimportant, uncongenial to his taste, 
and being irreconcilably averse to military sub- 
he at length, and after some opposi- 
tion, obtained the king’s pernmssion to travel. 
He set out on his journey in October, 1766, 
and, having visited the principal cities of Italy, 
extended his travels to France, England, and 
Holland. On his return, two years afterwards, 
he attempted, from mere weariness, to amuse 
himself by reading; but his ignorance was sO 
great, and his mind was so undisciplined, that 
he was able to turn this resource to very little 
account. His knowledge of the Italian was so 
slight, that he could not appreciate the works of 
Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso; but he gained 
some acquaintance with the writings of Rous- 
seau, Voltaire, and Helvetius, and read with 
great interest the “ Lives’ of Plutarch. 

Having now come into possession of his for- 
tune, he commenced his travels anew in 1769, 
and visited Austria, Prussia, Denmark, Sweden, 
Russia, and, again passing through Germany 
and Holland, crossed over to England. Of his 
mode of life in England he has ‘left in his Me- 
moirs a minute and not unamusing account, 
which presents, however, not only a striking pic- 
ture of his own frivolous pursuits, but of the cor- 
rupt manners of the higher classes of English 
society at that time. The public exposure of an 
intrigue caused him to leave England, and he 
went by way of Brussels to Paris. From Paris, 


after a short stay, he passed into Spain and Por- 
hEp'S 


ordination, 


OL | 


Sr — 


ee) “ i 
J cae 


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ss 


oe tee oC 
POTS Saw oO ere ae 


aoe 


tugal. In Lisbon, he became acquainted with 
the Abate Tommaso di Caluso, a person of at- 
tractive manners and elegant tastes, in whose 
society he spent the greater part of his time, pre- 
ferring his conversation to all the amusements 
which the capital afforded. ‘It was on one of 
those most dulcet evenings,” says Alfieri, in his 
Memoirs, “that I felt in my inmost heart and 
soul a true Pheebean impulse of enthusiastic 
ravishment for the art of poetry; it was, how- 
ever, only a brief flame, which was immediately 
extinguished, and slept under the ashes many 
along year afterwards. The kind and worthy 
Abate was reading to me that magnificent ode to 
Fortune, by Guidi; a poet, of whom I had not 
even heard the name until that day. Some 
stanzas of that canzone, and especially the very 
beautiful one on Pompey, transported me to an 
indescribable degree; so that the good Abate 
persuaded himself, and told me, that I was born 
to make verses, and that by studying I should 
succeed in making very good ones. But when 
that momentary excitement had passed away, 
finding all the powers of my mind so rusted, 
I did not believe the thing would ever be pos- 
sible, and thought no more about it.’’ 

After his return to his native place, in 1772, 
retiring from the military service with ‘some dif- 
ficulty, he made various efforts to supply the -de- 
ficiencies of his education. The success which 
a few slight satirical compositions had among a 
circle of friends, who were accustomed to as- 
semble at his house, awakened the desire and 
the hope of one day producing something that 


should deserve to live. His first dramatic attempt, 


was the “ Cleopatra,’’ which was performed at 
Turin in 1775. From this time, he determined, 
with a resolution never to be shaken, to make 
himself a tragic poet. Aware of his deficiencies, 
he spared no pains to make them good. He 
set about acquiring the Tuscan and the Latin 
languages ; for, though an Italian, he knew only 
the barbarous dialect of his native province ; 
and though a Master of Arts, educated in the 


Academy and University of Turin, where “the 


Italian was a contraband,”’ he was not sufficient- 
ly master of the Latin to understand the tritest 
quotations. He studied the Latin with a teach- 
er, and went to Florence. to acquire the Tuscan, 
in 1776. After a brief residence, he went back 
to Turin; but returning once more to Florence, 
he became acquainted with the beautiful count- 
ess of Albany, the. wife of the Pretender, Charles 
Stuart, to whom he became deeply attached. 
The description of this lady, and of her influ- 
ence over his character, forms the most beautiful 
part of Alfieri’s Memoirs. The countess lived 
unhappily with ber husband, but there appears 
to have been nothing to censure in her rela- 
tions, at this time, with Alfieri. She obtained 
the pope’s permission to retire to a convent in 
Florence, and afterwards entered one in Rome. 
Her husband lived until 1788. 

Alfieri had determined to remain permanent- 
ly in Florence, and to labor uninterruptedly at 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


his self-imposed literary tasks. But the feudal 
tenure of an estate subjected him to certain ob- 
ligations which were irksome and odious to his 
impatient spirit, Among the rest, it was pro- 
hibited by law to the vassals of the sovereign 
of Piedmont to leave his States without special 
permission in writing ; another law forbade the 
printing of books in any other States, under a 
heavy penalty. These restrictions were so in- 
tolerable to Alfieri, that he made an arrange- 
ment with his sister’s husband, by which he 
transferred the estate to him, on the condition 
of receiving an annual payment of about half 
his present income. 

The departure of the countess of Albany to 
Rome interrupted his studies in Florence, and 
he followed her thither, determining to estab- 
lish himself there. During this residence, he 
composed several of his tragedies. The ‘ An- 
tigone’’ was performed in 1782, by amateurs, 
in a private theatre, and received much ap- 
plause. In 1783, he submitted four tragedies 
to the ordeal of the press. In the same year, 
he left Rome, on. account of the scandal which 
his frequent visits to the countess created, and 
went first to Siena, without well knowing what 
further course his journey would take. In Siena 
he remained about three weeks, with a friend 
named Gori; and then set out for Venice, by 
way of Florence and Bologna. While in Ven- 
ice, he heard of the peace concluded between 
England and America, and wrote the fifth ode 
of his ‘America Libera.” From Venice he 
went to Padua, ‘‘and this time,’ he says in his 
Memoirs, “I did not, as I had done twice be- 
fore, omit to visit the house and tomb of our 
sovereign master of love, in Arqua.’”’ In Padua 
he became acquainted with Cesarotti, the trans- 
lator of Ossian. From Padua, he returned to 
Bologna, passing through Ferrara, for the pur- 
pose of performing another poetic pilgrimage, 
that of visiting the tomb and examining the 
manuscripts of Ariosto. He then went to Milan 
and Turin; then returned to Milan, where 
he saw much of Parini; thence to Florence, 
‘‘where,”’’ he says, “the wiseacres gave me 
distinctly to understand, that, if my manuscripts 
had been corrected by them before printing, I 
should have written well.”’ 

Returning to Siena, he published six more of 
his tragedies, and then determined to visit 
France and England, — the latter country for 
the purpose of buying horses. Immediately 
on his arrival in London, he set about the 
business, and soon had purchased fourteen, to 
gratify a whimsical desire of owning as many 
horses as he had written tragedies. He left 
London in April, 1784, ‘with this numerous 
caravan,’ and returned to Siena, by way of 
Calais, Paris, Lyons, and Turin. The account 
he gives of the troubles and vexations he en- 
dured in conducting these animals through the 
country reminds one of poor Mr. Pickwick’s 
horror at the thought of being followed about 
all day by a “dreadful horse.’ He plumed 


Se eee SS 


himself 
over the Alps, 


jockeys, as it co 


not a little upon getting them safely 
and, comparing this exploit to 
Hannibal’s celebrated passage, says that it cost 
him as much wine for the guides, assistants, and 
st that commander vinegar to 
es and elephants. He found his 
ed, though ‘the horses had 
k to the primitive ass.”’ 
time in Turin, he was 
present ata representation of Virginia.” The 
countess of Albany had now left Rome, and 
taken up her residence in Alsatia, and he could 
not resist the temptation to visit her. During 
the few months which he passed with her, he 
wrote the three tragedies, “ Agis,’ “* Sophonis- 
ba,”’ and «¢ Mirra.’ The news, which he re- 
ceived at this time, of the death of his friend 
Gori, in Siena, to whom he was warmly at- 
tached, overwhelmed him with sorrow. He 
returned to Siena, and then removed to Pisa, 
where he wrote, among other things, the ‘ Pan- 
egyric on Trajan.” The countess, having visited 
Paris in the mean time, and being unwilling to 
return to Rome, determined to make her resi- 
dence in France. She went into Alsatia in 
August, 1785, and was there rejoined by Alfieri, 
who wrote, at this time, the tragedies of the First 
and the Second Brutus. After a few months, 
the countess returned to Paris, and Alfieri re- 
mained solitary at his villa; but in August, 
1786, she came back, and they were never sep- 
arated more. In December of the same year, 
they went together to Paris, where they remain- 
ed only six or seven months. About the same 
time, he made an arrangement with Didot for 
the publication of his collected tragedies. In 
the summer of 1787, he received a visit, at his 
villa near Colmar, from his friend the Abate 
Caluso; but his pleasure in the society of this 
amiable man was interrupted by a long and se- 
which nearly proved fatal. At the 
went again to Paris, and 


transport his slav 

health much benefit 

rapidly carried him bac 
Remaining a short 


vere illness, 
close of the year they 


o remain for the purpose 


finding it convenient t 
Alfieri took a house. 


of superintending the press, 

He continued his literary occupations until 
1791, when, in company with the countess, he 
made his fourth journey to England. Though 
they admired the freedom, industry, and energy 
of the people, they were displeased with the 
manner of living among the upper classes 3 
‘calways at table ; sitting up till two or three 
o’clock in the morning; a life wholly opposed 
to letters, to genius, to health.’ Alfieri was 
besides tormented by a “flying gout, which is 
truly indigenous in that blessed island.” His 
pecuniary affairs were also somewhat embar- 
rassed by the disturbances in France. They 
accordingly returned, by way of Holland, to 
Paris, after having made, in August, 
tour, in the course of which the 
Bristol, and Oxford. 

He found it, however, 
his literary labors amidst t 


the Revolution. 
tained passports for himself and the countess 


ALFIERI. 


and fled from Paris on the 18th of August, 1792. 
Their property 
they were imme 
On the third of November, 
ence. Overjoyed 
self-styled re 
and having 


a short 
y visited Bath, 


impossible to continue 
he bloody scenes of 


With some difficulty, he ob- 


603 


was seized and confiscated, and 
diately proscribed as emigrants. 
they arrived in Flor- 
at having escaped from * that 
public, born in terror and in blood,” 
reached in safety ‘the beautiful 
” Alfieri resumed 


| 


country where sounds the s2, 
his occupations, and by degrees collected an- 
other library to replace that of which he had 
been plundered in Paris. He remained in or 
near Florence, the rest of his life. At the age 
of forty-six, he determined to learn the Greek 
and such was the strength of his reso- 
it sufficiently to read 
His exhausting 


language, 
lution, that he mastered 
Homer and the Tragedians. 
labors, the anxieties caused by the political state 
of Italy, and by the victorious arms of the French, 
iom he abhorred, together with the bad effects 
neagre living, began 
to undermine his health Notwithstanding the 
nees of his friends, he persisted 
8th of October, 1803, | 
f fifty-five. 

s character 


wl 
of an injurious system of t 


urgent remonstra 
in his course, until the 
when he died, at the age 0 

The following summary of Alfieri’ 
‘s taken from Mr. Mariotti’s ‘ Italy.” 

«© When we think of Alfieri, we must bring 
ourselves back to his age; we must for a mo- 
ment enter into his classical views. Alfieri 
was in Italy. the last of classics; and happy was 
‘t for that school, that it could, at its close, 
shed so dazzling a light as to shroud its down- 
fall in his glory, and trouble, for a long while, 
with jealous anxiety, the triumph of its hyper- 
borean rival, —the Romantic school. 

“© When we number the greatest tragedian of 
Italy among the classics, we consider him only 
in regard to the form and style of his dramas, 
not to the spirit that dictated them. Properly 
speaking, he belonged to no school, and found- 
ed none. He stands by himself, the man of all 
ages, the man of no age. Whatever might be 
the shape which his education, or the antique 
cast of his genius, led him to prefer in his pro- 
ductions, no poet ever contributed more powet- 
fully to the reformation of the character of his 
countrymen. For that object, he only needed | 
to throw before them the model of his own 
It mattered little, whether it was 
il, or carved with the chis- 
apped up in the Roman 
Florentine cassock 


| 


character. 
drawn with the pence 
el; whether it was wr 
gown of Brutus, or in the 
of Raimondo de Pazzi. 

« Alfieri’s character 


was an anomaly in his 


age. Notwithstanding some symptoms of bold- 
ness and energy of mind shown by some of his 


contemporaries, Or his immediate predecessors, 


U 
such as Giannone or Parini, still the regenera- 
was yet merely 


tion of the Italian character 

intellectual and individual ; and Alfieri was 
born out of that class which was the last to 
feel its redeeming influence. He belonged to 
a nobility used to make day of night, and night 
of day; to divide their hours between the 
prince’s antechamber and the boudoir of the 


pape 3) N51) 


y] 


604 


reigning beauty ; to waste their energies ina 


life of insolence, idleness, and unlawful excite- 
ment. 


distinguishing himself by immediate action in 
that age, Alfieri, like many other noblemen of 
his country, was forced to throw himself on the 
last resources of literature. 

* But he had lofty ideas of its duties and in- 
fluence ; he had exalted notions of the dignity 
of man, —an ardent, though a vague and ex- 
aggerated, love of liberty, and of the manly vir- 
tues which it is wont to foster. He felt, that, 
of all branches of literature, the theatre had 
the most immediate effect on the illiterate mass 
of the people. He invaded the stage. He 
drove from it Metastasio and_ his effeminate 
heroes. He substituted dramatic for melodic 
poetry ; manly passions for enervate affections ; 
ideas for sounds. He wished to effect upon 
his contemporaries that revolution which his 
own soul had undergone; he wished to rouse 
them, to wake them from their 
of servitude, to see them 
striving, resisting. 

“To a man that wrote, actuated by such feel- 
ings, the mere form was nothing. It was only 
at the age of twenty-nine, that, tormented by 
that disease of noble minds, fame, and ground- 
ing his hopes on what he calls his ¢ determined, 
obstinate, iron will,’ he formed the resolution 
to be a tragic poet; and began his poetical ca- 
reer by resuming his long-abandoned studies 
from the very elements of grammar. 

‘He had no dramatic models before him but 
Corneille and Racine, to which he added a very 
imperfect knowledge of the ancient classics, 
‘For Shakspeare he, indeed, evinced an indefin- 
able admiration. He felt overawed by the ex- 
traordinary powers, but was deterred and dis- 
tracted by the eccentric flights, of that sovereign 
fancy. The day of Shakspeare had not yet 
dawned. The great crisis of Romanticism was 


not mature; nor was it in Alfieri’s power to 
foresee it. 


long lethargy 
thinking, willing, 


° 


“Alfieri’s poetry was sculpture. His trage- 
dies are only a group of four or five statues ; 
his characters are figures of marble, incorrupti- 
ble, everlasting ; but not flesh, nothing like flesh, 
having nothing of its freshness and hue. 

“‘He describes no scene. Those statues stand 
by themselves, isolated on their pedestals, on a 
vacant ideal stage, without background, without 
contrast of landscape or scenery ; all wrapped 
in their heroic mantles; all moving, breathing 
statues perhaps, still nothing but statues. 

‘‘ Wherever be the scene, whoever the hero, 
it is always the poet that speaks ; it is always 
his noble, indomitable soul, reproduced under 
various shapes ; it is always one and the same 
object, pursued under different points of view, 
but to which every other view is subservient ; 
the struggle between the oppressor and the 


See 


ee ere 
<= 


—_—_____ 


oS 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


‘“‘Penetrated with the utter impossibility of 


Au! where, — ah! 


Drag me by force ? 


This sword of mine, which with beloved blood 
Is reeking yet. 


oppressed. The genii of good and evil have 
waged an eternal war in his scenes. Philip, 
Creon, Gomez, Appius, and Cosmo de’ Medici, 
can equally answer his purposes as the agents 
of crime. Don Carlos, Antigone, Perez, Icilius, 
and Don Garzia, are indifferently chosen to 
stand forth as the champions of virtue.” 

The tragedies of Alfieri have been translated 
by Charles Lloyd, in three volumes, London, 
1815. 

The tragedy of “The First Brutus,”’ from 
which the following extract is taken, was dedi- 
cated to Washington in the following terms. 


““TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND FREE CITIZEN, 
GENERAL WASHINGTON. 


“Tue name of the deliverer of America alone 
can stand on the title-page of the tragedy of the 
deliverer of Rome. 

“To you, excellent and most rare citizen, I 

therefore dedicate this; without first hinting at 
even a part of the so many praises due to your- 
self, which I now deem all comprehended in 
the sole mention of your name. Nor can this 
my slight allusion appear to you contaminated 
by adulation; since, not knowing you by per- 
son, and living disjoined from you by the im- 
mense ocean, we have but too emphatically 
nothing in common between us but the love of 
glory. Happy are you, who have been able to 
build your glory on the sublime and eternal 
basis of love to your country, demonstrated by 
actions. I, though not born free, yet having 
abandoned in time my lares, and for no other 
reason than that I might be able to write loftily 
of liberty, I hope by this means at least to have 
proved what might have been my love for my 
country, if I had indeed fortunately belonged 
to one that deserved the name. In this single 
respect, I do not think myself wholly unworthy 
to mingle my name with yours. 


“ Virrorio ALFIERI. 
“Paris, 31st December, 1788.” 


FROM THE FIRST BRUTUS. 
BRUTUS AND COLLATINUS. 


COLLATINUS, 


where, O Brutus, wouldst 
thou thus 


Quickly restore to me 


In my own breast 


EBRUTUS. 


Ah! first 

This sword, now sacred, in the breast of others 
Shall be immerged, I swear to thee. Meanwhile 
’T is indispensable that in this Forum 

Thy boundless sorrow, and my just revenge, 
Burst unreservedly before the eyes 

Of universal Rome. 


, COLLATINUS. 


Ah, no! I will 
Withdraw myself from every human eye. 


ee 


To my unparalleled calamity 
All remedies are vain: the sword, this sword, 
Alone can put an end to my distress. 


BRUTUS. 

O Collatinus, a complete revenge 

Would surely be some solace ; and I swear 

To thee, that that revenge thou shalt obtain. — 
O, of a chaste and innocent Roman lady 

Thou sacred blood, to-day shalt thou cement 
The edifice of Roman liberty ! 


COLLATINUS. 
Ah! could my heart indulge a hope like this, — 
The hope, ere death, of universal vengeance ! 


BRUTUS. 

Hope ? be assured of it. At length, behold, 
The morn is dawning of the wished-for day : 
To-day my lofty, long-projected plan 
At length may gain a substance and a form. 
Thou, from a wronged, unhappy spouse, may’st 

now 
Become the avenging citizen: e’en thou 
Shalt bless that innocent blood: and then if thou 
Wilt give thy own, it will not be in vain 
For a true country shed, —a country, yes, 
Which Brutus will to-day create with thee, 
Or die with thee in such an enterprise. 


COLLATINUS. 
O, what a sacred name dost thou pronounce ! 
I, for a genuine country’s sake alone, 
Could now survive my immolated wife. 


BRUTUS. 
Ah! then resolve to live; codperate 
With me in this attempt. A god inspires me ; 
A god infuses ardor in my breast, 
Who thus exhorts me: ‘It belongs to thee, 
O Collatinus, and to thee, O Brutus, 
To give both life and liberty to Rome.” 


COLLATINUS. 
Worthy of Brutus is thy lofty hope : 
I should be vile, if I defeated it. 
Or from the impious Tarquins wholly rescued, 
Our country shall from us new life obtain, 
Or we — but first avenged — with her will fall. 


BRUTUS. 
Whether enslaved or free, we now shall fall 
Illustrious and revenged. My horrible oath 
Perhaps thou hast not well heard; the oath I 
uttered, 
When from Lucretia’s palpitating heart 
The dagger I dislodged which still I grasp. 
Deaf from thy mighty grief, thou, in thy house, 
Scarce heardest it; here once more wilt thou 
hear it, 
By my own lips, upon the inanimate corse 
Of thy unhappy immolated wife, 
And in the presence of assembled Rome, 
| More strenuously, more solemnly renewed. 
Already, with the rising sun, the Forum 
With apprehensive citizens is filled ; 


ALEIERI. 


605 


Already, by Valerius’ means, the cry 

Is to the multitude promulgated 

Of the imptous catastrophe ; the effect 

Will be far stronger on their heated hearts, 

When they behold the chaste and beauteous lady 

With her own hands destroyed. In their disdain, 

As much as in my own, shall I confide. 

But, more than every man, thou shouldst be 
present: 

Thine eyes from the distracting spectacle 

Thou may’st avert: to thy affliction this 

May be allowed; yet here shouldst thou re- 
main ; 

E’en more than my impassioned words, thy mute 

And boundless grief is fitted to excite 

The oppressed spectators to indignant pity. 


COLLATINUS. 
O Brutus! the divinity which speaks 
In thee to lofty and ferocious rage 
Hath changed my grief already. The last words 
Of the magnanimous Lucretia seem, 
In a more awful and impressive sound, 
To echo in my ears, and smite my heart. 
Can I be less inflexible to avenge, 
Than she to inflict, her voluntary death ? 
In the infamous Tarquinil’s blood alone 
Can I wash out the stigma of the name 
Common to me and them! 


BRUTUS. 

Ah! I, too, spring 

From their impure and arbitrary blood : 
But Rome shall be convinced that I *m her son, 
Not of the Tarquins’ sister; and as far 

As blood not Roman desecrates my veins, 
I swear to change it all by shedding it 

For my beloved country. — But, behold, 
The multitude increases ; hitherward 
Numbers advance ; now it is time to speak. 


BRUTUS, COLLATINUS, AND PEOPLE. 


BRUTUS. 
Romans, to me, —to me, O Romans, come! 
Great things have I to impart to you. 


PEOPLE. 


O Brutus! 
Can that, indeed, which we have heard, be true? 


BRUTUS. 

Behold! this is the dagger, — reeking yet, 
Yet warm, with the innocent blood-drops of a 
chaste 

And Roman lady, slain by her own hands. 
Behold her husband ! he is mute; yet weeps 
And shudders. Yet he lives, but lives alone 
For vengeance, till he sees by your hands torn, 
The heart torn piece-meal of that impious Sex- 
tius, 

That sacrilegious ravisher and tyrant. 
And I live yet; but only till the day, 
When, wholly disencumbered of the Tarquins, 
I see Rome free once more. 


yy2 i 


Sat nese eee 


rh a gta e 


666 


PEOPLE. 
O most unparalleled, 
Calamitous catastrophe ! 


BRUTUS., 
I see 


That all of you upon the unhappy spouse 
Have fixed your motionless and speaking eyes, 
Swimming with tears, and by amazement glazed. 
Yes, Romans, look at him ; ah, see in him, 

Ye brothers, fathers, and ye husbands, see 
Your infamy reflected! Thus reduced, 

Death on himself he cannot now inflict ; 

Nor can he life endure, if unavenged. — 

But vain, inopportune, desist from tears, 

And from astonishment. — Romans, towards me, 
Turn towards me, Romans, your ferocious looks: 
Perhaps from my eyes, ardent with liberty, 

Ye may collect some animating spark 

Which may inflame you with its fostering heat. 
I Junius Brutus am, — whom long ye deemed, 
Since I so feigned myself, bereft of reason ; 
And such I feigned myself, since, doomed to live 
The slave of tyrants, I indulged a hope 

One day to rescue, by a shock of vengeance, 
Myself and Rome from their ferocious claws. 
At length, the day, predestined by the gods, 
The hour, for my exalted scheme is come. 
From this time forth ’t is in your power to rise 
From slaves (for such ye were) tomen. I ask 
Alone to die for you; so that I die 

The first free man and citizen in Rome. 


PEOPLE. 
What have we heard? What majesty, what 
force, 
Breathe in his words! 
erless : 
Can we confront armed and ferocious tyrants? 


But we, alas! are pow- 


BRUTUS. 
Ye powerless, ye? What is it that you say? 
What! do ye, then, so little know yourselves ? 
The breast of each already was inflamed 
With just and inextinguishable hate 
Against the impious Tarquins: now, e’en now, 
Ye shall behold before your eyes displayed 
The last, most execrable, fatal proof 
Of their flagitious, arbitrary power. 
To-day to your exalted rage, the rage 
Of Collatinus, and my own, shall be 
A guide, an impulse, a pervading spirit. 
Ye have resolved on liberty ; and ye 
Deem yourselves powerless? And do you es- 
teem 
The tyrants armed? What force have they, — 
what arms ? 
The arms, the force of Romans? Who is there, 
The Roman who, that would not sooner die, _ 
Than here, or in the camp, for Rome’s Ooppres- 
sors 
Equip himself with arms ? — By my advice, 
Lucretius with his daughter’s blood aspersed, 
Hath to the camp repaired; this very moment, 
By the brave men besieging hostile Ardea 
Hath he been heard: and certainly, 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


te 


In hearing him, and seeing him, those men 

Have turned their arms against their guilty ty- 
rants, 

Or, swift in our defence, abandoning 

Their impious banners, hitherward they fly. 

The honor of the earliest enterprise 

Against the tyrants, citizens, would ye 

Consent indeed to yield to other men ? 


} 

| 

| 

| 
PEOPLE. | 

O, with what Just and lofty hardihood 1 
Dost thou inflame our breasts '— What ean we || 
fear, 

If all have the same will ? 
| 

| 


COLLATINUS. 
Your noble rage, 


Your generous indignation, thoroughly 

Recall me back to life. Nothing can I 

Express — to you, — for tears — forbid — my 
utterance ; — 

But let my sword be my interpreter : 

I first unsheathe it; and to earth I cast, 

Irrevocably cast, the useless scabbard. 

O sword, I swear to plunge thee in my breast, 

Or in the breast of kings ! — O husbands, fathers, 

Be ye the first to follow me! — But, ah! 

What spectacle is this? 


[In the farther part of the stage the body of Lucretiz 
is introduced, followed by a great multitude. 


PEOPLE. 
Atrocious sight! | 


Behold the murdered lady in the Forum! 


BRUTUS. 
Yes, Romans, fix — if ye have power do it — 
Fix on that immolated form your eyes. 
That mute, fair form, that horrible, generous 
wound, 
That pure and sacred blood, ah! all exclaim, 
‘“¢ To-day resolve on liberty, or ye 
Are doomed to death! Naught else remains! ”’ 


PEOPLE. 
Alleally 
Yes, free we all of us will be, or dead! 


BRUTUS. 
Then listen now to Brutus. — The same dagger 
Which from her dying side he lately drew, 
Above that innocent, illustrious lady 
Brutus now lifts; and to all Rome he Swears 
That which first on her very dying form 
He swore already.— While I wear a sword, 
While vital air I breathe, in Rome henceforth 
No Tarquin‘e’er shall put his foot; I swear it: 
Nor the abominable name of king, 
Nor the authority, shall any man 
Ever again possess. — May the just gods 
Annihilate him here, if Brutus is not 
Lofty. and true of heart !— Further I swear, 
Many as are the inhabitants of Rome, 
To make them equal, free, and citizens ; 
Myself a citizen, and nothing more : 
The laws alone shall have authority, 
And I will be the first to yield them homage. 


path ht ann TN ein hl ane aac sc ae hh nna tt ht CP ener: 


MONTI. 


PEOPLE. 
The laws, the laws alone! We with one voice 
To thine our oaths unite. And be a fate 
Worse than the fate of Collatinus ours, 
If we are ever perjured! 


BRUTUS. 

These, these are 

True Roman accents. Tyranny and tyrants, 
At your accordant hearty will alone, — 

All, all have vanished. Nothing now is needful, 
Except 'gainst them to close the city gates ; 
Since Fate, to us propitious, had already 
Sequestered them from Rome. 


PEOPLE. 

But you, meanwhile, 

Will be to us at once consuls and fathers ; 
You to us wisdom, we our arms to you, 
Our swords, our hearts, will lend. 


BRUTUS. 
In your august 


And sacred presence, on each lofty cause, 

We always will deliberate ; there cannot 
From the collected people’s majesty : 

Be any thing concealed. But it is just 

That the patricians and the senate bear 

A part in every thing. At the new tidings, 
They are not all assembled here: enough 
(Alas! too much so) the iron rod of power 
Has smitten them with terror: now yourselves 
To the sublime contention of great deeds 

Shall summon them. Here, then, we will unite, 
Patricians and plebeians; and by us 

Freedom a stable basis shall receive. 


PEOPLE. 
From this day forth, we shall begin to live. 


See ae ss 


VINCENZO MONTI. 


Tus poet, one of the most famous wong 
the modern Italians, was born near Fusigna- 
no, a town of Romagna, February 19th, 1754. 
His earliest years were passed under the in- 
struction of his parents, who belonged to the 
class of small landholders. He was then put 
to school in Faenza, where he learned the Lat- 
in language. He. was destined by his father 
to the labors of agriculture; but showing an 
invincible. repugnance to occupations of this 
sort, he was sent to the University of Ferrara, 
to study the law or medicine. He attempted 
in vain to interest himself in professional 
studies, and then gave himself wholly up to 
literature and poetry. His talents attracted the 
attention of Cardinal Borghese, the legate at 
Ferrara, who took him to Rome, with the elder 
Monti’s consent. Young Monti soon became 


known for his poetical talent, was elected a 
member of the Arcadia, and received the ap- 
pointment of secretary to Luigi Braschi, the 
pope’s nephew. While in this situation && «7% 


607 


tinued his studies, and, eager to emulate Alfieri, 
produced his tragedies of ‘ Aristodemo”’ and 
«¢ Galeotto Manfredi.’’ About this time, he mar- 
ried Theresa Pichler, daughter of the celebrat- 
ed artist. The murder of the French minister, 
Basseville, at Rome, gave occasion to his poem 
entitled ‘¢ Bassevilliana,”’ the style of which is 
modelled on that of Dante. This work gained 
him at once a high reputation as a poet. In 
1797, notwithstanding the Anti-gallic tone of 
his previous writings, he went to Florence with 
General Marmont, who had been sent with let- 
ters from Bonaparte to Rome, and became Sec- 
retary of the Directory of the Cisalpine Repub- 
lic. Suwarrow’s invasion of Italy, in 1799, 
compelled Monti to take refuge in France. 
He was reduced, for a time, to the most misera- 
ble state of destitution ; but the victories of 
Napoleon, after his return from Egypt, revived 
his hopes. He returned to Italy after the bat- 
tle of Marengo, and received a professorship 
in the University of Pavia, which he held 
three years, when he was invited to Milan, 
and appointed by Napoleon Assessor of the 
Ministry of the Interior, Court Poet, Knight 
of the Iron Crown, member of the Legion 
of Honor, and Historiographer of the king- 
dom. He thereupon wrote the first six cantos 
of the ‘Bardo della Selva Nera,’ which ap- 
peared in 1806. In 1805, when Napoleon was 
crowned king of Italy, he celebrated the event 
in a poem of great merit, entitled “Il Benefi- 
cio.’ On occasion of the battle of Jena, he 
wrote the triumphal ode, called “ Spada di 
Federico,” of which ten editions were sold in 
five months. He celebrated the occupation of 
Spain by the French, in the ¢ Palingenesi.”’ 
He also wrote the “‘ Jerogamia,’’ and the “6 Api 
Panacridi.” Having joined Joseph Bonaparte 


at Naples, he published the seventh canto of || 


the “Bardo.” Soon after this, he undertook 
to translate the “ Satires”? of Juvenal, and the 
«Jliad”’ of Homer. In executing the latter task, 
as he was ignorant of the'Greek, he was oblig- 
ed to avail himself of the existing literal trans- 
lations, and of the able assistance which Mus- 
toxidi, a Greek friend, disinterestedly rendered 
him. ‘These works added much to his repu- 
tation. On the downfall of Napoleon, Monti 
lost his employments ; but having written, at 
the request of the city of Milan, in 1815, a 
poem in honor of the Emperor Francis, he was 
allowed an income sufficient to enable him 
to pursue his studies. In conjunction with his 
accomplished son-in-law, Count Giulio Perti- 
cari, he engaged in a warm controversy with 
the Della Cruscans, on the question between 
the Tuscan and the Italian. He also published 
a new edition of the “Convito” of Dante. 
Returning to poetical composition, he wrote an 
idyl on the Nuptials of Cadmus. His poetic 
labors were interrupted in April, 1826, by a 
sudden stroke of apoplexy ; but he lingered on 
until 1828, and died in October of that year, 
at the age of seventy-four. 


— 


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ITALIAN POETRY. 


Of all Monti’s writings, the “ Bassevilliana” 
enjoys the greatest and widest reputation. As 


remarked above, it is founded on the murder of 


the French minister, Basseville, whose soul, 
the author supposes, is condemned to wander 
over the French provinces, and behold the des- 
olation produced by the Revolution, the death 
of Louis the Sixteenth in Paris, and the armies 
of the Holy Alliance marching toward France 
to restore the Bourbons. The poem is divided 
into four cantos of three hundred lines each, 
and, like its model, the “ Divina Commedia,” 
written in terza rima. It was translated into 
English by the Rey. Henry Boyd, London, 
1805. 


——— 


FROM THE BASSEVILLIANA., 


THE SOUL’S DOOM. 


Heri had been vanquished in the battle 
fought ; 
The spirit of the abyss in sullen mood 
Withdrew, his frightful talons clutching naught; 

He roared like lion famishing for food ; 

The Eternal he blasphemed, and, as he fled, 
Loud hissed around his brow the snaky brood. 
Then timidly each opening pinion spread 

The soul of Basseville, on new life to look, 
Released from members with his heart’s blood 
red. 

Then on the mortal prison, just forsook, 
The soul turned sudden back to gaze awhile, 
And, still mistrustful, still in terror shook. 

But the blessed angel, with a heavenly smile, 
Cheering the soul it had been his to win 
In dreadful battle waged ’gainst demon vile, 

Said, “ Welcome, happy spirit, to thy kin ! 
Welcome unto that company, fair and brave, 
To whom in heaven remitted is each sin : 

“Fear not; thou art not doomed to sip the 

wave 
Of black Avernus, which who tastes, resigned 
All hope of change, becomes the demon’s slave. 
“But Heaven’s high Justice, nor in mercy 
blind, 
Nor in severity scrupulous to gauge 
Each blot, each wrinkle, of the human mind, 

“Has written on the adamantine page 
That thou no joys of paradise may’st know, 
Till punished be of France the guilty rage. 

‘¢ Meanwhile, the wounds, the immensity of 

woe, 
That thou hast, helped to work, thou, penitent, 
Contemplating with tears, o’er earth must go: 
“‘Thy sentence, that thine eyes be ceaseless 
bent 
Upon flagitious France, of whose offence 
The stench pollutes the very firmament.” 


THE SOUL’S ARRIVAL IN PaRIs. 


Wonpenina, the spirit sees that from the eyes 
Of his angelic leader tears have gushed, 
Whilst o’er the-city streets dread silence lies, 


Hushed is the sacred chime of bells, and 
hushed 
The works of day,—hushed every various sound 
Of creaking’saw, of metal hammer-crushed. 

There fears and whisperings alone are found, 
Questionings, looks mistrustful, discontent, 
Dark melancholy that the heart must wound, 

Deep accents of affections strangely blent: 
Accents of mothers, who, foreboding ill, 

Clasp to their bosoms each loved innocent ; 

Accents of wives, who, even on the door’s sill, 
Strive their impetuous husbands to detain : 
With tears and fond entreaties urging still, 

But nuptial love and tenderness in vain 
May strive; too strong the powers of hell, I 

ween ; 
They free the consort whom fond arms enchain. 

For now, in dance ferocious and obscene, 
Are flitting busily from door to door 
A phantom band of heart-appalling mien. 

Phantoms of ancient Druids, steeped in gore, 
Are these, who, still nefariously athirst 
For blood of wretched victims, as of yore, 

To Paris throng to revel on the worst 
Of all the crimes whose magnitude has fed 
The pride of their posterity accursed. 

With human life their garments are dyed red 
And, blood and rottenness from every hair 
Dripping, a loathsome shower around them shed. 

Some firebrands, others scourges, toss i’ th’ 

air, 

Twisted of every kind of coiling snake ; 

Some sacrificial knives, some poison bear. 

Firebrands and serpents they o’er mortals 

shake ; 

And as the blow alights on brow, neck, side, 

Boils in each vein the blood, fierce passions 
wake. 

Then from their houses, like a billowy tide, 
Men rush enfrenzied, and, from every breast 
Banished, shrinks Pity weeping, terrified. 

Now the earth quivers, trampled and oppressed 
By wheels, by feet of horses and of men ; 

The air in hollow moans speaks its unrest ; 

Like distant thunder’s roar, scarce within 

ken, 
Like the hoarse murmurs of the midnight surge, 
Like north wind rushing from its far-off den. 


> 


Through the dark crowds that round the 
scaffold flock, 
The monarch see with look and gait appear 
That might to soft compassion melt a rock ; 
Melt rocks, from hardest flint draw pity’s 
tear, — 
But not from Gallic tigers: to what fate, 
Monsters, have ye brought him who loved you 
dear ! 


— 
THE PASSION OF CHRIST. 


Sap thought, that from the lorn funereal 
mount, 
Whereon a victim god thou didst behold, 
‘~Twse more returnest, with thy downcast front, 


a 


MONTI. 


Weeping vain tears! —0O, whither dost thou 
hold 

Thy wayward course, and, ’midst yon mournful 
plain, 

What scene of grief and terror dost unfold ? 

Lo! the vast hills their laboring fires unchain, 
Whilst from afar the ocean’s thunders roar ; 
Lo! the dark heavens above lament in rain 

The mortal sin; and, from her inmost core, 
Earth, tremulous and uncertain, rocks with fear, 
Lest the abyss her ancient deluge pour. 

Ah me!——revealed within my soul I hear 
Prophetic throbs, the signs of wrath divine, 
Tumultuous as though Nature’s end were near. 

I see the paths of impious Palestine ; 

I see old Jordan, as each shore he laves, 
Turbid and slow, towards the sea decline. 
Here passed the ark 0’ th’ covenant, and 
waves 
Rolled backward reverent, and their secrets 
bared, 
Leaving their gulfs and their profoundest caves. 

Here folded all the flock, whose faith repaired 

To Him, that Shepherd whom the all-hoping 
one 
’Midst woods and rocks to the deaf world de- 
clared. 

Him, after labors long, the glorious Son, 
The Lord of Nazareth, joined, and, quickly 

‘known, 
Closed what his great precursor had begun. 

Then sudden through the serene air there 

shone 
A lamp, and, lo! “This is my Son beloved!” 
From the bright cloud a voice was heard to own. 

River divine! which then electric moved 
From out thine inmost bowers to kiss those feet, 
Blessing thy waters with that sight approved : 

Tell me, where did thy waves divided meet, 
Enamoured, —and, ah! where upon thy shore 
Were marked the footsteps of my Jesus sweet? 

Tell me, where now the rose and lilies hoar, 
Which, wheresoe’er the immortal footsteps trod, 
Sprang fragrant from thy dewy emerald floor? 

Alas! thou moanest loud, thy willows nod, 
Thy gulfs in hollow murmurs seem to say, 

That all thy joy to grief is changed by God. 
Such wert thou not, O Jordan, when-the sway 

Of David’s line, along thy listening flood, 

Portentous signs from heaven confirmed each 


day. 

7 # 

Then didst thou see how fierce the savage 
brood 


Of haughty Midian and proud Moab’s line, 

Conquered and captive, on thy bridges stood. 
Then Sion’s warriors, listed round her shrine, 

Gazed from their towers of strength, and viewed 

afar 

|| The scattered hosts of the lost Philistine ; 

Whilst, terror of each giant conqueror, 

| Roared Judah’s lion, leaping in his pride, 

| ’Midst the wild pomp of their barbaric war. 


But Salem’s glory faded, as the tide 
Of waves that ebb and flow, and naught remaims 
Save a scorned word for scoffers to deride. 


ny 
if 


609 | 


The splendor of Mount Carmel treads her 
plains, 
The Saviour of lost Israel now appears, 
And faithless Sion all his love disdains. 
The Proud One would not that her prophet’s 
tears 
Should be remembered, nor the voice inspired, 
Which, wailing for her wrong, late filled Iner 
ears ; 

When, with prophetic inspiration fired, 

The cloud that forms the future’s dark disguise 
Fled, and unveiled the Lamb of God desired. 

Daughter of foul iniquity ' the guise 
Of impious Babylon did thy garment make, 
And on the light of truth sealed up thine eyes. 

But he, that God, dishonored for thy sake, 
Soon shalt thou, in omnipotent disdain, 

Behold him vengeance for his Son awake. 
Under his feet the heavens and starry irain 
Tremble and roll; the howling whirlwinds fly, 

Calling each iempest-winged burricane, 
Chanting its thunder-psalm throughout the 
sky ; 
And, filled with arrows of consuming fire, 
His quiver he hath slung upon his thigh. 

As smoke before the storm’s ungoverned ire, 
The mountains melt before his dread approach, 
The rapid eye marks not the avenging Sire ; 

Whilst, burning to remove the foul reproach, 
Now from Ausonia’s strand the troop departs 
On the inviolate temple to encroach. 

Cedron afar the murmur hears, and starts ; 
But, lifting not to heaven his trembling font, 
Through Siloa’s slender brook confounded darts. 

Now, scorning to attire with splendor wont 
Thy plains, the sun eclipses, and the brand 
God from the sheath draws on thine impious 

front. 

I see his lightnings flash upon the band 
Of armies round thy synagogue impure, 
Thine altars blazing as the fires expand ! 

I see where War, and Death, and Fear, secure 
’Midst the hoarse clang of each terrific sound, 
Gigantic stalk through falling towers obscure ! 

Like deer, when sharp the springing tigers 

bound 
Upon their timid troop, thy virgin trains 
And sires unwarlike every fane surround. 

With glaring eyeballs and distended veins, 
Forth Desperation flies from throng to throng, 
And frantic life at his own hand disdains. 

Disorder follows fast, and shrieks prolong 
The hideous tumult. Then the city falls, 
Avenging horribly her prophet’s wrong. 

Amidst the carnage, on the toppling walls, 
Howls and exults and leaps wild Cruelty, 
And priest and youth and age alike appalls. 

With naked swords, and through a blood-red 

sea, 
Flowing around the mountains of the dead, 
Victorious rides the insulting enemy. 
The flames, the buildings, temple, soon o’er- 
spread 
With divine fury, and the heavens despised 
Smile on the horror which their tempest bred. 


L—— 


Thus with foul scorn, dishonored and. dis- 
guised, 
The conquering Latin eagles bore enchained 
Jerusalem’s disloyal ark chastised ; 
And she now lies with frightful footsteps 
stained, 
Buried ’midst thorns and sand, and the hot sun 
; Scares the fierce dragon where her Judge once 
t reigned, 
4 Thus when from heaven the fatal bolt hath 
done 
Sad desolation in some glorious wood, 
Striking the boughs which upwards highest run ; 
Though scorched and burnt, still o’er its 
neighbourhood 
Majestic towers aloft the giant oak, 
As poised by its own ponderous weight it stood, 
Waiting the thunder of a second stroke. 


ta 


=~ 


IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE. 


t 

Pager Ipporiro PinprmMonTE was the descendant 
; i ca of a noble family in Verona. He was born in 
“ fr that city, November 13th, 1753. He was early 
os es ae imbued with the love of literature, and was 
. sent to complete his studies at the Collegio de’ 

Nobili in Modena. His first attempt in poe- 
toa | try was a translation of Racine’s “ Bérénice,”’ 
; which gained him great reputation. > At the 
age of twenty-four, he, made the tour of Italy, 
and extended his travels to Malta and the 
East; and, in 1788, set out on a journey 
through the North of Europe, England, and 
France. In the last named country he passed 
the greater part of 1789, living on intimate 
terms with Alfieri. Having completed his 
travels, he returned to Verona. At this pe- 
riod, he wrote a great portion of his ‘“ Poesie 
Campestri,” finished the tragedy of “ Arminio,” 
and began several other works. In 1807, he 
took up his abode in Venice, and became a 
member of the Italian Institute. His life was 
wholly occupied with the quiet pursuits of lit- 
erature. Among his best works are the lyric 
poems and epistles, which display profound 
thought and warm feelings, and exhibit traces 
of the influence of English literature, with 
which he was very familiar. He died in Vero- 
na, November 13th, 1828. His works are pub- 
lished in the Milan edition of the « Classici 
Italiani”’ ; and his “ Poesie Campestri ”’ and lyric 
poems, in the * Parnaso deel’ Italiani Viventi ”’ 


24 vols., Pisa, 1798 —1802, 12mo. 


__— 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ARMINIO. 


LAMENT OF THE AGED BARDs, 


CHORUS. 
In us the martial flame is fading ; 
Feeble our arms, our steps are slow; 
*Midst blood and death, our brethren aiding, 
No longer is it ours to go. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


FIRST BARD. 


Alas! how swift has flown 
That brightly happy age, 
When with my voice alone 
I woke the battle’s rage ! 
I, who reclined in shady mead, 
Can now but sing the hero’s deed. 


Then did this good right hand 
Oft lay the harp aside, 
To grasp the deadly brand; 
This hand, which can but glide 
Now languidly, with failing skill, 
O’er chords scarce answering to my will. 


Like the swelling wrath of a mountain river, 
That bounds, in the pride of its conscious 
power, 
So fiercely from height to height, 
That to dust the thundering waters shiver, 
Then aloft rebound in a silvery shower, 
Was my rushing in youth to the fight. 


But now, little heeding 
Mine earlier force, 
My foot is receding, 
And years in their course 
Scatter snows o’er my head. 


Though now broadly sweeping, 
The Rhine thus shall wane, 

And through swamps feebly creeping, 
Scarce lingeringly gain 


Of old Ocean the bed. 


; SECOND BARD. 

Life’s latter days are desolate and drear ; 
Man, wretched man, in early youth must die, 
Or see the tomb inclose all he holds dear. 

This world is but a vale of misery, 

Where the poor wanderer scarcely hopes to gain 
One smile for many tears of agony. 

He sees death all around extend his reign : 
Here droops a brother, sickening day by day ; 
There fades a consort; there a child lies slain. 

A grave at every step yawns in my way, 
And mine incautious foot tramples on bones 
Of friends and kindred, hastening to decay. 

And kinsmen turn to foes! O hearts, than 

stones 

More hard! throw, throw those murderous spears 
aside, * 

Whose slightest blows call forth your country’s 
groans ! 

But, if this brothers’ battle must be tried, 
May freedom’s cause with victory be crowned ! 
Or underground these hoary locks abide, 

Ere I in fetters see my country bound ! 


THIRD BARD. 
What deeds of high emprise 
Did my youth’s comrades share ! 
Feats of such lofty guise 
In later days are rare. 
Ah, those were gallant battles! those 
Were fierce encounters, deadly blows ! 


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Strong arms and hearts of flame 
These rival chiefs display ; 
But the Cheruscan name 
Declines from day to day ; 
And vainly should we bope to view 
The son his father’s fame renew. 


But even the bravest man, 
Though high ’midst heroes placed, 
Would scarce outlast his span 
Of life, by bard ungraced ; 
Nor would the stranger's earnest eye 
Ask where the honored ashes lie. 


The dazzling sun at eve, 
When sinking in the sea, 
No lasting track can leave 
Of radiance on the lea: 
Such were the proudest hero’s fate, 
Prolonged not verse his glory’s date. 


CHORUS, 
In us the martial flame is fading ; 
Feeble our arms, our steps are slow ; 
’Midst blood and death, our brethren aiding, 
No longer is it ours to go. 


— 


LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF BALDUR. 


CHORUS. 
Coxp, dark, and lowly is the bed, 
On which, unhappy youth, thy head 
Must now for ever rest ! 
But on the bard’s immortal lay 
Shall, even to time’s remotest day, 


Thy glory live impressed. 


FIRST BARD. 
Not the bird, whose melodious voice 
Erst bade thee rejoice, 

As he hailed the first blushes of morn 5 
Nor the sun shooting golden rays, 
Whose refulgent blaze 

Hut, palace, and grove adorn ; 


Nor the trumpet’s loud call to the fight, 
At whose sound with delight 

The heart of the warrior glows; 
Nor the tenderest maiden’s address, 
Nor her timid caress, 

Evermore shall disturb thy repose. 


For hers, thy. sad mother’s grief, 
What hope of relief? 

Yet deeper her anguish must prove, 
If, bewildered by sorrow, her ear 
Deem an instant to hear 

Thy footsteps, O son of her love! 


At the social board with a sigh 
She sits, for her eye 

Beholds not the face of her child ; 
Though conscious her search must be vain, 
She seeks thee with pain, 

Through thickets entangled and wild. 


A ee er 


PINDEMONTE. 


No tempest’s terrible power 
This plant scarce in flower 
Broke down with resistless force ; 
He fell like the stars, that, on high 
As they traverse the sky, 
Spontaneously shoot from their course. 


CHORUS. 

Cold, dark, and lowly is the bed, 

On which, unhappy youth, thy head 
Must now for ever rest! 

But on the bard’s immortal lay - 

Shall, even to time’s remotest day, 


Thy glory live impressed. 


SECOND BARD. 

By untimely doom, 
To great Odin’s hall 

Is a spirit come : 

Where, in that large space, 
’Mid the heroes all, 

Is the stranger’s place? 


THIRD BARD. 
A thousand damsels, clad in spotless white, 
With crowns of flowers upon their tresses fair, 
With naked arms, and scarfs of azure bright 
Around their loins, to every hero there, 
In skulls of foes subdued in earthly fight, 
Minister draughts abundant, rich, and rare. 
Thus for that chosen company combine 
Love, glory, vengeance, with the joys of wine. 


FOURTH BARD. 
Thy playmates of an earlier year, 
With thee, who by our river's side 
First bent the bow, or hurled the spear, 
Or with light foot in swiftness vied, 
Now wander with dejected eye, 
Call upon Baldur’s name, and sigh. 


Let not the story of our woe 

To hostile strangers be conveyed : 
Too much it will rejoice the foe 

To hear that he, an empty shade, 
Is idly flitting on the gale, 
In arms who turned their warriors pale. 


Upon the field of martial fame 
Too short, alas! has been thy race : 
Yet still, in characters of flame, 
Lives of that brief career the trace. 
Even upon thy mother’s knee, 
Thy soul from childishness was free. 


Thus the strong eagle’s callow brood, 
With tender talons yet untried, 

With beaks yet never dipped in blood, 
Display their nature’s inborn pride, 

By gazing with undazzled eye 

Upon the sun in noonday sky. 


CHORUS. 
Cold, dark, and lowly is the bed, 
On which, unhappy youth, thy head 


Must now for ever rest! 


Fee weg as ek I nO es 


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Shall, even to time’s remotest day, 
Thy glory live impressed. 


—§ 


NICCOLO UGO FOSCOLO. 


Tuts distinguished poet and scholar, some of 
whose works are written in English, and form 
a valuable part of English critical literature, 
was born in Zante, of a family which originated 
The date of his birth is variously 
stated, as having occurred in LID, 60, as OF 
death, his mother re- 
moved to Venice, and there Foscolo acquired 
the elementary branches of education. He 
studied afterwards at the University of Padua, 


from Venice. 


"78. After his father’s 


under Cesarotti, 


In 1797, he commenced his career as a poet 
in which he 
imitated the simplicity of Alfieri and the Greeks. 
merit, was re- 
ceived at the time, on account of the political 
allusions it was supposed to contain, and the 
youth of the author, with unbounded enthusi- 
The attention of the government being 
attracted to him by these circumstances, he found 
it prudent to leave Venice, and retired to Flor- 
ence. He then went to Milan, the capital of the 
so called Cisalpine Republic, where he took an 
earnest and active part in the political agitations 
Here he fell in love with a 
young Roman lady of uneommon beauty, and 
described his passion in a work entitled « Let- 
tere di due Amanti,” which was the basis of 
the later and more celebrated production, the 
He joined 
, accompanied the govern- 
ment of the Cisalpine Republic when they 
, and endured with the rest 
of the nine months’ siege of 


with the tragedy of « Tieste,”’ 


This work, though of no great 


asm, 


of the times. 


“ Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis.” 
the Lombard legion 


retreated to Genoa 
all the hardships 
that city, during which, however, he composed 
several of his poems. On the surrender of the 
city, in June, 1800, Foscolo went with the 
other members of the republie to Antibes. He 
remained there but a short time. Napoleon’s 
return from Egypt changed the face of Italian 
affairs, and Foscolo was restored to Milan, and 
about this time wrote the « Letters of Jacopo 
Ortis,”” which produced a great sensation among 
his countrymen. In 1802, he composed an ora- 
tion addressed to Bonaparte, remarkable chiefly 
for the pomp and pedantry of its style. When 
Napoleon formed the camp at Boulogne with 
the purpose of invading England, the division 
of the Itulian army to which Foscolo belonged 
constituted a portion of the assembled forces, 
He held the rank of captain in the staff of Gen- 
eral Tullia, and was stationed with his division 
at Saint Omer, where he began the study of 
the English language. 

In 1805, he returned to Italy, and for some 
time resided in Brescia, where he wrote « Dej 
Sepoleri Carme,’” the most admired of his 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


But on the bard’s immortal lay . 


With all those wiles that wake again 
Each mother’s fears, and lover’s keener pain, 


= ae nll lat Bice panda tasstiiy dick pase ae Ate ctl 


poems, and a translation of a part of the ¢T]- 
iad.” In 1808, he was appointed Professor of 
Eloquence in Pavia ; but the professorship being 
abolished a year afterwards, he retired to the 
Borgo di Vico, on Lake Como, and resumed his 
poetical occupations. Here he became intimately 
acquainted with the family of an accomplished 
nobleman, Count Giovio, whose society helped 
to dissipate the gloom and melancholy which at 
times overshadowed him. The lively daughter 
of the count wittily called Foscolo a sentiment. 
al thunderbolt.”” While residing at the Borgo 
di Vico, he wrote the tragedy of “ Ajax,” which 
was brought out at Milan, but proved an entire 
failure. He went afterwards to Florence, where 
he was well received, and wrote the tragedy 
of “La Ricciarda,” — also unsuccessful, — and 
about the same time published his “Hymn to 
the Graces.”’ 

Soon after the overthrow of Napoleon, and 
the transfer of Lombardy to Austria, he left his 
home, went to Switzerland, and lived two years 
in Zorioh.!. In 1815 he..menketa England, 
and was hospitably received by the leading lib- 
erals, and by the most eminent literary men in 
London. Here he wrote many articles in the 
principal journals, and took part in the famous 
discussion about the Digamma ; from which cir- 
cumstance, he gave to the cottage he afierwards 
built and occupied in Regent’s Park the name of 
Digamma Cottage. He also delivered a course 
of lectures on Italian literature, which brought 
him in a thousand pounds. But his imprudences 
and extravagance soon involved him in great 
pecuniary embarrassments, which harassed him 
during the rest of his life. His “Essays on 
Petrarch,” an admirable work, was published in 
London in 1821, and his « Discorso sul Testo 
di Dante,” a valuable piece of criticism, ap- 
peared in 1826. He died, September 10th, 
1827, in a cottage he had taken at Turnham 
Green, in the neighbourhood of London. 


TO LUIGIA PALLAVICINI, 


As when forth beams from ocean’s caves 
The star to Love’s own mother dear ; 
Her dew-bespangled tresses waves, 
Scattering the night-shades dun and drear, 
And far illumes her heavenly way 
With light poured from the eternal founts of day: 


So Beauty from the curtained couch, 
Her charms divine, and features rare, 
More lovely with the shadowing teuch 
Of sorrow that yet lingers there, 
Revives, —and radiant glads our eyes, 
Still, sweetest soother of man’s woe-born sighs, 


Soon, like the roses on thy cheek, 
The buds of joy again unfold, — 

Those large dark eyes, so wild, yet meek, — 
Bewitching smiles and looks untold, — 


The Hours that late hung o’er thee, sad, — 
The ministers of sighs and pain, — 
Bring thee fresh charms, with splendor clad, 
’Mid Eastern state and jewelled train ; 
On bracelets, gems, and rings out shine 
The sculptured gods, in godlike Greek design. 


Charms of more sovereign power you share, — 
The tragic fiction’s stirring theme ; 
In whose rich chorus, seen most fair, 
Thou, goddess, art the youth’s fond dream, 
Who, gazing, checks the magic dance, 
To drink soft pain and rapture from thy glance. 


Or when thou wak’st the soul of song 
That slumbers in thy harpstrings wild, 
Or with heaven’s witcheries sweep’st along 
The aisles of holier music mild, 
Or gladd’st the dance with rapturous tone, — 
'T is still thy voice, in murmured sighs we own. 


If peril here for lovers be, 
What when thou weav’st the airy dance, 
Yielding thy form of symmetry 
To grace, — while beams thy sunny glance 
Through thy loose veil; — and, O, thy neck and 
hair 
Shine forth in loveliness and beauty rare ! 


See! from her graceful headdress slow 
Escape those tresses fragrant, bright, — 
Ambrosial locks, that lovely flow 
From ‘neath their‘rosy garland light, 
Whose flowers were April's early token 
Of joy and health and dreams of bliss unbroken. 


Handmaids of pleasure and of love, — 
Thus woo you, fluttering near, 
The envied Hours, where’er you move: 
And let the Graces here 
Frown on him who beauty’s balm 
And life’s swift flight recalls, and death’s deep 
calm. 


Mortal. goddess, guide and queen 
Of the ocean’s virgin train, — 
On Parrhasian mount was seen 
Chaste Artemis, o’er the plain, 
The forest’s terror, chasing far 
Her prey with sounding bow, in sylvan war. 


Old Fame hath given her birth divine ; 
Olympian offspring, goddess fair, — 
Hers the fount, and sacred shrine, 
Elysian ; hers the mountain air, 
Chasing the wild deer of the wood, 
With fate-winged dart, o’er hill and vale and 
flood. 


And altars to that goddess rose, — 
Bellona, once the Amazon ; 
Hers the gis; round her brows 
Palms wreathed by vocal Helicon : 
Her Gorgon terrors now she rears, 
To shake the British shores, and measure hos- 
tile spears. 


hla GRP a iP 7a ale a 
 —————— 


FOSCOLO.—MANZONI. 


And she, whose image now thy hands 
With sacred myrtle-boughs adorn, 
Devoted, lovely, seems to stand . 
Benignant as the rosy morn : 
But ’midst thy household deities dost thou, 
Sole priestess, stand arrayed with beauty on thy 
brow! 


She, the queen of Cyprus’ isle, 
And sweet Cythera, where the spring 
For ever odorous reigns, — where smile 
Those wood-crowned isles, whose bold sides 
fling 
The Ionian waves and east winds back, 
Which urge the white sails on their far-borne 
track. 


First cradled was I in that sea, 
Whence the bright spirit earthless flew 
Of Phaon’s girl ;—the night-wind free, 
Oft as it stirs those waters blue, 
Most gently murmurs to the lonely shore, 
With plaintive voice which woful lovers’ spirits 
pour. 


I hear, I feel the sacred air, — 
My native air of love and fire, — 
And wake the Molian chords to share 
Their music with that deep-toned lyre 
Ausonian, till their vows to thee, 
Beauty divine, Love’s votaries long decree : 


—— 


ALESSANDRO MANZONI. 


Auessanpro Manzoni, distinguished as a 
lyrist, tragic poet, and novelist, was born at 
Milan, in 1784. He belongs to a noble family, 
and his mother was the daughter of the cele- 
brated Marquis Beccaria. When very young, 
he showed his poetical talent in the ¢ Versi 
Sciolti’’ on the death of his foster-father, Im- 
bonati. In 1810, appeared his ‘ Inni Sacri,” 
in which he created a new species of Italian 
lyric poetry. His tragedies have placed him 
at the bead of the living Italian dramatists. 
His tragedy, “11 Conte di Carmagnola,”’ writ- 
ten in eleven-syllable iambics, published in 
1820, made a great sensation, not only in Italy, 
but in Germany and England. This was fol- 
lowed by the “ Adelchi,’? which appeared in 
1823. In both of these pieces he has thrown 
off the restraints of the French school, and used 
the chorus with great lyrical effect. His ode 
on the death of Napoleon, entitled “ Il Cinque 
Maggio,” is the best known of his miscellane- 
ous pieces. It has been several times translated 
into English. His excellent novel, ‘*I Promessi 
Sposi,”’ appeared at Milan in 1827. It has been 
translated into most of the languages of Europe, 
and holds the highest rank among the Italian 
romances. Theological subjects have of late 


withdrawn Manzoni from poetry. 
ZZ 


IL CINQUE MAGGIO. 


H was. — As motionless as lay, 

First mingled with the dead, 

The relics of the senseless clay, 

Whence such a soul had fled, — 

The Earth astounded holds her breath, 

Struck with the tidings of his death ; 
She pauses the last hour to see 

Of the dread Man of Destiny ; 

Nor knows she when another tread, 

Like that of the once mighty dead, 

Shall such a footprint leave impressed 

As his, in blood, upon her breast. 


I saw him blazing on his throne, 

Yet hailed him not: by restless fate 

Hurled from the giddy summit down ; 

Resume again his lofty state : 

Saw him at last for ever fall, 

Still mute amid the shouts of all: 
Free from base flattery, when he rose ; 

From baser outrage, when he fell : 

Now his career has reached its close, 

My voice is raised, the truth to tell, 

And o’er his exiled urn will try 

To pour a strain that shall not die. 


From Alps to Pyramids were thrown 

His bolts, from Scylla to the Don, 

From Manzanares to the Rhine, 

From sea to sea, unerring hurled; 

And ere the flash had ceased to shine, 

Burst on their aim, —and shook the world. 
Was this true glory ? — The high doom 

Must be pronounced by times to come: 

For us, we bow before His throne, 

Who willed, in gifting mortal clay 

With such a spirit, to display 

A grander impress of his own. 


His was the stormy, fierce delight 
To dare adventure’s boldest scheme ; 
The soul of fire, that burned for might, 
And could of naught but empire dream; 
And his the indomitable will 
That dream of empire to fulfil, 

And to a greatness to attain 
"T were madness to have hoped to gain: 
All these were his; nor these alone i— 
Flight, victory, exile, and the throne ; — 
Twice in the dust by thousands trod, 
Twice on the altar as a god. 


Two ages stood in arms arrayed, 

Contending which should victor be : 

He spake : — his mandate they obeyed, 

And bowed to hear their destiny. 

He stepped between them, to assume 

The mastery, and pronounce their doom , 
Then vanished, and inactive wore 

Life’s remnant out on that lone shore. 

What envy did his palmy state, 

What pity his reverses move, 

Object of unrelenting hate, 

And unextinguishable love! 


ITALIAN POETRY. 
i 


As beat innumerable waves 

O’er the last floating plank that saves 

One sailor from the wreck, whose eye 

Intently gazes o’er the main, 

Far in the distance to descry 

Some speck of hope, — but all in vain; 
Did countless waves of memory roll 

Incessant, thronging on his soul: 

Recording, for a future age, 

The tale of his renown, 

How often on the immortal page 

His hand sank weary down! 


Oft on some sea-beat cliff alone 
He stood, — the lingering daylight gone, 
And pensive evening come at last, — 


With folded arms, and eyes declined ; 
While, O, what visions on his mind 
Came rushing — of the past! 


The rampart stormed,—the tented field, — 


His eagles glittering far and wide, — 
His columns never taught to yield, — 
His cavalry’s resistless tide, 
Watching each motion of his hand, 
Swift to obey the swift command. 


Such thoughts, perchance, last filled his breast, 


And his departing soul oppressed, 
To tempt it to despair ; 
Till from on high a hand of might 
In mercy came to guide its flight 
Up to a purer air, — 
Leading it, o'er hope’s path of flowers, 
To the celestial plains, 
Where greater happiness is ours 
Than even fancy feigns, 
And where earth’s fleeting glories fade 
Into the shadow of a shade. 


Immortal, bright, beneficent, 
Faith, used to victories, on thy roll 
Write this with joy; for never bent 
Beneath death’s hand a haughtier soul ; 
Thou from the worn and pallid clay 
Chase every bitter word away, 

That would insult the dead : 
His holy crucifix, whose breath 
Has power to raise and to depress, 
Send consolation and distress, 
Lay by him on that lowly bed 
And hallowed it in death. 


CHORUS FROM THE CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 


Harx ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s 


sound ; 


A loud, shrill trumpet from the left replies : 
Ou every side hoarse echoes from the ground 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors 


rise, 
Hollow and deep, — and banners all around 
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies: 


Here steel-clad bands in marshalled order shine, 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 


se ee ey 


Lo! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanished, hid from closing groups of foes ; 
| Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the 
fight, 
And the strife deepens, 
flows! 
O, who are these ? What stranger in his might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose ? 
What patriot hearts have nobly vowed to save 
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? 


and the life-blood 


One race, alas! these foes, one kindred race, 
Were born and reared the same fair scenes 
among ! 
The stranger calls them brothers, — and each 
face 
That brotherhood reveals; one common 
tongue 
Dwells on their lips ; — the earth on 
trace 
Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence 
they sprung. 
One mother gave them birth, this chosen land, 
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guar- 
dian hand. 


which we 


O, grief and horror! who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast a sword to wield? 
What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare, 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field ? 
Think’st thou they know? — They but inflict 
and share 
Misery and death, the motive unrevealed : 
Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, 
With him they strive, they fall, — and 
why. 


ask not 


But are there none who 
none, 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush be- 
tween, 

And win with tears the husband and the son 
Back to his home from this polluted scene ? 
And they, whose hearts, when life’s bright day 

is done, 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, 
Thoughts of the tomb,—why cannot they assuage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age? 


love them ? Have they 


Ask not! — The peasant at his cabin door 
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts the horizon, menacing to pour 

Destruction down o’er fields he hath not 
ploughed : 
Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar 
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o’er the slain, 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 


There may’st thou mark the boy, with earnest 
gaze 

Fixed on his mother’s lips, intent to know 

By names of insult those whom future days 

Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest 


foe. 


eee 


MANZONI. 


The invader comes! 


615 


There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, 

By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, 

From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 


Woe to the victors and the vanquished, woe! 

The earth is heaped, is loaded with the slain ; 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow ; 

A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain. 
But from the embattled front already, lo! 

A band recedes, —it flies, —all hope is vain 3 
And vernal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 


As the light grain disperses in the air, 
Borne by the winnowing of the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquished, in their wild despair, 
Chased, severed, scattered, o’er the ample 
ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, 
Burst on their flight, — and hark! the deep- 
ening sound 
Of fierce pursuit! __ still nearer and more near, 


The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear! 


The day is won 1 they fall, —disarmed they | 
yield, 
Low at the conquerors 
ing! 
’Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field, 
Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? 
Haste! let the tale of triumph be revealed ! 
F’en now the courier to his steed is flying ; 
He spurs, —he speeds, — with tidings of the day 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 


feet all suppliant ly- 


Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, 
O eager multitudes, around him pressing,— | 


Each hurrying where ‘his breathitess courser || 
foams, 
Each tongue, each eye infatuate hope confess- | 
ing? 
Know ye not whence the ill-omened herald 
comes, 


And dare ye dream he comes with words of 
blessing ? — 
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold ! — 
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told. 


I hear the voice of joy, the exulting cry! 
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral 
strains ; 
F’en now the homicides assail the sky 
With pzans, which indignant Heaven dis- 
dains ! — 
But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye 
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined 
plains, 
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
Numbers the mighty stretched in death below. 


Haste, haste, — your triumphs and your joys 
suspending ! 
your banners raise anew } 


Haste! from your lines again, ye brave and true! | 
Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending ! | 


* 


q 


btanayeemasiedsa-aiteesnpamsanenntsuenemninnensierenie eee ee ee i =I 
epi Be 2 Sree ae : ——————— 


Pais TRY, 


ibe a iC, ee Os 
616 ITALIAN 
Victors, why pause ye? Are ye weak and 
f few ? — 
Ay! such he deemed you; and for this de- 
scending, 


He waits you on the field ye know too well, — 
| The same red war-field where your brethren 
| fell. 

O thou devoted land, that canst not rear 
In peace thy offspring ! thou, the lost and won, 
|| The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 

Too narrow still for each contending son ! 
|| Receive the stranger in his fierce career, 

Parting thy spoils! thy chastening has begun! 
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, 
Foes, whom thou ne’er hadst wronged, sit proud- 
ly at thy board ! 


| Are these infatuate too? — OQ, who hath known 
A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blessed ? 
The wronged, the vanquished, suffer not alone ; 
| Brief is the joy that swells the oppressor’s 
| breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown, 
Though yet Heaven’s vengeance spare his 
haughty crest ? 
Well hath it marked him,—and decreed the 
hour, 
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its 
power. 


Are we not creatures of one hand divine, 
Formed in one mould, to one redemption 
born, -— 
Kindred alike, where’er our skies may shine, 
Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn? 
Brothers, —one bond around our souls should 
twine ; 
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn, 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to 
earth, 
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth ! 


——_@—— 


GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI. 


Tuis poet of liberalism jn Italy was born 
near Pisa, December 31st, 1786. He belongs 
to a noble Florentine family, and is a descend- 
ant of Filicaja, by the mother’s side. He stud. 
ied first in Florence, and afterwards at the Uni- 
versity of Pisa, where he took his degree in 
Jurisprudence, and then devoted himself to the 
study of classical literature. He was then ap- 
pointed Professor of History and Mythology in 
the Academy of the Fine Arts at Florence, and 
wrote several valuable discourses on the gsub- 
jects of his professorship. But though his prose 
works are written in an elegant and vigorous 
style, his inclination led him decidedly to dra- 
matic poetry. His first tragedy, “ Polyxena,” 
was crowned with the prize of the Della Crus. 
can Academy, in 1810. This was followed by 
the “Ino e Themisto,”’ « Medea,”’ « Mathilde,”’ 


a 


and ‘ Antonio Foscarini.” This last tragedy, 
taken from a well known passage in Venetian 
history, was received with great enthusiasm, and 
established Niccolini’s reputation. His ‘ Gio- 
vanni da Procida’’ was performed at Florence 
in 1830; ‘Ludovico il Moro” appeared in 
1834; and “ Rosmunda” in 1839. His works, 
in three volumes, containing the tragedies, the 
written lyrical poems, and prose essays, ‘were 
published in Florence, in 1831. 


_— 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF NABUCCO, 


NABUCCO. 
Hence, trembling slaves! I do not pardon you, 
But scorn to punish. 
[The Senate withdraws. 
ARSACES, 
Murder me thou may’st, 
But not debase. 


NABUCCO. ~ 
Thou hop’st such glorious death 
In vain. — I with thy blood pollute my sword? 


ARSACES, 
"T were for thine arm a novel enterprise. 
As yet thou hast but shed the blood of slaves. 


NABUCCO. 
And what art thou, Assyrian ? 


ARSACES. 
I deserve 


A different, kingless country. 


NABUCCO, 


So! A rebel! 


é 


ARSACES, 
Such were I, ’midst thy slaves a jocund flatterer 
Thou hadst beheld me, bending low my head 
Before the worshipped throne; and in thy power 
I thus might share. Thou with their fears didst 
bargain, 
That made thee king, and that maintain thee 
tyrant. 


NABUCCO., 
Bethink thee, if this sword, on which the fate 
Of Asia hangs, strike not rebellious slaves, 
Thousands of weapons wait upon my word. 


ARSACES. 
Then why delay’st thou? 
lieved thee 
Worthy to hear the truth. 
So gross an error. 


Call them. —I be- 


Do thou chastise 


NABUCCO. 
He who on this earth 
No equal knows may tolerate thy boldness, 
Say on. 


. ARSACES. 
Wert thou a vulgar tyrant, hung not 
Assyria’s fate on thee, Arsaces then 
Could slay or scorn thee. I, who in thy ranks 


SS eee = 


et 


FSD SCID SAE lS ERE EP OA I ae ct 


ec ak TE 


NICCOLINI.~PELLICO. 


Have fought, have seen thee general and soldier, | Slavery, to him who has lived free, is shame. 


And on the battle-field a god in arms 

Admired, upon the throne abhor thee. 
NABUCCO. 

Of liberty what talk’st thou to the king? 

In me our country dwells; then speak of me. 


ARSACES. 
To thee I speak, Nabucco; to thy fortune 
Others have spoken. Asia’s ills thou seest, — 
Not thine. The sea of blood deluging earth 
Touches thy throne ; it totters ; dost not feel it? 
For us I ask not pity ; on thyself, 
Nabucco, have compassion. 


NABUCCO, 
Did I prize 
My power above my 
And you in chains. 


fame, I were at peace, 


ARSACES. 


The founder thou wouldst be 

Of a new empire, and a high emprise 

This seems to thy ferocious pride. Thou rt great, 
If thou succeed; if in the attempt thon fall, 
Audacious. Well I know that splendid ruins 
To man yield glory, but not genuine fame. 


NABUCCO. 
I upon victory would found mine empire, 
Not owe it to the charity of kings. 
Assyria, conquered, boasts not as her monarch 
Nabucco, Omthis head my crown must blaze 
With all the terrors of its former brightness, 
Or there be crushed. Wherefore chose not 
Assyria 
Her king amongst the unwarlike Magi? Then, 
When to this hand, trained but to wield the 
sword, 
The sceptre she committed, she pronounced 
Her preference of glory to repose. 
Is glory ever bloodless? Would ye now 
Return to your effeminate studies, ply 
The distaff, break our arms? Who my reverses 
Could not support never deserved my fortune. 


If I am vanquished, to unwarlike leaders, 

To venal satraps, Asia must be slave. 

Whom seest thou on the throne worthy a throne? 

Where is the crown on which I have not tram- 
pled? 


ARSACES, 
To me dost thou recall the arts of kings, 
And vileness? To Arsaces such a crime 
Royalty seems, that scarce could he in thee 
Forgive it, did thy virtue match thy valor. 
But is ’t the sole reward of 80 much_blood, 
That we may choose our tyrant, and our sons 
Be born to a new yoke? 


; NABUCCO. 
My reign attests 
That ye were free. 


ARSACES, 


O, direst lot of slaves! 
78 


| 


But why my wounds reopen? I address not 

The citizen, ’t is to the king I speak. 

To thee Assyria has given her crimes, 

Her valor, virtue, rights, and fortune. Rich 

Art thou through ancient ills, rich in her wealth. 

The harvest of the past, the future’s hopes, 

Are placed in thee. aor 

The urn of fate God to thy powerful hand 

Committed, and forsook the earth. But was ’t 

Guerdon or punishment? Heavens! Dar’st thou 
stake 

The world’s last hope on doubtful battle? now, 

When in the tired Assyrian courage flags, 

And fair pretexts are wanting, other sons 

Demand of mothers, wrapt in mourning weeds, 

With tear-dimmed eyes? For what should we 
now battle? 

Cold are our altars or o’erthrown, the gods 

Uncertain ; slain or prisoners our sons ; 

Not e’en their graves are given to our affliction ; 

The Scythian snows conceal our brave Assyri- 
ans ; 

And our ancestral monuments are buried 

Beneath the ruins of our temples. Say, 

What should the Assyrian now defend? 


NABUCCO. 
His crimes ! 


I with my dazzling glory fill the throne, 

Hiding the blood with which by you ‘t was 
stained. 

'T will redden if I fall, and for revenge 

Call on your murdered sovereign’s servile heir, 

Ay, and obtain it. But, with minds unstable, 

Ye look for pardon of past crimes, of new ones 

For recompense. 


ARSACES. 
Nor fear nor hope are mine. 
His sword secures Arsaces from all kings. 


—+o— 


SILVIO PELLICO. 


Sitvio Prexrico, known to all the world by 
the beautiful history of his imprisonment in the 
Spielberg, was born in 1789, at Saluzzo, in 
Piedmont. Encouraged by his father, who had 
gained reputation by his lyrical compositions, 
he wrote verses in early youth. At the age 
of sixteen, he went to Lyons, where his sister 
had married. Foscolo’s poem, “I Sepolcri,” 
reawakened his love of country to such a de- 
gree, that he returned forthwith to Italy. He 
lived at Milan, in the family of Count Luigi 
Porro Lambertenghi, whose children he in- 
structed. His tragedies of “ Laodicea”’ and 
‘¢ Francesca da Rimini” gave him an_honora- 
ble rank among the Italian poets. The asso- 
ciations which he enjoyed with the scholars 
and writers who were aiming at the regenera- 
tion of Italy led to the establishment of the 


journal entitled “¢T] Conciliatore,” in which 
ZZ 2 


a 


617 


i  , 


i 


i} 


iin, 
a ae 


——— eng te = 


ed, as well as Manzoni’s “ Conte dij 
la ”)? 
offensive to the government, 
others, 


to imprisonment in the 


the judges had sentenced him. 
infliction, of ten 
known. He was released 


mitted to return to. Turin. His 


tragedies appeared at Turin, in 1832. 
are entitled, 


oniero da Dertona,”’ and « Erodiade.”’ 


in 1836. 


—_———. 


CANZONE, WRITTEN IN PRISON. 


Tue love of song what can impart 
To the lone captive’s sinking heart ? 
Thou Sun! thou fount divine 

Of light! the gift is thine! 


O, how, beyond the gloom 

That wraps my living tomb, 

Through forest, garden, mead, and grove, 
All nature drinks the ray 

Of glorious day, — 

Inebriate with love! 


The jocund torrents flow 

To distant worlds that owe 

Their life to thee! 

And if a slender ray 

Chance through my bars to stray, 

And pierce to me, 

My cell, no more a tomb, 

Smiles in its caverned gloom, — 
_As nature to the free! 


If scarce thy bounty yields 
To these ungenial fields 

The gift divine, 

O, shed thy blessings here, 
Now while in dungeon drear 
Italians pine! 


Thy splendors faintly known, 
Sclavonia may not own 

For thee the love 

Our hearts must move, 

Who from our cradle learn 
To adore thee, and to yearn 
With passionate desire 

(Our nature’s fondest prayer, 
Needful as vital air) 
To see thee, or expire. 


Pellico’s « Eufemio di Messina” was first print- 
Carmagno- 
The liberal tone of these productions was 
and Pellico, with 
was arrested on the 13th of October, 
1820. After severe investigations and long pro- 
tracted delays, Pellico was finally condemned 
Spielberg, as a com- 
mutation of the punishment of death, to which 
The details of 
his sufferings, while undergoing this barbarous 
years’ duration, are universally 
in 1830, and per- 
works were 
published in Padua, in two volumes, 1831, and 
at Leipsic, in one volume, 1834. Three new 
They 
‘““Gismondo da Mendrisio,” « Le- 
A very 
correct and elegant translation of “Le Mie 
Prigioni ’’— as he entitled the history of his 
imprisonments — was published at Cambridge, 


q 


~ 


Beneath my native, distant sky, 

The captive’s sire and mother sigh ; 

O, never there may darkling cloud 

With veil of circling horror shroud 

The rising day ; 

But thy warm beams, stil] glowing bright, 
Enchant their hearts with joyous light, 
And charm their grief away! 


SS 


TOMMASO SGRICCI. 


Tommaso Sericcr has been called the first 
of modern improvvisatores. Among his extem- 
porary productions, “* La Morte di Carlo I.” and 
“L’ Ettore” were taken down by short-hand 
writers, and published in Florence, in 1825. 
“La Morte di Carlo I.’ was improvvisated at 
Paris, in the presence of the principal men of 
letters in that capital. 

In one of the notes to the fourth canto of 
‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” Lord Byron re- 
lates the following anecdote. “In the autumn 
of 1816, a celebrated improvvisatore exhibited 
his talents at the opera-house of Milan. The 
reading of the theses handed in for the subjects 
of his poetry was received by a very numerous 
audience, for the most part, in silence, or with 
laughter; but when the assistant, unfolding 
one of the papers, exclaimed, ‘The apotheosis 
of Victor Alfieri,’ the whole theatre burst into 
a shout, and the applause was continued for 
some moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri; 
and the Signor Sgrieci had to pour forth his 
extemporary commonplaces on the bombard- 
ment of Algiers. — The choice, indeed,”’ the poet 
goes on to remark, ‘is not left to accident quite 
so much as might be thought, from a first view 
of the ceremony; and the police not only takes 
care to look at the papers beforehand, but, in 
case of any prudential afterthought, steps in to 
correct the blindness of chance. The proposal 
for deifying Alfieri was received with immedi- 
ate enthusiasm, the rather because it was con- 
jectured there would be no opportunity of car- 
rying it into effect.” 


—_———. 


FROM LA MORTE DI CARLO I. 


ISABELLA, 
My queen, behold, the day of triumph ripens ! 
Behold the moment of our victory ! 
The faithful bands of Douglas fill the city ; 
Impetuously rushing on the palace, 
Soon from death’s satellites they ’ll snatch the 

king. 

HENRIETTA. 
My gentle friend, the throbbings of my heart 
Speak other language. Into thy true breast, 
O, let me pour the terror that subdues me! 
I dare not tell my husband. "T were too cruel 
To add imaginary pains to his, 
So many and so real. Tron souls 


iE 
ITALIAN POETRY. 


3 GRICCI.—MISCELLANEOUS. 619 | 


Vileotieneermetes | tee i ae 


Have they who joy to enhance the afflicted’s | Has tearfully on my sad image dwelt, 


SOrrows 5 Placed in the palace of thine ancestors. | 
Yet of this hidden torture I, perforce, Once Scotland’s queen was I, and of the fair 
Must ease my heart. Was fairest deemed by an admiring world. 

The thought, the sigh, of every royal heart, 
ISABELLA. Of each exalted soul, I was. I saw 
Speak on, my queen. No bliss Flashing upon my brow three kingdoms’ crowns, 
Has earth for me like tempering thy tears, And gloried in ’t, and my presumptuous folly 
By mingling them with mine, In youthfulness bewildered me. From God 
I turned away, wandering deliriously 
’ HENRIETTA. In worldly paths. Thus long from precipice 

Hither returning, i ‘ To precipice I strayed, — lost my heart’s peace, 
Weary and panting with the tedious way, Mine own esteem, — and all, — all, save that 
And quite subdued by tenderness and pity, virtue, 
Which, as I met my consort, woke within me, | Which, buried in the inmost heart, awaits 
Almost resistlessly mine eyelids closed. Fit place and season o’er the conquered senses 
Yet doubtfully, and scarcely closed they were, Her empire to recover. In my heart 
Ere shaken were the curtains of my bed, — She spoke, misfortune her interpreter. — 
Shaken and opened. Then me seemed, —~me | Me this abhorrent land received. A dungeon, || 

seemed, For twenty winters, was my palace. Then i: 
Or ’t was so, —that before me present stood She said; and pausing, grasped with both her |} 
A royal dame, of countenance majestic hands : 
As melancholy. Brow, and eyes, and hair Her beauteous head, from off her beauteous neck 
That hung dishevelled, shone resplendently Lifted, and placed it in my hands. 
In mystic light. Hast thou observed the moon 
With a circumfluous white crown in heaven ? ISABELLA. 
Such she appeared. She looked on me, and O, horror ' 

smiled HENRIETTA. 
A smile of anguish. So, ’twixt clouds and rain, | Soul-stricken by the terrors of the vision, 
Glimmers a pallid sunbeam. Then my hand I started from my pillow, and mine eyes 
She took, to her unmoving gelid breast Bent on my husband’s picture. To the neck |! 
Pressing it; and my heart throbbed at the touch It was illumined by the sun's glad beam : \ 
With deathly palpitation. Thus she spoke : The head was wrapt in shadow, and appeared : 
Lady, perchance in early youth thine eye As from the shoulders it were separated. 


DI LILLIE 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS IN THE ITALIAN DIALECTS. 


CALABRIAN. Then peace was spread throughout the land; 
—_— The lion fed beside the tender lamb ; 
POPULAR SONG. And with the kid, 


To pasture led, 

The spotted leopard fed ; 

In peace the calf and bear, 

The wolf and lamb, reposed together there. 


I saw a tigress in ‘a woodland dell, 
And at my grief the monster’s fury slept ; 
Where drop by drop my tears of anguish fell, 
The marble rude was softened as I wept ;— 
But thou, that art a creature young and pretty, 


Dost laugh at griefs which move even stones As shepherds watched their flocks by night, 


An angel, brighter than the sun’s own light, 


acelange Appeared in air, 
: And gently said, 
NEAPOLITAN. «“ Fear not, — be not afraid, — 
For, lo! beneath your eyes, 
CHRISTMAS CAROL. Earth has become a smiling paradise.” 
Wren Christ was born in Bethlehem, 
'T was night, but seemed the noon of day ; SOLDIER’S SONG. 
The stars, whose light 
Was pure and bright, “© Wuo knocks, — who knocks at my door, — 
Shone with unwavering ray 5 Who knocks, and who can it be? "i 
But one, one glorious star “Thy own true lover, betrothed for ever ; 


Guided the Eastern Magi from afar. So open the door to me.” 


= <= —— - ll! 


NE ea ia 2 A a eo pO SN PT STS EE a i Bia ap Re es 


q 


aw 
— 


eh ae Bn 
OS SRI amet as a 


620 


** My mother is not at home, 
So I cannot open to thee,” 

‘Why make me wait so long at the gate? 
For mercy’s sake open to me.” 


‘Thou canst not come in so late ; 
From the window I ’!I listen to thee.” 


So open the door to me.”’ 


Lie 
ee 
eg 


SONG. 
One morning, on the seashore as I strayed, 


I asked of yonder mariners, who said 
They saw it in thy bosom, — worn by thee. 
And I am come to seek that heart of mine, 
For I have none, and thou, alas! hast two ; 


—_——— 


FLORENTINE. 


en 


FRUM THE TANCIA OF MICHEL ANGELO. 


Ir I am fair, ’t is for myself alone; 

I do not wish to have a sweetheart near me, 
Nor would I call another’s heart my own, 

Nor have a gallant lover to revere me. 
For, surely, I will plight my faith to none, 


hear me ; 
For T have heard that lovers prove deceivers, 


me, 
to move, 


'l'o taste for once the porringer of love. 
Alas! there is one pair of eyes that tease me : 
And then that mouth !-— he seems a star above, 
He is so good, so gentle, and so kind, 
And so unlike the sullen, clownish hind. 


What love may be indeed I cannot tell, 

Nor if I e’er have known his cunning arts; 
But true it is, there ’s one I like so well, 

That, when he looks at me, my bosom starts, 
And if we meet, my heart begins to swell ; 

And the green fields around, when he departs, 
Seem like a nest from which the bird has flown: 
Can this be love ? — say, ye who love have 

known! 


Lens 


MILANESE. . 


—— 


FROM fHE FUGGITIVA OF TOMMASO GROSSI. 


"T was silence all, when on the distant plain 
Heart-rending groans were heard; in tears I ran 

And found a hungry dog among the slain, 
Lapping the life-blood of a dying man. 


ITALIAN POETRY. 


rae a 8 oR IRC GAN ant ee ie bo 


‘¢ My cloak is old, and the wind blows cold ; 


My heart dropped in the sand beside the sea ; 


If this be so, dost know what thou shalt do?— 
Still keep my heart, and give me, give me thine. 


Though many an amorous cit would jump to 


When once they find that maidens are believers. 


Yet should I find one that in truth could please 
One whom I thought my charms had power 


Why, then, I do confess, the whim might seize me 


Upon the groaning victim, who in vain 

Struggled to throw the burden off, a wan 
And ghastly corpse was lying, and its blood 
Over the face of the expiring flowed. 


The corpse, that on the dying soldier lay, 


Was smeared with blood, and headless; and 


beneath, — 
Jesu Maria !— does my reason stray ? +. 
That dress !—that color!—in the 
death 
Lay my true. love !—]| wildly pushed away 


The hair from his pale forehead, — gasped for 


breath, 
And like a stone fell prostrate on his breast, 
Kissed his cold form, and to my bosom pressed. 


His heart still beat; and kneeling by his side, 
_I tore away the garment that he wore ; 
Upon his breast a ghastly wound, and wide, 
Cut to the bone, streamed with his clotted 
gore. 


Then slowly he unclosed his eyes, and sighed, — 


Gazed steadily, 
more, — 
And, with a smile upon his pale lips, tried 
To press my hand against his heart, — and 
died. 


and knew my face once 


s 


His heart no longer beat, — his breath had fled. 
I strove to rise, — but, reeling, fell again, 
And rolled upon a grim dissevered head ; 
With feeble strength I'sought, nor sought in 
vain, 
To gaze upon the features of the dead ; 
Though foul with dust, and many a crimson 
Stain, 
I recognized the face, — it was my brother ! — 


tL a 


grasp of 


Ma DACA ON ASE RS EES reser prams SG 
vt oe STE ee ae 


4 


Jesu Maria, help! —help, Virgin Mother ! — | 


—_@——_ 
GENOESE. 


fete scm 
SONG. 
BY CICALA CASERO, 


WHENEVER a fresh, mild, and pleasant breeze, 
In spring, the loveliest season of the year, 
Soft-moving through the green and leafy trees, 

And filling the whole heart with love, I hear; 
To her my thoughts are given, 
Who less of earth than heaven 
Possesses, when the soft wind dallying plays 
Amid her flowing hair, in many a tangled maze. 


And sometimes, when I hear the wild-birds 
sing 
The nightingale slow warbling in the grove, 
Till far around the shadowy woodlands ring, 
All vocal with the melody of love; 
Then the soft, winning tone 
Of that ungrateful one 
Resounds within my heart, —each gentle word 


More sad than the complaint of the forsaken 
bird. 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Mucu uncertainty rests upon the question, 
What was the primitive language of Spain? 
Some maintain that it was the Chaldean ; oth- 
ers, the Greek; others, the Teutonic ; others, the 
Basque, or lengua Vascongada ; and others, the 
ancient Latin.*. From all that has been written 
upon the subject, however, it appears pretty 
evident, that various languages, and not one 
alone, were spoken in the Spanish peninsula 
before the Roman conquest.t Among these, 
doubtless, was the Vascongada.t 

Whatever may have been the languages 
spoken in Spain before the Roman conquest, 
there is abundant proof to show, that, after that 
event, the Latin became the general language 
of the country.§ Nor is it wonderful, that, 
during the six centuries of the Roman sway, — 
from the year 216 before Christ, when the first 
Roman army entered Spain, till the year 416 


* AtpRETE. Del Origen i Principio de la Lengua Cas- 
tellana (Roma, 1606, 4to.). Lib. IL, Cap. x. 

+ Atprete. Lib. II.,Cap. x.— Mayans 1 Siscar. Orige- 
nes de la Lengua Espanola (2 vols., Madrid, 1737, 16mo.). 
Tom. I., Sect. 14, et seq. 

t The lengua Vizcea, Vizcaina, Vastuence, Vascongada, 
or Euscara, as it is indifferently called, or, in other words, 
the Basque language, has, we believe, undisputed claims to 
the title of a primitive tongue, —so far, at least, as the ori- 
gin of languages can be traced back. There seems to be 
no affinity between it and any dialect either of the Gothic 
or Celtic stem. ‘This opinion is confirmed by an ‘« Hssay 
on the Antiquity of the Irish Language,”’ by Mr. Vallen- 
cay, in which the Basque and Irish languages are collated. 
—Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis, Vol. IL, pp. Boe, eC 
seq. — Still farther confirmation is given by the ample 
vocabularies in a small tract by Goldmann, comparing 
together the Basque, the Cimbric, and the Gaélic. — 
G. A. F. Gotpmann, De Linguis Vasconum, Belgarum, et 
Celtarum (Gottinge, 1807, 4to.). —Juan Bautista de Erro, 
a Spanish writer of the present century, maintains that 
the Basque language is a perfect idiom, and consequently 
could not have been invented by man, but must have been 
inspired by the Creator. According to his theory, it was 
brought to Spain by the first emigrants from the plain of 
Shinar. —See the Alphabet of the Primitive Language of 
Spain. An extract from the works of Juan Bautista de 
Erro. Translated by Geo. W. Ervine (Boston, 1829, 8vo.). 
Part Il., Chap. 2.; Part I., Chap. 3.—It would, however, 
be foreign to our purpose to enter into any discussion upon 
these points. 

The Basque is stilla living language. It is spoken in 
the. provinces of Navarre, Guipuzcoa, Alava, and Biscay, 
generally called the Provincias Vascongadas. 1t is also 
spoken in the cantons of Labour, Soule, and Basse-Na- 
varre, in the South of France. Of course it is not uniform 
throughout these provinces, but is diversified by numerous 
dialects. 

§ AtpreTe. Lib. I. Cap. xiv., xv., xx.— Mayans 1 
Siscar. Tom. I., Sect. 34, and the authors there cited. 


after Christ, at which time the first Gothic 
army crossed the Pyrenees, —the Latin lan- 
guage should have swept away nearly every 
vestige of more ancient tongues. We say near- 
ly, — for the Basque still maintains its dominion 
in the more solitary and mountainous prov- 
inces of the North; and even as late as the 
eighth century, when the Romance had already 
exhibited its first forms, some wrecks of the 
ancient languages of the Peninsula seem to 
have been preserved.* When the Northern 
nations overran the South of Europe, Spain 
suffered the fate of the other Roman colonies. 
The conquerors became in turn the conquered. 
Their language, like their empire, was dismem- 
bered. The Goths, the Suevi, the Alani, and 
the Vandals possessed the soil, from the Tomb 
of the Scipios to the Pillars of Hercules; and 
during their dominion of three centuries, the 
Latin language lost in a great degree its original 
character, and became the Romance. 

Such, in few words, was the origin of the 
Spanish Romance, a branch of the Roman Rus- 
tic, which took the place of the Latin through- 
out the South and West of Europe. The name 
of Roman or Romance is not an arbitrary one, 
but indicates its origin from the Latin. It is 
used by some of the earliest writers in the 
Spanish language, when speaking of the tongue 
in which they wrote. Thus, Gonzalo de Ber- 
ceo says, — 

“Quiero fer una prosa en roman paladino, 
En qual suele el pueblo fablar 4 su vecino.”’ f 

As early as the commencement of the eighth 
century, three different dialects of the Romance 
were spoken in Spain. In the eastern provin- 
ces of Catalonia, Aragon, and Valencia, the 
Lemosin prevailed, —a form or dialect of the 
Provencal or langue d’ Oc of France ;—=#in the 
centre, that is, in the provinces of Castile and 
Leon, and thence southward, the Castilian, 
from which the modern Spanish originated ; — 
and in Galicia, and the provinces bordering on 
the Atlantic, the Gallego, from which sprang 
the Portuguese. .Then came from the South 


LT Oe ere ae ee 

* The historian Luitprand, as cited by Raynouard, 
Tom. I., xiij., speaking of the year 728, says, ‘‘ At that 
time there were in Spain ten languages, as under Augustus 
and Tiberius: 1. The ancient Spanish ; 2. The Cantabrian ; 
3. The Greek; 4. The Latin; 5. The Arabic; 6. The Chal- 
dean; 7. The Hebrew; 8. The Celtiberian ; 9. The Valen- 
cian ; and 10. The Catalan.” 

The expression, ‘‘as under Augustus and Tiberius,’’ ren- 
ders this passage obscure. The Valencian and the Catalan 
were the Romance. 

+ Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos, vv. 5, 6. 


—_—— SS eee 
622 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


———~—_.«. 
—————<$————— 


=, 
~ 


eet aemaatin  Aiiy AR I AO 
- ¢ > = 


another wave of the fluctuating tide of empire, 
— the invasion of the Moors, — who extended 
their power over all Spain, with the exception 
of Leon, the mountains of Asturias, and some 
strongholds in Aragon and Catalonia. 

The Moorish dominion of nearly seven cen- 
turies left its traces in the language of Spain, 
as well as its ruins and alcazars. ‘And this 
name, albogues,” says Don Quixote, in one of 
his conversations with his squire, ‘¢is Moorish, 
as are alf those in our native Castilian tongue, 
which begin with al ; as, for example, almohaza, 
almorzar, alhombra, aleuacil, alhuzema, alma- 
cen, aleancia, and the like ;— but there are 
only three Moorish words in the language with- 
out the prefix al, which end in 4, and these are 
borcegut, zaquizami, and maravedi; the words 
alhelt and alfagui are known as Arabic, both 


by their commencement in al and their termina- 
tion in 4.”* The nature of most of the Arabic 
words preserved in the Spanish language would 
be a proof, were proof wanting, of the intimate 
relations which existed between the Moors in 
Spain and their Christian subjects, or Mozara- 
bes, as they were denominated. Such are the 
words, according to Weston, ataud, a coffin, 
from the Arabic atud ; —azaleja, now obsolete, 
a towel, from azulet, wiping ; — bellota, an 


acorn, from bellut ;— borcegut, a buskin, from 
borzeghé ; —taza, a cup, from tas ; — Usted, Sir, 
— not, as generally supposed, contracted from 
Vuestra Merced (Your Grace), but derived from 
the Arabic usted, master ; zumbar, to buzz, from 
zumbour, a bee, &c.t 

At the present day, the three dialects of the 
Spanish Romance thus divide the country : 
1. The Castilian is spoken in Old and New 
Castile, Leon, Aragon, part of Navarre, La 
Mancha, and Andalusia; — 2. The Lemosin 
prevails in Catalonia, Valencia, and the Bale- 
aric Islands; —3. The Gallego still maintains 
its solitary province in the northwestern corner 
of the Peninsula. 

Plar’ Castruian. “The ‘Castilian’ is the 
court language of Spain, and the depository of 
all her classic literature. Its golden age was 
the sixteenth century. Then the hands of Gar- 
cilaso, Herrera, Cervantes, and Lope de Vega 
stamped it with the image and superscription 
of immortality, so far as the changing forms of 
language are capable of receiving such an im- 
press. By them it was carried to its highest 
state of perfection ; and though, since their day, 
some words have become obsolete, and forms 
of orthography have changed, yet he who would 
read the noble Castilian tongue in all its beauty 
and sonorous majesty must go back to the writ- 
ers of the sixteenth century. 

The striking characteristics of the Castilian 
language are its musical terminations, the high- 
sounding march of its periods, the great copi- 


era capm eos ee es 
* Don Quixote. Part II., Cap. 67. 


t Remains of Arabic in the Spanish and Portuguese Lan- 
guages. By SrepHEen Weston. 


ousness of its vocabulary, and its richness in 
popular proverbs and vulgar phrases, or dicha- 
rachos. The first of these are amply proved by 
all the classic writers of the language ; — for 
the rest, the reader is referred to Sancho Panza, 
and to the **Cuento de Cuentos ”? of Quevedo. 

The Castilian is spoken in its greatest purity 
in the province of Old Castile. Most of the 
other provinces of the realm have something 
peculiar in their language or pronunciation, by 
which they are easily distinguished. In Anda- 
lusia, for instance, tlte ce, cl are pronounced 


.$€, St, and the z has invariably the sound of s. 


An Andaluz cerrado, or genuine Andalusian, 
aspirates the mute h at the beginning of words; 
so much so that it has passed into a proverb, 
and they say, “ El que no diga jacha, jorno,.y 
jiguera (hacha, horno, y higuera) no es de mi 
teerra.”’ 

Setting aside these provincialisms, which are 
hardly sufficient to constitute a new dialect, the 
Castilian may be said to have but one subordi- 
nate dialect. This is the dialecto de los Gitanos, 
or Gypsy dialect, a kind of slang, which bears 
the same resemblance to the Castilian as the 
flash language of London does to the English. 
In this slang, or, as the Spaniards call it, cald, 
the word dguila (eagle) signifies an astute rob- 
ber ; — buyes (oxen) are cards ;—ermitano de 
camino (hermit of the highway), a bandit ;— 


Jinibusterre (ends of the earth), a gallows ; — 


hormigas (ants), dice ;— lanternas (lanterns), 
eyes; &c. Quevedo and other Spanish wits 
have amused themselves by writing songs in 
this dialect, in imitation of the old Spanish 
ballads. These have been collected and pub- 
lished in a volume.* 

II. Tur Lemosin. The Lemosin, or len- 
gua Lemosina,t was originally the same as the 
langue d’Oc, or language of the Troubadours 
of the South of France, though doubtless many 
local peculiarities distinguished the language as 
spoken on the northern and the southern slope 
of the Pyrenees. The fact, that this dialect 
prevailed so extensively in the eastern provinces 
of Spain, must be attributed to geographical sit- 
uation and political causes. From their very 
situation, there must have been free and con- 
stant intercourse, both by sea and land, between 
the South of France, and the northeastern cor- 
ner of Spain. Early in the twelfth century 
(1113), the kingdoms of Provence and Barcelona 
were united under one crown; and before the 
middle of the same century (1137), the king- 
dom of Aragon was joined with them. In the 


ee ee 


* Romances de Germania de varios Autores, con el Vo- 
cabulario etc., para Declaracion de sus Términos y Lengua. 
Compuesto por Juan Himateo, etc. Madrid, 1779, 8vo. 

fT La'tércova, 23 lengua maestra de las de Espaiia, es la 
Lemosina, y mas general que todas™ (san 5 por ser la que se 
hablava en Proenza, y toda la Guiyana, y la Francia Goti- 
ca, y la que agora se habla en el principado de Cataluiia, 
reyno de Valencia, islas de Mallorca, Minorca, etc. — Er- 
CoLANo. Hist. de Valencia, cited by Raynouard, Tom.L, 
p. 13. : 


fa cn a tl ABI DAA SS 


Fase Senedak RR SIA oS AD AEE ISIN SSSI Breuer na | 


ee 


beginning of the thirteenth century (1220-— 
1238), Majorca, Minorca, and Valencia passed 
under the same government. These political 
changes could not have been without their ef- 
fect upon the language. The court of Provence 
introduced into Spain the fascinating poetry of 
the Troubadours. Kings and princes became 
‘ts admirers and imitators. Among these were 
Alfonso the Second, king of Aragon, and his 
son Peter the Second, who died fighting for the 


Albigenses, many of whom — and amongst | 


them a great multitude of Troubadours — took 
refuge at his court. During the next century, 
the same patronage was afforded by the court of 
Aragon, under Peter the Third, and his son, 

. James the First, who is spoken of as a great 
admirer of the poesta Catalana, and himself 
no mean poet. It will be readily understood 
why circumstances of this kind should have 
established and perpetuated the language of the 
Troubadours in Spain. : 

The lengua Lemosina exhibits itself in Spain 
under the form of three separate dialects.” These 
are, 1. The Catalan; 2. The Valencian; and, 
3. The Majorcan, or dialect of the Islas Bale- 
ares. Of these we shall say a few words, in 
the order in which we have named them. 

1. The Catalan. This dialect, which is now 
confined to the province of Catalonia, formerly 
extended also through the neighbouring prov- 
ince of Aragon, though at the present day the 
language of that province is the Castilian, with 
some slight traces of the elder dialect. 

9. The Valencian. This dialect seems for- 
merly to have been identically the same as the 
Catalan; and even at the present day, so slight 
is the difference between them, that the inhabit- 
ants of the two provinces understand each oth- 
er with perfect facility. In the “ Notas al Canto 
de Turia,” in the ‘* Diana Enamorada”’ of Gas- 
par Gil Polo, we find the following passage, 
which bears upon this point: “ As Maestro 
Rodriguez has well observed, in his Bibl. Va- 
lent., pp. 26, 27, under the name of Catalanes 
are included both Catalonians and Valencians, 
for both spake the same language from the com- 
mencement of the conquest, and for more than 
two hundred years afterwards ; and even at the 
present day the two languages cannot be dis- 
tinguished from each other, save in some par- 
ticular forms and idioms; and this is the reason 
why many authors have been confounded to- 
gether, and some who were in reality Valen- 
cians have been considered as natives of Cata- 
lonia.”’ t 

3. The Majorcan. This is the name gen- 
erally given to the dialect spoken in the three 
islands of Majorca, Minorca, and Iviza. Even 
this patois is not uniform in these three islands, 
but has some local peculiarities. Dr. Ramis y 

| Ramis, speaking of this dialect, says: ‘It is evi- 


* Mayans 1 Siscar. Tom. I, p. 58. 
+ La Diana Enamorada. Notas al Canto de Turia. 
cion vii., p. 490. 


Adi- 


or 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


dent, that, although our language is derived from 
the ancient Lemosin, which is spoken alike by 
Catalonians, Valencians, and Majorcans, this 
does not excuse us from the necessity of having 
some elementary reading-book in our own pecu- 
liar dialect; since there is a difference between 
it and that spoken by them, both in the pronun- 
ciation and the orthography.” * 

Ill. Tax Gaician. The name of this dia- 
lect — Gallego or lingoa Gallega — sufficient- 
ly indicates its native province. Originally, 
however, it was not confined, as now, to the 
northwestern corner of Spain, but extended 
southward along the Atlantic seacoast, through 
what is now the kingdom of Portugal.t From 
the old Galician Romance the Portuguese lan- 
guage had its origin. The Galician dialect is 
now confined to a single province, and even 
there limited to the peasantry and common 
people ; — among the educated classes the Cas- 
tilian is spoken. A strong resemblance appears 
to exist between the Gallego and the Catalan. 
“The bishop of Orense,”’ says Ray nouard, + 
“having been requested to examine the vulgar 
dialect of Galicia, and to ascertain whether it 
bore any resemblance to the Catalan, answered, 
that the common people, by whom alone the 
vulgar idiom of Galicia is spoken, employ not 
only nouns and verbs, and other parts of speech, 
identically the same as those of the Catalan, 
but even entire phrases.” This dialect has been 
very little employed in literature. Alfonso the 
Tenth, however, composed in it a book of ** Can- 
ticas ;’’ § and Camoens two or three sonnets. || 
Some other writers are mentioned in the letter 
of the Marques de Santillana. ** 

The history of Spanish poetry may be divid- 
ed into three periods. I. From 1150 to 1500. 
Il. From 1500 to 1700. III. From 1700 to 
the present time. 

I. From 1150 to 1500. The earliest literary 
production of the Spanish tongue, which has 
reached our day, is the “ Poema del Cid.”’ tt 
The name of its author is unknown, and its 
date is not very definitely fixed. It is supposed 
to have been written about the middle of the | 
twelfth century, and consequently about fifty 
years after the death of the hero whose name 
and achievements it celebrates. It is the only 
literary monument of the twelfth century in 
Spain now remaining, and exhibits the Castilian 
language in its rudest state, uncouth in structure, 
harsh in termination, and unpolished by the uses 
of song and literary composition, but is full of 


ee 


* Principis de la Lectura Menorquina. Per un Maho- 
nés. Maho, 1804. 

+ Atprete. Lib. IT. Cap. 3. 

1 Tome VI. Discours Prélim., p. 36. 

§ Sancuez. Tom. I. p. 150. 

|| Obras do GRANDE Luis DE CAMOES. 
148, 149. 

#k SancHEez. Tom. I. p. 58. 

tt It is published in the first volume of SANCHEZ. Colec- 
cion de Poesias Castellanas anteriores al Siglo XV. 4 vols. 
Madrid, 1779-90. 8vo. | 


Tom. III. pp. 


— 


ae ae " 
< ee eee = — 
rath? ERT RCQee Sere: 


ET ag 


que Castilian dignity ; 
and is, moreover, remarkable as being the earli- 
est epic in any modern language. 

Two poets of very modest pretensions to 
immortality meet us upon the threshold of the 
| thirteenth century, — Gonzalo de Berceo, and 
| Juan Lorenzo Segura de Astorga. The former 
sang the lives of saints, the mysteries of the 
faith, and the miracles of the Virgin, in some- 
thing more than thirteen thousand unmusical 
a alexandrines ; * and the latter immortalized Al- 
rf exander the Great in a historic poem of about 

ten thousand, hardly less unpolished.t Their 
| language, though less inharmonious and un- 
couth than that of the “Poema del Cid cuu8 
still rude and barbarous, — though, perhaps, we 
ought not to use this word without some quali- 
fication. “In truth,” says Sanchez, the mod- 
Lb Cas ae ern editor of these ancient poets, ‘* we ought 

ier ee not to call the style of our old Castilian poets 
either barbarous or unpolished, since it was 

not so, when compared with the most polish- 

ed style and language of the times in which 

they lived, though it may appear so now in 
ri comparison with our own. If Don Gonzalo 

. de Berceo should visit the world again, pre- 

. serving still the language of his own age, and 

should read the best of our modern writings, 

he would doubtless think our style and language 

A} a rude and barbarous in comparison with his own, 

f Pe and would probably lament that the noble Span- 

ish tongue should have so far degenerated from 
its original character.”’ 

About the middle of the thi 
| lived and reigned Alfonso the Tenth, king of 
Bi Castile and Leon. From his knowledge in the 
! abstruse sciences, particularly chemistry and 
| asirology, he was surnamed the Wise. He it 

Was,’ says Quintana, “who raised his native 

language to its due honors, when he gave com- 

mand that the public instruments, which until 
| his day had been written in Latin, should 
g thenceforth be engrossed in Spanish.” Hig 
writings are various, both in verse and prose. 
In the Castilian language, he either himself 
compiled, or caused to be compiled under his 
direction, the earliest code of the Spanish Cor- 
tes, giving the work the well known title of 

‘¢ fuas Siete Partidas.”’ 
In the first half of the fou 
| flourished Don Juan Manuel, 
Saint Ferdinand, and nephew of Alfonso the 
Tenth. He was one of the most celebrated 
men of his age, both as a warrior and an author, 
His most remarkable work, “ El Conde Luca- 
| nor,’ is a collection of fables and tales, in 
prose, inculcating various moral and political 
| maxims. It exhibits the Castilian language un- 


ee ee 


rteenth century, 


rteenth century, 
the grandson of 


der its most favorable aspect, at the commence- 

ment of the fourteenth century. 
Contemporaneously with Juan Manuel flour- 

ished Juan Ruiz, Arcipreste de Hita, a poet ofa 


* Published in SancueEz, Vol. II. 
Tt Ibid., Vol. Il. 


. ot bar a 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND PO 


ETRY. | 
simple beauty and anti 


lively imagination, great satirical acu 
a poetic talent of a superior order.* 

To the latter half of the fourteenth century 
is generally assigned the great mass of the an- 
cient historic, romantic, and Moorish ballads of 
Spain; not that they were all written at so late 
a period, but because the language in which 
they now exist indicates no higher antiquity. 
These ancient ballads are, for the most part, 
anonymous. Lope de Vega calls them « Tliads 
without a Homer.” As we have had occasion 
to remark elsewhere, t they hold a prominent 
place_in the literary history of Spain. Their 
number is truly astonishing, and may well startle 
the most enthusiastic lover of popular song. 
The ‘ Romancero General ” } contains upwards 
of a thousand; and though upon many of these 
may justly be bestowed the encomium which 
honest Izaak Walton pronounces upon the old 
English ballad of “The Passionate Shepherd,” 
— * old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good,” 
— yet, as a whole, they are, perhaps, more re- 
markable for their number than’ for their beau- 
ty.. Every great historic event, every marvel- 
lous tradition, has its popular ballad. Don Rod- 
erick, Bernardo del Carpio, and the Cid Cam- 
peador are not more the heroes of ancient chron- 
icle than of ancient song; and the imaginary 
champions of Christendom, the Twelve Peersof 
Charlemagne, have found. a_ historian in the 
wandering. ballad-singer no less authentic than 
the good Archbishop Turpin. 

Most of these ancient ballads had their origin 
during the dominion of the Moors in Spain. 
Many of them, doubtless, are nearly as old as 
the events they celebrate ; though in their pres- 
ent form the greater part belong to the four- 
teenth century. The language in which they 
are now preserved indicates no higher antiqui- 
ty; but who shall say how long they had been 
handed down by tradition, ere they were taken 
from the lips of the wandering minstrel, and 
recorded in a more permanent form? 

The seven centuries of the Moorish sove- 
reignty in Spain are the heroic ages of her his- 
tory and her poetry. What the warrior achieved 
with his sword the minstrel published in his 
song. The character of those ages is seen in 
the character of their literature. History casts 
its shadow far into the land of song ; indeed, 
the most prominent characteristic of the ancient 
Spanish ballads is their warlike spirit; they 
shadow forth the majestic lineaments of the 
warlike ages; and through every line breathes 
a high and peculiar tone of chivalrous feeling. 
It is not the piping sound of peace, but a blast, 
a loud, long blast, from the war-horn, — 

“ A trump with a stern breath, 
Which is cleped the trump of death,” 


And with this mingles the voice of lamentation, 


teness, and 


* Published in SancuEz, Vol. IV. 

t Outre Mer, Vol. IL, p. 4. 

+ Romancero General, en que se contiene todos los Ro- 
mances que andan impresos. Madrid, 1604. 4to. 


=) 


the requiem for the slain, with a melancholy 
eweetness : — 


Rio Verde, Rio Verde! 
Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
- Both of Moors and eke of Christians, 
Slain with swords most cruelly. 


And thy puré and crystal waters 
Dappled are with crimson gore ; 

For between the Moors and Christians 
Long has been the fight, and sore. 


Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
Lords of high renown were slain, 
Perished many a brave hidalgo 
Of the noblemen of Spain. 


Another prominent characteristic of these an- 
cient ballads is their energetic and beautiful 
simplicity. A great historic event is described 
in the fewest possible words: there is no orna- 
ment, no artifice. The poet's intention was to 
narrate, not to embellish. It is truly wonder- 
fal to observe what force, and beauty, and dra- 
matic power are given to the old romances by 
this single circumstance. When Bernardo del 
Carpio leads forth his valiant Leonese against 
the hosts of Charlemagne, he animates their 
courage by alluding to their battles with the 
Moors, and exclaims, “¢ Shall the lions that 
have bathed their paws in Libyan gore now 
crouch before the Frank?’’? When he enters 
the palace of the treacherous Alfonso, to up- 
braid him for a broken promise, and the king 
orders him to be arrested for contumely, he 
lays his hand upon his sword and cries, ‘ Let 
no one stir! Iam Bernardo; and my sword is 
not subject even to kings!” When the Count 
Alarcos prepares to put to death his own wife 
at the king’s command, she submits patiently to 
her fate, asks time to say a prayer, and then 
exclaims, ‘¢ Now bring me my infant boy, that 
I may give him suck, as my last farewell!”’ Is 
there in all the writings of Homer an incident 
more touching, or more true to nature ? 

The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide 
themselves into three classes, —the Historic, 
the Romantic, and the Moorish. It must be 
confessed, however, that the line of demarca- 
tion between these three classes is not well de- 
fined; for many of the Moorish ballads are his- 
toric, and many others occupy a kind of de- 
batable ground between the historic and the 
romantic. 

The historic ballads are those which recount 
the noble deeds of the early heroes of Spain: 
of Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, 
Garcia Perez de Vargas, Alonso de Aguilar, 
and many others whose names stand conspicu- 
ous in Spanish history. Indeed, these ballads 
may themselves be regarded in the light of his- 
toric documents; they are portraits of long- 
departed ages, and if at times their features are 
exaggerated and colored with too bold a con- 
trast of light and shade, yet the free and spirited 
touches of a master’s hand are recognized in all. 
They are instinct, too, with the spirit of Castil- 

79 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


625 


i aT ae Te eri oy 


ian pride, with the high and dauntless spirit of 
liberty. that burned so bright of old in the heart 
of the brave hidalgo. 

The same gallant spirit breathes through all 
the historic ballads; but, perhaps, most fervent- 
ly in those which relate to Bernardo del Carpio. 
How spirit-stirring are all the speeches which 
the ballad-writers have put into the mouth of 
this valiant hero! ‘Ours is the blood of the 
Goth,” says he to King Alfonso; “sweet to us 
is liberty, and bondage odious: ” «The king 
may give his castles to the Frank, but not his 
vassals; for kings themselves hold no dominion 
over the free will!’ He and his followers would 
rather die freemen than live slaves ! If these || 
are the common watchwords of liberty at the 
present day, they were no less so among the 
high-born and high-souled Spaniards of the 
eighth century. 

The next class of the ancient Spanish bal- 
lads is the romantic, including those which re- 
late to the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne and 
other imaginary heroes of the days of chivalry. 
There is an exaggeration in the prowess of these || 
heroes of romance, which is in accordance with 
the warmth of a Spanish imagination ; and the || 
ballads which celebrate their achievements still |; 
go from mouth to mouth among the peasantry of 

\ 
| 
| 
| 


Spain, and are hawked about the streets by the 
blind balladmonger. 

Among the romantic ballads, those of the 
T'welve Peers stand preéminent; not so much 
for their poetic merit as for the fame of their 
heroes. In them are sung the valiant knights, 
whose history is written more at large in the 
prose romances of chivalry, — Orlando, and 
Oliver, and Montesinos, and Durandarte, and 
the Marques de Mantua, and the other paladins, ||: 
que en una mesa comian pan. These ballads |; 
are of different length and various degrees of |i 
merit. Of some a few lines only remain ; they 
are evidently fragments of larger works: while: | 
others, on the contrary, aspire to the length and | 


dignity of epic poems ; __ witness the ballads of 
the Conde de Irlos and the Marques de Mantua, 
each of which consists of nearly a thousand long: | 
and sonorous hexameters. 
Among these ballads of the Twelve Peers: |i ° 
there are many of great beauty ; others possess: *: 
little merit, and are wanting in vigor and: con- 1 
ciseness. From the structure of the versifica- 
tion, I should rank them among the oldest of | 
the Spanish ballads. They are all monorhyth- || 
mic, with full consonant rhymes. | 
To the romantic ballads belong also a great 
number which recount the deeds of less celebrat- 
ed heroes; but among them all, none is so cu-- |] 
rious as that of Virgil. Like the old French, 
romance-writers of the Middle Ages, the early 
Spanish poets introduce the Mantuan bard as- | 
a knight of chivalry. The ballad informs us. 
that a certain king kept him imprisoned seven 
years, for what old Brantéme would call outre- 
cuydance with a certain Dotia Isabel. But 


being at mass on Sunday, the recollection of 
» BA 


————— 


SS ae 


se ee RAE as 0) SF 


20 2 aa 


———_______ 


626 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


Virgil comes suddenly into his mind, when he 
ought to be attending to the priest; and turning 
to his knights, he asks them what has become 
of Virgil. One of them replies, ‘Your High- 
ness has him imprisoned in your dungeons ”’ ; 
to which the king makes answer with the great- 
est coolness, by telling them that the dinner is 
waiting, and that after they have dined they 
will pay Virgil a visit in his prison. Then up 
and spake the queen like a true heroine: quoth 
she, “I will not dine without him es Jand 
straightway they all repair to the prison, where 
they find the incarcerated knight engaged in 
the pleasant pastime of combing his hair and 
arranging his beard. He tells the king very 
coolly, that on that very day he has been a 
prisoner seven years. To this the king replies, 
“‘ Hush, hush, Virgil; it takes three more to 
make ten.’ “Sire,” says Virgil, with the 
same philosophical composure, “if your High- 
ness so ordains, I will pass my whole life 
here.” “As a reward for your patience, you 
shall dine with me to-day,” says the king. 
‘‘ My coat is torn,” says Virgil; “I am not in 
trim to make a leg.’ But this difficulty is re- 
moved by the promise of a new suit from the 
king; and they go to dinner. Virgil delights 
both knights and damsels, but most of all Doaa 
Isabel. The archbishop is called in; they are 
married forthwith; and the ballad closes like a 
scene in some old play: “he takes her by the 
hand, and leads her to the garden.” 

The third class of the ancient Spanish ballads 
is the Moorish. Here we enter a new world, 
more gorgeous and more dazzling than that of 
Gothic chronicle and tradition. The stern spir- 
its of Bernardo, the Cid, and Mudarra have 
passed away; the mail-clad forms of Guarinos, 
Orlando, and Durandarte are not here; the 
scene is changed: it is the bridal of Andalla ; 
the bull-fight of Gazul. The sunshine of An- 
dalusia glances upon the marble hatls of Gra- 
nada, and green are the banks of the Xenil and 
the Darro. A band of Moorish knights gayly 
arrayed in gambesons of crimson silk, with 
scarfs of blue and jewelled tahalies, sweep like 
the wind through the square of Vivarambla. 
They ride to the Tournament of Reeds; the 
Moorish maiden leans from the balcony ; bright 
eyes glisten from many a lattice; and the vic- 
torious knight receives the prize of valor from 
the hand of her whose beauty is like the star-lit 
night. these are the Xarifas, the Celindas, and 
Lindaraxas,—the Andallas, Gazules, and Aben- 
zaydes of Moorish song. 

Then comes the sound of the silver clarion, 
and the roll of the Moorish atabal, down from the 
snowy pass of the Sierra Nevada and across the 
gardens of the Vega. Alhama has fallen! Woe 
is me, Alhama! The Christian is at the gates 
of Granada; the banner of the cross floats 
from the towers of the Alhambra! And these, 
too, are themes for the minstrel, — themes sung 
alike by Moor and Spaniard, 

Among the Moorish ballads are included not 


only those which were originally composed in 
Arabic, but all which relate to the manners, 
customs, and history of the Moorsin Spain. In 
most of them the influence of an Oriental taste 
is clearly visible; their spirit is more refined 
and effeminate than that of the historic and 
romantic ballads, in which no trace of such an 
influence is perceptible. The spirit of the Cid 
is stern, unbending, steel-clad; his hand grasps 
his sword Tizona; his heel wounds the flank 
of his steed Babieca : — 
‘“‘La mano aprieta 4 Tizona, 
¥ el talon fiere 4 Babieca.’? 
But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though reso- 
lute in camps, is effeminate in court; he isa 
diamond among scymitars, yet graceful in the 
dance : — 
“Diamante entre los alfanges, 
Gracioso en baylar las zambras.”? 

Such are the ancient ballads of Spain; poems 
which, like the Gothic cathedrals of the Mid- 
dle Ages, have outlived the names of their build- 
ers. They are the handiwork of wandering, 
homeless minstrels, who for their daily bread 
thus “built the lofty rhyme”; and whose 
names, like their dust and ashes, have long, 
long been wrapped in a shroud. “ These poets,” 
says an anonymous writer, “have left behind 
them no trace to which the imagination can 
attach itself; they have ‘died and made-no 
sign.’ We pass from the infancy of Spanish 
poetry to the age of Charles through a long 
vista of monuments without inscriptions, as the 
traveller approaches the noise and bustle of 
modern Rome through the lines of silent and 
unknown tombs that border the Appian Way.” * 

The fifteenth century was an age of allego- 
ries, moral sentences, quaint conceits, mytho- 
logical rhapsodies, and false, pedantic refine- 
ments in Castilian song. Nearly all the Cas- 
tilian poetry of this century is contained in the 
‘“‘Cancionero General,’ a collection published 
at the commencement of the sixteenth century ; 
containing, besides the poems of many anony- 
mous writers, those of one hundred and thirty- 
six authors whose names are given.t 


* Edinburgh Review, Vol. XXXIX., p. 432. 

The following are the best collections of the old Spanish 
ballads. 

PEDRO DE FLoREs. 
4to. 

Deprinc. Sammlung der besten alten Spanischen His- 
torischen Ritter-und-Maurischen Romanzen. Altenburg und 
Leipzig: 1817. 12mo. 

Escopar. Romancero del Cid. Madrid: 1818, 12mo. 

Grimm. Silva de Romances Viejos. Vienna: 1815. 12mo. 

Duran. Romancero de Romances Moriscos. Madrid: 
1823. 8vo. 

Duran. Romancero de Romances Caballerescos, &c. 
Madrid: 1829 8vo, 

Ocuoa. Tesoro de los Romanceros y Cancioneros Es- 
panoles. Paris: 1838. 8vo. 

+ Cancionero General de muchos y diversos Autores. 
This work was first published at Valencia, in 1511. The 
best edition is that of Antwerp, 1573. 

See also Bout pr Faper. Floresta de Rimas Antiguas 
Castellanas. 3 vols. Hamburg: 1821-25. 8yo, 


Romancero General. Madrid: 1614. 


—$———— 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


The most distinguished among these are, the 
Marques de Santillana, the earliest writer of 
sonnets in Spanish; Juan de Mena, author of 
«© El Laberinto,’’ an imitation of Dante’s “ In- 
ferno”’; Jorge Manrique, author of the cele- 
brated *“ Coplas” on the death of his father ; 
and Rodrigo de Cota, the most noted of the 
early Spanish dramatists. 

Several of the poets of this period wrote in 
the Lemosin or Catalonian dialect. The most 
known among these Spanish Troubadours are, 
in the twelfth century, Alfonso the Second, and 
his son, Peter the Third ;—in the thirteenth, 
Mossen Jordi de San Jordi, and Mossen Febrer ; 
__ in the fourteenth, the Infante Don Pedro, and 
Juan Martorel ;— and in the fifteenth, the Mar- 

ues de Villena, Ausias March, and Jaume Roig. 

To this period belongs the origin of the 
Spanish drama. About the year 1414, Enrique, 
Marques de Villena, wrote a comedia alego- 
rica, which was performed at the court of Ara- 


gon, and in which the chief characters were’ 


Justice, Truth, Peace, and Clemency. This is 
the earliest dramatic production of Spain. Sixty 
years later, between 1470 and 1480, flourished 
Rodrigo de Cota, the. supposed author of the 
satirical dialogue of ‘“ Mingo Revulgo,” and 
«Love and the Old Man,” a dialogue in a style 
which at a later period prevailed in England, as 
in the *¢ Propre Newe Interlude of the Worlde 
and the Chylde.”’ The Old Man, having re- 
nounced pleasure, and betaken himself to soli- 
tude and méditations becoming his age, is found 
out in his retreat by Love, who entices him 
back to the world again, and then upbraids him 
for his wantonness with such taunts as these : — 

Old Man mournful among old men, 

Who with love thyself tormentest, 

See how all thy joints projecting 

Look like beads of a rosary ! 

And thy nails so lank and long, 

And thy feet so full of corns, 

And thy flesh consumed and wasted, 

And thy shanks so lean and shrunken, 

Even as the legs of horses. 


Rodrigo de Cota is also generally looked upon 
as the author of the first act of the tragi-comedy 
in prose entitled, “ Celestina, or the Tragical 
Comedy of Calisto and Melibea,” of which 
the other twenty acts were added by Fernando 
Rojas. The plot of this singular drama is the 
seduction of a noble lady ‘of most serene 
blood, sublimated in prosperity ’’; and the ca- 
tastrophe, her death by suicide. It was very 

opular in its day ; and Caspar Barth, a German 
philologist, who translated it into Latin, calls 
it “Liber plane divinus.”’ Mayans i Siscar re- 
marks: ‘*No book has been written in Castil- 
ian, in which the language is more natural, 
more appropriate, and more elegant’ ; and Cer- 
vantes says of it, — 

“¢ Celestina, 


A book that I should deem divine, 
If it concealed the human more.’’ 


Next in order of time comes Juan de la En- 


627 


part to the following. He is the author of thir- 
teen dramatic eclogues, which were performed 
at the courts of various princes on Christmas 
eve and during Carnival. They are simply 
dialogues in verse, and display no dramatic art. 
Each closes with a villancico, of which the fol- 
lowing is a fair specimen. 

Let us drive our flock a-field, 

Hurrialla ! 

Ding, ding, ding, dong, far away ! 

The folding-time is past and gone, 

We may no longer jesting lie, 

For the Seven Goats are out in the sky ; 

The middle of night is past and gone, 

And, see! there cometh the rosy dawn. 

Hurrialla ! 

Ding, ding, ding, dong, far away! 
In these eclogues Spanish shepherds are repre- 
sented sitting round a fire, playing for chestnuts 
and figs, talking of village matters, — such as 
the death of the sacristan, — and swearing by 
the saints and the evangelists; when suddenly 
an angel appears announcing the Saviour’s birth, 
and off they start for Bethlehem, as if it were 
the next village.* 

Il. From 1500 to 1700. At the commence- 
ment of this period, Juan Boscan de Almogaver, 
and his friend Garcilaso de la Vega, surnamed 
the Prince of Castilian Poets, produced a revo- 
jution in Spanish poetry, by introducing into it 
the Italian style and measures. This was not 
effected without violent opposition. “ Those 
who were sufficiently satisfied with the old ver- 
sification,’ says Mr. Wiffen, in his ‘¢ Essay on 
Spanish Poetry,’ t ‘instantly rose in clamor 
against the innovation, and treated its favorers 
as guilty of treason against poetry and their coun- 
try. At the head of these, Cristoval de Castillejo, 
‘n the satires which he wrote against the Petrar- 
quistas (for so he called them), compared this 
novelty to that which Luther was then introduc- 
ing in religion ; and making Boscan and Gar- 
cilasso appear in the other world before the tri- 
bunal of Juan de Mena, Jorge Manrique, and 
other Troubadours of earlier time, he puts into 


their mouth the judgment and condemnation of 


the new metres. To this end, he supposes that 
Boscan repeats a sonnet, and Garcilasso an oc- 
tave, before their judges, and presently adds: 


‘Juan de Mena, when he through 
Had heard the polished stanza new, 
Looked most amused, and smiled as though 
He knew this secret long ago; 
Then said: ‘‘I now have heard rehearse 
This endecasyllabic verse ; 
ne tea eee Ae ee peer at neea 

* On the history of the Spanish drama, see: — 

Castano Petiicer. ‘Tratado Histérico sobre el Origen 
y Progresos de la Comedia y del Histrionismo en Espana. 
Madrid: 1804. 12mo, 

Vicente DE LA Huerta. Theatro Hespanol. 
Madrid: 1785. 8vo. 

Pout pe Fazer. Teatro Espanol anterior 4 Lope de 
Vega. Hamburgo: 1832. 8vo. 

Moratin. Origenes del Teatro Espanol. In the first 
volume of his works. 4 vols. Madrid: 1830. 8vo. 

+ Works of Garcilasso de la Vega. Translated into Eng- 
lish Verse, by J. H. WIFFEN. London: 1823. 8vo. 


16 vols. 


zina, who belongs in part to this period and in 


a = = 


= % 


Yet can I see no reason why 

It should be called a novelty, 

When I, long laid upon the shelf, 

Oft used the very same myself.” 
‘Don Jorge said: ‘I do not see 

The most remote necessity 

To dress up what we wish to say 

In such a roundabout fine way; 

Our language, every body knows, 

Loves a clear brevity ; but those 

Strange stanzas show, in its despite, 

Prolixity obscure as night.” 
‘Cartagena then raised his head 

From laughing inwardly, and said: 

‘* As practical for sweet amours, 

These self-opinioned Troubadours, 

With force of their new-fangled’ fame, 

Will not, it strikes me, gain the game. 

Wondrously pitiful this measure 

Is in my eyes, a foe to pleasure, 

Dull to repeat as Luther’s creed, 

But most insufferable to read! ??? ”? 

But opposition was of little avail. The Prince 
of Castilian Poets remained master of the field ; 
and thus was ushered in the Siglo de Oro, the 
Golden Age of Spanish Song. 

To this period belong the illustrious names of 
Gaspar Gil Polo, and Jorge Montemayor, the 
writers of the delicious pastoral of the ** Diana”’; 
Fernando de Herrera, surnamed the Divine; 
Fray Luis de Leon, the meek enthusiast, 
breathing his sublime and sacred odes from the 
cloister and the prison; Alonso de Ercilla, the 
greatest of the Spanish epic poets; Cervantes, 
whose name is its own best interpreter; Luis 
de Goéngora, the founder of the Cultoristas and 
Conceptistas ; Lope de Vega, called by his con- 
temporaries the Monster; and the Argensolas, 
and Quevedo, and Villegas, and Calderon de la 
Barca. With the splendor of such names this 
period begins and advances, till its light gradu- 
ally fades away into the twilight of the poetic 
Selvas,— those dim and unexplored forests of 
song, through which vast rivers of rhymed 
prose flow onward in majestic progress toward 
the sea of oblivion. 

During this period, the Spanish drama made 
rapid advances, and finally rose to its greatest 
perfection. Juan de la Enzina was succeeded 
by Gil Vicente, who, thougha Portuguese, wrote 
many of his pieces in Spanish. His autos are 
sacred eclogues of the same general charac- 
ter as Enzina’s, but written in a more lively, 
flowing style, and with more melodious rhymes. 
They are full, however, of the same anachro- 
nisms. Before Christ's birth, the shepherds 
speak of friars, hermits, breviaries, calendars, 
and papal bulls, and cross themselves as they 
lie down to sleep. In one of his pieces, “ Auto 
Pastoral del Nacimiento,”’ as the shepherds are 
sleeping, the angels sing. Gil wakes and tells 
Bras he hears the music of angels. Bras sug- 
gests it may be crickets. Gil says no; and 
sends the other shepherds to the village to get 
presents for the child, enumerating “the pipe 
of Juan Javato, the guitar of little Paul, all the 
flageolets in town, and a whistle for the baby.” 

Contemporary with Gil Vicente flourished 


« 


Ey ee 
8 Se 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
Ee eee 


Bartolomé de Torres Naharro, author of eight 
comedies. He made more attempts at plot and 
intrigue than his predecessors, but shows little 
skill in their management. He has neither 
richness of style, nor dramatic power of any 
kind ; he is rude and commonplace ; and yet 
can claim the honor of being the first to bring 
upon the stage, in its simplest form, the co- 
media de capa y espada, — the comedy of cloak 
and sword, as the Spanish love-comedies are 
called. His plays have all an inérdito or pro- 
logue, and an argumento, in which the story 
is told. 

We come at length to Lope de Rueda, a 
comic writer worthy the name. The dates of 
his birth and death are unknown. He flourish- 
ed, however, between 1544 and 1560. He 
was a gold-beater by trade, but, like Moliére, 
feeling too strong an inclination for the stage to 
follow any other course of life, he formed a 
strolling company, and wrote and performed 
his own plays. In this way he passed through 
all the chief cities of Spain, and was received 
in all with great applause. He died in Cérdo- 
va, and was buried in the principal nave of the 
cathedral, between the two choirs. Such an 
honor, paid to a comedian, shows in what 
estimation he was held. A century later, in 
France, the dying Moliére could not find a 
priest to confess him ! 

Lope de Rueda left behind him four come- 
dies, ten pasos, and two coloquios in prose. 
He wrote also coloquios in verse, which were 
esteemed his best productions. Only one of 
these has remained, as if to give the lie to this 
opinion.* His comedies are, ** Comedia Eufe- 
mia,” ‘Comedia Armelina,’’ “Comedia de los 
Enganos,”’ and ‘* Comedia de Medora.” The 
best of these, beyond comparison, is “* Eufemia we 
in which the style often rises into the region of 
genteel comedy. The others are properly farces. 
The best of the pasos is the “ Aceitunas”’; in 
which a dispute rises between a peasant and his 
wife, as to the price at which they shall sell 
the fruit of some olive-trees which are not yet 
planted ! 

The charm of Rueda’s pieces consists in 
their flowing, natural dialogue; their merry-go- 
mad humor; their quirks and quibbles; their 
Dogberry mispronunciations ; and the waggish 
turns, which constantly call up the low scenes 
of Shakspeare and Moliére. The secret of 
Rueda’s success is, that he was himself an actor, 
and one of the people. He walks like one 
who is sure of himself. He knows the town, 
and the street you are in; and leads you on, 
whistling, and laughing, and cracking his joke 
on every clown, and kissing his hand to every 
chambermaid. 

His characters are mostly from low life. 
Clowns and servants figure largely He was 
the first to introduce on the stage the baladron 
or mataszete, the boastful, bullying coward ; 


* Prendas de Amor. See Moratin, I., 630. 


——— 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 629 | 


the personage so well painted by Pierce Penni- | de Vega.” In the latter part of his life, Cer- 
less in his “¢ Supplication to the Devil.” ‘“‘Thus | vantes again turned his attention to the drama, 
walkes hee up and downe in his majestie, tak- | but found no theatrical manager to purchase his 
ing a yard of ground at every step, and stampes | plays; so he “locked them up in a chest, and 
on the earthe so terrible, as if he ment to | consecrated and condemned them to perpetual si- 
knocke up a spirite, when (foule drunken bez- | lence.’ They were, however, published in 1615, 
zie), if an Englishman set his little finger to | the year before his death. The most celebrated 
him, he falls like a hog’s trough that is set on of these plays is the tragedy of “ Numancia.” Its 
one end’’;— a passage, which not only describes | subject is the siege of that city by Scipio. The 
the braggadocio spirit, but illustrates it. The | inhabitants will not yield. They choose rather 
character of Villejo, in the « Eufemia,” is in | to die by each other’s hands, or to perish, by 
this vein, and is well ‘executed. Sigiienza, in | hunger. In the last jornadas, the yarlous scenes || 


the “ Rufian Cobarde,” is another instance. in the city of famine are described with much | 
A portrait of Rueda remains; a dark, fine | power. A great fire is kindled in the centre of 


countenance, with large eyes, and a beard. His | the city, and. the inhabitants’ throw into it all 
dress is a round hat, and a jerkin, like a mule- | their jewels and valuable furniture. The wo- 
teer’s. In 1558, this man was performing in Ma- | men and children are put to the sword. Friend 
drid. Among the audience was a schoolboy of | fights with friend, and men throw themselves 
eleven years, named Miguel de Cervantes, who | into the flames, till the city becomes 4 city of 
has left a description of the scene, and speaks | the dead. When, at length, Scipio enters, the 
of the chief actor as “the great Lope de Rue- | only living being found within the walls isa 
das ie ite.says..— boy, who has @ scended to the summit of a tow- 
“Tn the times of this celebrated Spaniard | er, from which he precipitates himself, rather 
(Lope de Rueda], the whole apparatus of a co- than be taken prisoner. This closing scene 1s 
median was carried in a bag; and consisted of | fine. Indeed, the whole play is dignified and 
four white sheep-skin jackets ornamented with | elevated in its character, and full of situations 
| gilt morocco, four beards and wigs, and four | of power and pathos. 
shepherd’s crooks, more or less. The comedies In the course of the piece, some allegorical 
were mere colloquies, in the form of eclogues, | characters are introduced. For example, “ En- 
between two or three shepherds and some | ter a damsel crowned with towers, and bearing 
shepherdess or other. These they garnished | a castle in her hand, who represents Spain.” 
and eked out with two or three interludes, now | And again, ‘ Enter the River Duero, and other |} 
of a negress, now of a pander, ora simpleton, or | boys (otros muchachos), dressed as rivers, like || 
a Biscayan ; — for all these four parts, and many him, which represent three brooks that empty 
more, this same Lope performed most excel- | into the Duero.” In like manner War, Dis- 
lently well, and the most true fo nature one | ease, and Famine are introduced, in appropriate | 
can possibly imagine. At that time there was | costume. Likewise a dead body is conjured 
no scenery; no combats of Moors and Chris- | from the grave, and speaks. Some of the stage- 
tians, either on foot or on horseback. There | directions are curious; as, for example, “* Here || 
was no figure which came out, or seemed to | let a noise be made under the stage with a 
| come out, from the centre of the earth, through | barrel full of stones, and have a rocket let off.” 
a trap-door in the stage, — which was composed In addition to these distinguished names, 
of four benches in a hollow square, with four | some thirty more of less note swell the list of 
or six boards placed upon them, so that it was dramatists of the sixteenth century. There 
raised up four palms from the floor; nor did | was, moreover, a host of anonymous writers for 
there descend from heaven any clouds with | the stage; and the two schools of Classic and 
angels or ghosts. The decoration of the stage | Romantic arose ; the former imitating the an- 
was an old blanket drawn across the room by | cients, the latter remaining national and popu- 
two cords, forming what is called the vestuario | lar. 
(dressing-room) ; and behind this blanket were The seventeenth century was the great dra- 
| the musicians singing, without guitar, some an- matic age in Spain, as in France and England.* 
| cient ballad.”’* In the year 1632, there were in the single 
Early in his literary career, Cervantes became PREM Iy aLaTath a De ie RRR 


|| a dramatic writer. Speaking of his own plays, : 4 fifi b 
spi it point sle described with a radius 1 ears embra- 
| he remarks: ‘1 composed, at this time,’’— about point; acinele described with Eas ONE ee 
the ape offort at t ' a ces or intersects the lives of all the greatest dramatists of 
were S ~) ’ ¥ - _ ~ . ~ * 
Lee Orly AS any, as twenty or thir England, France, and Spain. In England, Shakspeare, 
ty comedies ; all of which were represented Beaumont, Fletcher, Heywood, Ben Jonson, Massinger, 
without being saluted with cucumbers or any | Otway, Dryden, &c. In France, Corneille, Racine, and 
other missile; they ran their race without | Moliére. In Spain, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon, 
|| hisses, cat-calls, or uproar.” He goes on to Solis, Moreto, Guillen de Castro, Francisco de Rojas, &c. 


say: “1 then found other matters to occupy me Beaumont, Shakspeare, and Cervantes died in the same 
Sate UD 2 | year; and, it has been said, Shakspeare and Cervantes on 


and laid the drama and the Pan aside ; and then the same day, April 23d, which was Shakspeare’s birth- 
entered that Miracle of Nature, the great Lope | day; but the difference of the Spanish and English calen- 
ee een ea PRE = dars—the New Style and the Old — makes the day really 

* Prélogo de las Comedias. different, though nominally the same. 
3a* 


* Taking the middle of this century (1650) as a central 


ry 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


ee eee 


province of Castile seventy-six writers for the | Calderon has less force than Lope, and less 
stage.“ Among them Lope de Vega and Cal- | simplicity and directness; but his imagination 
deron stand preéminent. Lope was the most | is more luxuriant, his style more poetical, and 
rapid and voluminous of writers. In the pro- | his dramas are wrought out with greater care. 
logue to the “ Pelegrino,” written in the year | In the former, marks.of inconsiderate haste are 
1604, he gives a list of three hundred and forty- | everywhere visible; in the latter, excessive 
three plays, of which he was the author ; and | carefulness and elaborate pomp of diction pre- 
five years afterwards, in his “Arte de hacer | vail. The German critics place Calderon at 
Comedias,”’ he claims the authorship of four | the head of the Spanish dramatists. Schlegel * 


hundred and eighty-three : — -| thus contrasts him with Lope de Vega and 
“None than myself more barbarous or more wrong, Shakspeare. 

Who, hurried by the vulgar taste along, “The stage is entirely a creature of art, and 

Dare give my precepts in despite of rule ; even although hasty and inaccurate writing may 

Whence France and Italy pronounce me fool. be tolerated in plays, unless their plan be clear- 

But what am I to do, — who now of plays, ly laid, and their purpose’ prdfoundly considered, 


With one complete within these seven days, 
Four hundred eighty-three in all: have writ, 
And all, save six, against the rules of wit ?”’ + 


they want the very essence of dramatic pieces ; 
unless they be so composed, they may, indeed, 
amuse us with a view of the fleeting and sur- 
face part of life, and of the perplexities and 
passions, but they can have none of that deep 
sense and import, without which the concerns 
of life, whether real or imitated, are not wor- 
thy of our study. These Iower excellencies of |! 
the dramatic art are possessed in great abun- 
dance by Lope de Vega, and many others of the |) 
ordinary Spanish dramatists ; the plays of these 

men display great brilliancy of poetry and im- 

agination ; but when we compare them with 

the profounder pieces of the same or of some 
other stages, we perceive at once that their | 
beauties are only of a secondary class, and that 

they afford no real gratification to the higher 

parts of our intellect. ..... If we would form a | 
proper opinion of the Spanish drama, we must 

study it only in its perfection, in Calderon, — | 


In the “ Eclogue to Claudio,” written later 
in life, he says: — 


‘The number of my fables told 
Would seem the greatest of them all; 
For, strange, of dramas you behold 
Full fifteen hundred mine I call : 
And full a hundred times, within a day 
Passed from my Muse upon'the stage a play. 


“Then spare, indulgent Claudio, spare 
The list of all my barbarous plays; 
For this with truth I can declare, — 
And though ’t is truth, it is not praise, — 
The printed part, though far too large, is less 
Than that which yet unprinted waits the press.’ t 


Montalvan, one of Lope’s warmest eulogists, 
i || says that he wrote eighteen hundred comedies, 
and four hundred autos, or religious plays; but 
Lope’s own account is probably more correct. 

Less than six hundred now remain. 
The life of no poet was ever so filled with 
fame as that of Lope. He was familiarly spok- 
HS en of as “The Miracle of Nature.” Crowds 
gazed at him in the street; children followed 
with shouts of delight; every thing that was 
fair assumed his name;—a bright day was 
called a Lope day ; a rare diamond, a Lope dia- 
mond ; a beautiful woman, a Lope woman. And 
yet he complained of neglect, and his querulous 
lamentations mingled with the last sighs of Cer- 
vantes, whi, in the same street, dying in patient 
poverty, exclaimed: “ My life is drawing to a 
| 
H 
| 
if 
i 


the last and greatest of all the Spanish poets. 

‘“‘ Before his time, affectation, on the one 
hand, and utter carelessness, on the other, were 
predominant in the Spanish poetry; what is sin- 
gular enough, these apparently opposite faults 
were often to be found in the same piece. The 
evil example of Lope de Vega was not confined 
to the department of the stage. Elevated by 
his theatrical success, like many other fluent 
poets, he had the vanity to suppose that he 
might easily shine in many other species of 
writing, for which he possessed, in truth, no 
sort of genius. Not contented with being con- 
sidered as the first dramatist of his country, 
nothing less would serve him but to compete 
with Cervantes in romance, and with Tasso 
and Ariosto in the chivalric epic. The influ- 
ence of his careless and corrupt mode of com- 
position was thus extended beyond the theatre ; 
while the faults from which he was most free, | 
those of excessive artifice and affectation in || 
language and expression, were carried to the | 
highest pitch by Géngora and Quevedo. Cal- 
deron survived this age of poetical corruptions * 
nay, he was born in it; and he had first to free 
the poetry of his country from the chaos, before 


tr ee 


* Lectures on the History of Literature, Ancient and 
Modern. From the German of FrepEricK SCHLEGEL. 
(New York: 1844. 12mo.) pp. 276-284, 


close; and I find, by the daily journal of my 
pulse, that it will have finished its course b 
next Sunday at furthest; and J also shall then 
| have finished my career.”’ 
| Calderon is far less voluminous than Lope ; 
| and yet he wrote more than a hundred come- 


dies, and nearly as many farces and autos sq- 
cramentales. Of these two hundred and fifty- 
four have been preserved. As a dramatist, 


the “Quarterly Review,’’ Vol. XXV., and the « American 
Quarterly Review,” Vol. IV. * 

t Some Account of the Lives and Writings of Lope Felix 
de Vega Carpio and Guillen de Castro. By Henry Ricu- 
ARD Lory Hotuanp. (2 vols. London: ISL7, 8y0.) Vol. 
i I., p. 103. 

t Ibid., pp. 104, 165 


* On this period of the Spanish drama, see articles in 


ee Ie peat it 


herrea wan — j 


SR A A i aE A Nt AAI sa tennis oan meat ITE LEE eT I AE DAMA 


he could ennoble it anew, beautify and purify 
it by the flames of love, and conduct it at last 
to the utmost limit of its perfection. 


“The chief fault of Calderon — for even he 
is not without them —is, that he, in other re- 
spects the best of all romantic dramatists, car- 
ries us too quickly to the great dénouement of 
which I have spoken above; for the effect 
which this produces on us would have been 
very much increased by our being kept longer 
in doubt, had he more frequently characterized 
the riddle of human life with the profundity of 
Shakspeare, — had he been less sparing in af: 
fording us, at the. commencement, glimpses of 
that light which should be preserved and concen- 
trated upon the conclusion of the drama. Shak- 


speare has exactly the opposite fault, of too often 
placing before our eyes, in all its mystery and 
perplexity, the riddle of life, like a skeptical poet, 
without giving us any hint of the solution. Even 
when he does bring his drama to a last and a prop- 
er dénouement, it is much more frequently to one 
of utter destruction, after the manner of the old 
tragedians, or at least to one of an intermediate 


and half-satisfactory nature, than to that ter- 
mination of perfect purification which is pre- 
dominant in Calderon. In the deepest recesses 
of his feeling and thought, it has always struck 
me that Shakspeare is far more an ancient — I 
mean an ancient, not of the Greek, but of the 
Northern or Scandinavian cast —than a Chris- 
tian.” 

Other distinguished dramatists of the seven- 
teenth century are, Guillen de Castro, author of 
the ‘“‘Mocedades del Cid,” from which Cor- 
neiile took the design of his tragedy ; — Mira 
de Mescua, author of the “ Palacio Confuso,” 
on which Corneille founded his “ Don Sanche 
d’Arragon”’ ;— Tirso de Molina, author of “ Don 
Gil de las Calzas Verdes,” and the “¢ Burlador 
de Sevilla,” the progenitor of all the Don Juans, 
from Moliére’s downward -_— Augustin Moreto, 
author of ‘El Desden con el Desden,”’ from 
which the French comedian borrowed the hint 
of his ‘“ Princesse. d’Elide”’ , — Antonio de So- 
lis, author of “ El Amor al Uso,’ from which 
came Thomas Corneille’s ‘ L’Amour a la 
Mode”;—and Francisco de Rojas, author of 
“Donde hay Agravios no hay Zelos,” from 
which Scarron took his “¢ Jodelet,”? and of the 
beautiful drama, * Del Rey abajo Ninguno,” 
which would do honor to the genius of Lope 
or Calderon. The Spanish drama has been a 
rich quarry for the poets of other nations; and 
many stately palaces of song have been built 


with its solid materials, as Saint Mark’s and 
other Roman palaces with the massive stones 
of the Coliseum. 

Ill. From 1700 to the present time. At the 
commencement of this period, Ignacio de Luzan 
attempted to purify the literature of his country 
from the affectations of Gongora and his fol- 
lowers by introducing the French school. In 
order to effect this reformation in public taste, 


SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


he wrote his ‘Poética,” or Art of Poetry, a 
work in four books, in which he treats succes- 
sively of the origin and progress of poetry, its 
usefulness and delights, the drama, and the 
epic. This work immediately took its place in 
Spanish literature as the irrefragable code of 
taste and the last appeal of critics, a position 
which it held for nearly a whole century. At 
the present day, the national romantic taste be- 
gins again to prevail. 

Among the most distinguished names of this 
period are Ignacio de Luzan, José de Cadalso, 
Tomas de Yriarte, Juan Melendez Valdes, Gas- 
par Melchior de Jovellanos, Nicasio de Cien- 
fuegos, Manuel José Quintana, Leandro Fer- 
nandez de Moratin, Juan Bautista de Arriaza, 
Francisco Martinez de la Rosa, Angel de Saa- 
vedra, Manuel Breton de los Herreros, and 
José Zorilla. Of the greater part of these more 
particular notices will be given hereafter, in 
connection with extracts from their writings. 
Breton de los Herreros is the most popular of 
the living dramatists of Spain ; and the increas- 
ing fame of Zorilla as a political lyric poet, as 
well as a dramatist, has already reached these 
distant shores. 


———e 


For a farther history of Spanish poetry the 
reader is referred to the following works: — 
“ History of Spanish Literature,” by George 
Ticknor, in three volumes, New York, 1849, 
8vo.; — “ History of Spanish and Portuguese 
Literature,” by Frederick Bouterwek ; translat- 
ed from the German by Thomasina Ross, in 
two volumes, London, 1823, octavo; — “ His- 
torical View of the Literature ef the South 
of Europe,” by J. C. L. Simonde dé Sismondi ; 
translated by Thomas Roscoe, in four volumes, 
London, 1823, octavo ; republished im New York, 
1827, in two volumes, octavo ;— ‘ Coleccion de 
Poesias Castellanas anteriores al Siglo XV.,” 
by Tomas Antonio Sanchez, 4 vols., Madrid, 
1779, 8vo.;—‘ Espagne Poétique : Choix de 
Poésies Castillanes depuis Charles Quint jusqu’ 
’ nos jours,’ by Juan Maria Maury, 2 vols., Par- 
is, 1826, 8vo.; —‘+ Floresta de Rimas Antiguas 
Castellanas,”’ by Juan Nicolas Boébl de Faber, 
3 vols., Hamburg, 1821 ~ 25, 8vo. ; —‘¢ Floresta 
de Rimas Modernas Castellanas,” by Fernando 
José Wolf, 2 vols., Paris, 1837, 8vo.;— “ Bib- 
lioteca Selecta de Literatura Espanola,” 4 vols., 
Bordeaux, 1819, 8yo.; — + Origenes de la Poe- 
sia Castellana,” by Luis José Velasquez, Mala- 
ga, 1754. — See also * Bibliotheca Hispana Ve- 
tus,” by N. Antonio, 2 vols., Madrid, 1787, fol. ; 
__ «Bibliotheca Hispana Nova,” by the same, 
2 vols., Madrid, 1783, fol. ; —** Biblioteca An- 
tigua de los Escritores Aragoneses,” by Don 
Felix. de Latassa y Ortin, 2 vols., Zaragoza, 
1796, Ato. ; — “ Biblioteca Nueva de los Eseri- 
tores Aragoneses,”” by the same, 5 vols., Pam- 
plona, 1798-1801, 4to.; —and “ Escritores del 
Reyno de Valencia,’ by Vicente Ximeno, 2 
vols., Valencia, 1747 —49, fol. 


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FIRST PERIOD.—FROM 1150 T0O-1500. 


FROM THE POEMA DEL CID. 


— 


ARGUMENT. 


Arrer various successes of inferior impor- 
tance, the Cid undertakes and achieves the con- 
quest of the city and kingdom of Valencia, 
where he establishes himself in a species of 
sovereign authority. In the mean time he ob- 
tains the favor of the king; this favor, however, 
is accompanied by a request on the part of the 
king that the Cid should bestow his two daugh- 
ters in marriage upon the Infants of Carrion, 
whose family were his old adversaries. The 
Cid, in reply, consents to place his daughters 
‘Cat the disposition of the king.’”’” The wedding 
is celebrated at Valencia with the greatest possi- 
ble splendor, and the two young counts remain 
at Valencia with their father-in-law. Their situ- 
ation, however, is an invidious cne. Some occa- 
sions arise in which their courage appears doubt- 
ful, and the prudence and authority of the Cid 
are found insufficient to suppress the contemp- 
tuous mirth of his military court. Accordingly, 
they enter into the resolution of leaving Valen- 
cia; but, determining at the same time to execute 
a project of the basest and most unmanly re- 
venge, they request of the Cid to be allowed to 
take their brides with them upon a journey to 
Carrion, under pretence of making them ac- 
quainted with the property which had been set- 
tled upon them at their marriage. The Cid is 
aware that their.situation is an uneasy one; he 
readily consents, takes leave of them with great 
cordiality, loads them with presents, and at 
their departure bestows upon them the two cel- 
ebrated swords, Colada and Tison. The Infants 
pursue their journey till they arrive in a wilder- 
ness, where they dismiss their followers, and, 
being left alone with their brides, proceed to 
execute their scheme of vengeance, by stripping 
them and “mangling them with spurs and 
thongs,” till they leave them without signs of 
life; in this state they are found by a relation 
of the Cid’s, Felez Munoz, who, suspecting 
some evil design, had followed them at a dis- 
tance. They are brought back to Valencia. The 
Cid demands justice. The king assembles the 
cortes upon the occasion. The Cid, being called 
upon to state his grievances, confines himself to 
the claim of the two swords which he had 
given to his sons-in-law, and which he now 
demands back, since they have forfeited that 
character. The swords are restored without 
hesitation, and the Cid immediately bestows 
them upon two of his champions. He then 
rises again, and, upon the same plea, requires 


the restitution of the gifts and treasures with 
which he had honored his sons-in-law at part- 
ing. This claim is resisted by his opponents ; 
the cortes, however, decide in favor of the Cid; 
and, as the Infants plead their immediate ina- 
bility, it is determined that the property which 
they have with them shall be taken at an ap- 
praisement. This is accordingly done. The 
Cid then rises a third time, and demands satis- 
faction for the insult which his daughters had 
suffered. An altercation arises, in the course of 
which the Infants of Carrion and one of their 
partisans are challenged by three champions on 
the part of the Cid. 


THE CID AND THE INFANTES DE CARRION. 


Wirurw a little space, 

There was many a noble courser brought into 
the place, : 

Many a lusty mule with palfreys stout and sure, 

And many a goodly sword with all its furniture : 

The Cid received them all at an appraisement 
made, 

Besides two hundred marks that to the king 
were paid. 

The Infants give up all they have, their goods 
are at an end; 

They go about in haste to their kindred and 
their friend ; 

They borrow as they can, but all will scarce 
suffice ; 

The attendants of the Cid take each thing at a 
price : 

But as soon as this was ended, he began a new 
device. 

*‘ Justice and mercy, my Lord the King, I be- 
seech you of your grace ! 

I have yet a grievance left behind, which noth- 
ing can efface. 

Let all men present in the court attend and 
judge the case, 

Listen to what these counts have done, and pity 
my disgrace. 

Dishonored as I am, I cannot be so base, 

But here, before I leave them, to defy them to 


their face. - 
Say, Infants, how had I deserved, in earnest or 
in jest, 


Or on whatever plea you can defend it best, 

That you should rend and tear the heart-strings 
from my breast? 

I gave you at Valencia my daughters in your 
hand, 

I gave you weaJth and honors, and treasure at 
command ; 


a, 


POEMA DEL CID. 633 | 


7] 


Had you been weary of them, to cover your 
neglect, 

You might have left them with me, in honor 
and respect. “ 

Why did you take them from me, dogs and 
traitors as you were? 

In the forest of Corpes, why did you strip them 
there? 

Why did you mangle them with whips? why 
did you leave them bare 

To the vultures and the wolves, and to the 
wintry air? 

| The court will hear your answet, and judge 
what you have done : 

I say, your name and honor henceforth is lost 
and gone.” 

The Count Don Garcia was the first to rise : 

“¢ We crave your favor, my Lord the King, you 
are always just and wise. 

The Cid is come to your court in’ such an un- 
couth guise, 

| He has left his beard to grow and tied it in a 


Daughters of emperors or kings were a match 
for our degree : 

We hold ourselves too good for a baron’s like 
to thee. 

If we abandoned, as you say, and left and gave 
them o’er, 

We vouch that we did right, and prize our- 
selves the more.” 

The Cid looked at Bermuez, that was sitting at 
his foot: 

“© Speak thou, Peter the Dumb! what ails thee 
to sit mute ? 

My daughters and thy nieces are the parties in 
dispute : 

Stand forth and make reply, if you would do 
them right. 

If I should rise to speak, you cannot hope to 
fight.” 

Peter Bermuez rose ; somewhat he had to say: 

The words were strangled in his throat, they 
could not find their way ; 

Till forth they came at once, without a stop or 


braid, stay: 
|| We are half of us astonished, the other half | ‘Cid, I'll tell you what, this always is your way ; 
afraid. , You have always served me thus: whenever 


we have come 

To meet here in the cortes, you call me Peter 
the Dumb. 

I cannot help my nature: I never talk nor rail; 

But when a thing is to be done, you know | 
never fail. 

Fernando, you have lied, you have lied in every 
word : 

You have been honored by the Cid, and favored 
and preferred. 

I know of all your tricks, and can tell them to 
your face : 

Do you remember in Valencia the skirmish and 
the chase? 

You asked leave of the Cid to make the first 
attack : 

You went to meet a Moor, but you soon came 
running back. 

I met the Moor and killed him, or he would 
have killed you; 

I gave you up his arms, and all that was my due. 

Upto this very hour, I never said a word: 

You praised yourself before the Cid, and I stood 
by and heard 

How you had killed the Moor, and done a val- 
lant act; 

And they believed you all, but they never knew 
the fact. 

You are tall enough and handsome, but cow- 

ardly and weak. 

Thou tongue without a hand, how can you dare 
to speak ? 

There ’s the story of the lion should never be 


The blood of the counts of Carrion is of too 

| high a line 

To take a daughter from his house, though it 
were for a concubine : 

A concubine or a leman from the lineage of the 
Cid. 

They could have done no other than leave them 
as they did. 

We neither care for what lie says nor fear what 
he may threat.” 

With that the noble Cid rose up from his seat : 

He took his beard in his hand: “If this beard 
is fair and even, 

I must thank the Lord above, who made both 
earth and heaven. 

It has been cherished with respect, and there- 
fore it has thriven ; 

It never suffered an affront since the day it first 
was worn: 

What business, Count, have you to speak of it 
with scorn? 

It never yet was shaken, nor plucked away, nor 
torn, 

By Christian nor by Moor, nor by man of 
woman born, 

As yours was once, Sir Count, the day Cabra 
was taken : 

When I was master of Cabra, that beard of yours 
was shaken ; ’ 
There was never @ footboy in my camp but 

twitched away a bit; 
The side that I tore off grows all uneven yet.” 
Ferran Gonzalez started upon the floor ; 


SS 


He cried with a loud voice: ‘ Cid, let us hear forgot : 
no more. Now let us hear, Fernando, what answer have 
Your claim for goods and money was satisfied you got? 
before. The Cid was sleeping in his chair, with all his 


Let not a feud arise betwixt our friends and you. 
We are the counts of Carrion: from them our 


birth we drew. 
80 


knights around ; 
The cry went forth along the hall, that the 
lion was unbound. 


—————— 


———- Soot 


Le PS as 


ay - 
“a 
= ee 


= 
= 


ee hea er ane age E 


r< 


ae 
Pes Tent 


F ‘* 
* 
a ae as 7 Hi z Saeed me . sed 
ie 7 : = a ee Peet ao : " a 
= = tm aed”, ee 
Se al . 


What did you do, Fernando? like a coward as 
you were, 

You slunk behind the Cid, and crouched be- 
neath his chair. 

We pressed around the throne, to shield our 

| lord from harm, 

Till the good Cid awoke: 
alarm ; 

| He went to meet the lion, with his mantle on 
his arm: 

| The lion was abashed the noble Cid to meet ; 

He bowed his mane to the earth, his muzzle at 


he rose without 


his feet. 

The Cid by the neck and mane drew him to 
his den, 

He thrust him in at the hatch, and came to the 
hall again: . 

He found his knights, his vassals, and all his 
valiant men; 

He asked for his sons-in-law; they were neither 
of them there. 

I defy you for a coward and a traitor as you are. 

For the daughters of the Cid, you have done 
them great unright : 

In the wrong that they have suffered, you stand 
dishonored quite. 

Although they are but women, and each of you 
a knight, 

I hold them worthier far; and here my word I 
plight, 


If it *e God his will, before the battle part, 

Thet shalt avow it with thy mouth, like a trai- 
tor as thou art.”’ 

Uprose Diego Gonzalez and answered as he 
stood: 

“By our lineage we are counts, and of the 
purest blood ; 

This match was too unequal, it never could 
hold good. 

For the daughters of the Cid we acknowledge 
no regret ; 

We leave them to lament the chastisement they 
met; 

It will follow them through life for a scandal 
and a jest: 

I stand upon this plea to combat with the best, 

That, having left them as we did, our honor is 
increased.” 

Uprose Martin Antolinez, when Diego ceased : 

‘‘ Peace, thou lying mouth! thou traitor coward 
peace ! 

The story of the lion should have taught you 
shame, at least : 

You rushed out at the door, and ran away so 
hard, 

You fell into the cispool that was open in the 
yard. 


P] 


| We dragged you forth, in all men’s sight, drip- 


ping from the drain: 

For shame, never wear a mantle nor a knight- 
ly robe again ! 

I fight upon this plea without more ado: 

The daughters of the Cid are worthier far than 


you, 
———————————————— 


634 SPANISH POETRY. 


Before the King Alfonso, upon this plea to fight: | 


_ Before the combat part, you shall avow it true, 
And that you have been a traitor, and a coward 
too.”’ . 
Thus was ended the parley and challenge be- 
twixt these two. * 
Asur Gonzalez was entering at the door, 
With his ermine mantle trailing along the floor, 
With his sauntering pace and his hardy look, 
Of manners or of courtesy little heed he took: 
He was flushed and hot with breakfast and with 
drink. 
““What ho, my masters ! your spirits seem to 
sink ! 
Have we no news stirring from the Cid Ruy 
Diaz of Bivar? 
Has he been to Riodovirna to besiege the wind- 
mills there ? 
Does he tax the millers for their toll, or is that 
practice past ? 
Will he make a match for his daughters, another 
like the last?” 
Muno Gustioz rose and made reply : 
“Traitor! wilt thou never cease to slander and 
to lie? 
You breakfast before mass, you drink before 
you pray ; 
There is no honor in your heart, nor truth in 
what you say ; 
You cheat your comrade and your lord, you 
flatter to betray : 
Your hatred I despise, your friendship I defy. 
False to all mankind, and most to God on high, 
I shall force you to confess that what I say is 
true.” 
Thus was ended the parley and challenge be- 
twixt these two. 


t 


—_—o——_- 


ALFONSO THE SECOND, KING OF 
ARAGON. 


Tuts king flourished in the latter half of the 
twelfth century. He succeeded to the crown in 
1162. His court was frequented by the Trou- 
badours, who were attracted by his liberality 
and love of poetry. He died in 1196. Of his 
poetical compositions one piece only has been 
preserved. He wrote in the Lemosin dialect. 


SONG. 


Many the joys my heart has seen, 
From varied sources flowing, — 
From gardens gay and meadows green, 
From leaves and flowerets blowing, 
And spring her freshening hours bestowing. + 
All these delight the bard: but here 
Their power to sadden or to cheer 
In this my song will not appear, 
Where naught but love is glowing. 


And though I would not dare despise 

The smiling flowers, the herbage springing, 
The beauteous spring’s unclouded skies, 

And all the biras’ sweet singing : 


ALFONSO II.—BERCEO. 


635 


EE GE Ig SE OR ea lc scan a RCD REIT eC AA) ML UAL sy Sea ANIA AR UR SE ASUS oo 


Yet my heart’s brightest joy is springing 
From her, the fairest of the fair ; 
Beauty and wit are joined there, 
And in my song I ’Il honor her, 

My ready tribute bringing. 


When I remember our farewell, 

As from her side I parted, 
Sorrow and joy alternate swell, 

To think how, broken-hearted, 

While from her eyelids tear-drops started, 
“¢Q, soon,” she said, ‘‘my loved one, here, 
O, soon, in pity, reappear !”’ 

Then back I ’Il fly, for none so dear 
As her from whom I parted. 


se 


GONZALO DE BERCEO. 


GonzaLo DE Berceo, the oldest of the Cas- 
tilian poets whose name has reached us, was 
born in 1198. He was a monk in the monastery 
of Saint Millan, in Calahorra, and wrote poems 
on sacred subjects, in Castilian alexandrines. 
Nine of these poems have been preserved, and 
are published in Sanchez (see ante, p. 624). 
He died about the year 1268. 


FROM THE VIDA DE SAN MILLAN. 


Anp when the kings were in the field, their 
squadrons in array, 

With lance in rest they onward pressed to min- 
gle in the fray ; 

But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of 
their foes, — 

These were a numerous army, a little handful 
those. 


And whilst the Christian people stood in this 
uncertainty, 

Upward toward heaven they turned their eyes 
and fixed their thoughts on high ; 

And there two persons they beheld, all beauti- 
ful and bright, — 

Even than the pure new-fallen snow their gar- 
ments were more white. 


They rode upon two horses more white than 
crystal sheen, 

And arms they bore such as before no mortal 
man had seen: 

The one, he held a crosier, a pontiff’s mitre 


wore ; 
The other held a crucifix,—such man ne’er 


saw before. 


Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had 


they, — ‘ 
And downward through the fields of air they 


urged their rapid way ; 
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce 


and angry look, 
4 


nd in their hands, with dire portent, their na- 
ked sabres shook. 


The Christian host, beholding this, straightway 
take heart again ; 

They fall upon their bended knees, all resting 
on the plain, 

And each one with his clenched fist to smite 
his breast begins, 

And promises to God on high he will forsake 
his sins. 


And when the heavenly knights drew near unto 
the battle-ground, 

They dashed among the Moors and dealt uner- 
ring blows around ; 

Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost 
ranks along, 

A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the 
throng. 


Together with these two good knights, the 
champions of the sky, 

The Christians rallied and began to smite full 
sore and high : 

The Moors raised up their voices, and by the 
Koran swore 

That in their lives such deadly fray they ne’er 
had seen before. 


Down went the misbelievers; fast sped the 
bloody fight ; 

Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some 
half-dead with fright : 

Full sorely they repented that to the field they 
came, 

For they saw that from the battle 
retreat with shame. 


they should 4 


Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not 
of such woes, — 

The very arrows that the Moors shot from their 
twanging bows 

Turned back against them in their flight and 
wounded them full sore, 

And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in 
drops of gore. 


Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal 
crown had on, 
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint 


John; 
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the 


monkish hood, 
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla’s neigh- 
bourhood. 


FROM THE MILAGROS DE NUESTRA SENORA. 


INTRODUCTION. 
I, Gonzato pz Brrceo, in the gentle summer- 
tide, 
Wending upon a pilgrimage, came toa meadow’s 
side : 
All green was it and beautiful, with flowers far 
and wide, — 


A pleasant spot, I ween, wherein the traveller 
might abide. 


peli =< * m. 
ak Fada ri 


44 


at eg 


—— 


Flowers with the sweetest odors filled all the 
sunny air, 

And not alone refreshed the sense, but stole the 
mind from care ; 

On every side a fountain gushed, whose waters 
pure and fair, 

Ice-cold beneath the summer sun, but warm in 

winter were, 


There on the thick and shadowy trees, amid the 
foliage green, 

Were the fig and the pomegranate, the. pear and 
apple, seen ; 

And other fruits of various kinds, the tufted 
leaves between 

None were unpleasant to the taste, and none 
decayed, I ween. 


The verdure of the meadow green, the odor 
of the flowers, 

The grateful shadows of the trees, tempered 
with fragrant showers, 

Refreshed me in the burning heat of the sultry 
noontide hours: 

O, one might live upon the balm and fragrance 
of those bowers ! 


Ne’er had I found on earth a spot that had 
such power to please, 

Such shadows from the summer sun, such odors 
on the breeze ; 

I threw my mantle on the ground, that I might 
rest at ease, 

And stretched upon the greensward lay in the 
shadow of the trees. 


There soft reclining in the shade, all cares be- 
side me flung, 

I heard the soft and mellow notes that through 
the woodland rung: 

Bar never listened to a strain, from instrument 
or tongue, 

So mellow and harmonious as the songs above 
me sung. 


¢ 


SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA. 


San Mieuen pe ta Tumpa isa convent vast 
and wide; 

The sea encircles it around, and groans on ev- 
ery side: 

It is a wild and dangerous 
woes betide 

The monks who in that burial-place in peni- 
tence abide. 


place, and many 


Within those dark monastic walls, amid the 
ocean flood, 

Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a 
brotherhood ; 

To the Madonna’s glory there an altar high 
was placed, 

And arich and costly image the sacred altar 
graced, 


holy 


SPANISH POETRY 


Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother 


smiled, 
And, as the custom is, she held within her arms 
the Child : 


The kings and wise men of the East were 
kneeling by her side: 

Attended was she like a queen whom God had 
sanctified. 


Descending low before her face a screen of 
feathers hung, — 

A moscader, or fan for flies, ’t is called in vulgar 
tongue ; 

From the feathers of the peacock’s wing ’t was 
fashioned bright and fair, 

And glistened like the heaven above when all 
its stars are there. 


It chanced, that, for the people’s sins, fell the 
lightning’s blasting stroke : 

Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames 
consuming broke: 

The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and 
holy book; 

And hardly with their lives the monks their 
crumbling walls forsook. 


But though the desolating flame raged fearfully 
and wild, 

It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not 
reach the Child; 

It did not reach the feathery screen before her 
face that shone, 

Nor injure in a farthing’s worth the image or 
the throne. 


The image it did not consume, it did not burn 
the screen ; 

Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, 
I ween: 

Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure 
more the shrine 

Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been 
hurt by hand of mine. 


Continens et contentum, —all was in ruins laid ; 

A heap of smouldering embers that holy pile 
was made : 

But where the sacred image sat, a fathom’s 
length around, 

The raging flame dared not approach the con 
secrated ground. 


It was a wondrous miracle to those that thither 
came, 

That the image of the Virgin was safe from 
smoke and flame, — 

That brighter than the brightest star appeared 
the feathery screen, — 

And seated there the Child still fair, and fair 
the Virgin Queen. 


° 


The Virgin Queen, the sanctified, who from 
an earthly flame 

Preserved the robes that pious hands had hung 
around her frame, 


Thus from an ever-burning fire her servants 
shall deliver, 

And lead them to that high abode where the 
good are blessed for ever. 


REIEEY NEES) 


ALFONSO THE TENTH, KING OF 
CASTILE. 


Atronso THE TENTH, of Castile, was born in 
1221. He was surnamed el Sabio, the Wise, or 
rather the Learned, from his love of science. He 
succeeded to the throne in 1252. He was con- 
sidered the most learned prince of his age, and 
the collection of laws made by him, called “ Las 
Siete Partidas,” has given him a lasting fame. 
He aspired to become emperor of Germany, 
and his claims found supporters among the Ger- 
man princes; but he was defeated by Rodolph 
of Hapsburg, and disavowed by the pope. He 
was finally deposed by his son Sancho, in 1282, 
and died in 1284. His services to the science, 
language, and literature of Spain were impor- 
tant. He wrote verses, some of which are not 
deficient in harmony. Among his other literary 
services, he caused the Bible to be translated 
into Castilian, and a chronicle of Spain to be 
written. 


— 


FROM THE LIBRO DEL TESORO. 


Fame brought this strange intelligence to me, 
That in Egyptian lands there lived a sage 
Who read the secrets of the coming age, 

And could anticipate futurity ; 

He judged the stars, and all their aspects ; he 
The darksome veil of hidden things with- 

drew, 
Of unborn days the mysteries he knew, 

And saw the future, as the past we see. 


An eager thirst for knowledge moved me then ; 
My pen, my tongue, were humbled; in that 
hour 
I laid my crown in dust: so great the power 
Of passionate desire o’er mortal men! 
I sent my earnest prayers, with a proud train 
Of messengers, who bore him generous meas- 
ures 
Of honors and of lands, and golden treas- 
ures, — 
And all in holy meekness: ’t was in vain! 


The sage repelled me, but most courteously : 
«© You are a mighty monarch, Sire ; but these, 
These have no gift to charm, no power to 
please, — 
Silver nor gold, — however bright they be. 
Sire, I would serve you; but what profits me 
That wealth which more abundantly is mine? 
Let your possessions bless you, — let them 
shine, 


As Mais prays, in all prosperity.” 


ALFONSO X. 


ee eee caer eee see ee es ea Pee SE SFR AT TT aA TSN TT Ta RS ES IPRA aE WET APSR ST TESST INSTT 


637 


I sent the stateliest of my ships,—it sought 
The Alexandrian port; the wise man passed 
Across the Middle Sea, and came, at last, 

With all the gentleness of friendliest thought. 

I studied wisdom, and his wisdom taught 
Each varied movement of the shifting sphere : 
He was most dear, as knowledge should be 

dear ; — 

Love, honor, are by truth and wisdom bought. 


He made the magic stone, and taught me too: 
We toiled together first; but soon alone 
I formed the marvellous gold-creating stone, 
And oft did I my lessening wealth renew. 
Varied the form and fabric, and not few 
This treasure’s elements, the simplest ; —best 
And noblest, here ingenuously confessed, 
I shall disclose, in this my verse, to you. 


And what a list of nations have pursued 
This treasure! Need I speak of the Chaldee, 
Or the untired sons of learned Araby, 
All, all in chase of this most envied good, — 
Egypt and Syria, and the tribes so rude 
Of the Orient, — Saracens and Indians, — all 
Laboring in vain, — though oft the echoes fall 
Upon the West, of their songs’ amplitude ? 


If what is passing now I have foretold 

In honest truth and calm sincerity, 

So will I tell you of the events to be 
Without deception, —and the prize I hold 
Shall be in literary lore enrolled : 

Such power, such empire, never can be won 

By ignorance or listlessness ; to none 
Bat to the learned state my truths be told. 


So, like the Theban Sphinx, will I propound 
My mysteries, and in riddles truth will speak : 
Deem them not idle words; for, if you seek, 

Through their dense darkness, light may oft be 

found. 

Muse, meditate, and look in silence round ; 
Hold no communion of vain language; learn 
And treasure up the lore, —if you discern 

What’s here in hieroglyphic letters bound. 


My soul hath’spoken and foretold; I bring 
The voices of the stars to chime with mine : 
He, who shall share with me this gift divine, 

Shall share with me the privilege of a king. 

Mine is no mean, no paltry offering : 

Cupidity itself must be content 
With such a portion as I here present, — 
And Midas’ wealth to ours a trifling thing. 


So when our work in this our sphere was done, 
Deucalion towered sublimely o’er the rest ; 
And proudly dominant he stood confessed 

On the tenth mountain ; — thence looked kind- 

ly on 

The Sovereign Sire, who offered him a crown, 
Or empires vast, for his reward ; or gold, 
From his vast treasure, for his heirs, untold: 


So bold and resolute was Deucalion. 
3B 


I ’ll give you honest counsel, if you be 
My kinsman or my countryman: if e’er 
This gift be yours, its tredsures all confer 
On him who shal! unveil the mystery ; 
Offer him all, and offer cheerfully, 
And offer most sincerely ; — weak and small 
Is your best offering, though you offer all: 
Your recompense may be eternity. 


—_@——.+ 


JUAN LORENZO DE ASTORGA. 


THIS poet is supposed -to have lived in the 
early part, or about the middle, of the thirteenth 
century. He appears to have been a priest. 
The poem entitled “« Poema de Alexandro ”’ is 
attributed to him, on the authority of the lines 
at the close of it : 
‘‘ Si quisierdes saber quien escrebié este ditado, 

Johan Lorenzo bon clérigo é ondrado, 

Segura de Astorga,” &e. 


FROM THE POEMA DE ALEXANDRO. 


Ir was the month of May, in the bright and 
glorious spring, 

When the birds in concert sweet on the bud- 
ding branches sing ; 

When the meadows and the plains are robed in 
vesture green, 

© =~ "7 aa ox He ert ’ . 

And the mateless lady sighs, despairing, o’er the 

scene, 


A gentle tempting time for loving hearts to 
meet ; 

For the flowers are blossoming, and the winds 
are fresh and sweet ; 

And gathered in a ring, the maidens wear away, 

In mirthful talk and song, the blithe and sunny 
day. 


Soft fall the gentle dews, an unfelt freshening 
rain, 

The corn puts forth the hope of harvests rich 

f in grain; 

The down-cheeked stripling now is wedded to 
his love, 

And ladies, lightly clad, in bounding dances 
move. 


For love o’er young and old now holds its 
mightiest sway ; 

The siesta’s hour to grace, they pluck the field- 
flowers gay, 

While each to other tells how love is ever 
blest, 

But the tenderest suit, they own, is the happiest 
and the best. 


The day is long and bright, the fields are green 
once more, 

The birds have ceased to moult, and their mourn- 
ing time is o’er; / 


a Le 


No hornet yet appears, with sting of venom 
keen, 

But the youths in wrestling strive, half naked, 
on the green. 

‘T was then that Alexander, of Persia conquer- 
ing king, 


Moved by the fragrant call of that delightful 


spring, 

Throughout his wide domain proclaimed a gener- 
al court, 

And not a lord o’ th’ land but thither made 
resort. 


—_@—. 


MOSSEN JORDI DE SAN JORDL 


Tuts poet, who wrote in the Lemosin or Cat- 
alonian dialect, probably lived at the beginning 
of the thirteenth century. Petrarch is supposed 
to have borrowed from his compositions. An 
instance is cited by a writer in the “« Retrospec- 
tive Review,” (Vol. IV. p. 46, and p. 47, note,) 


in, which the imitation is very obvious. 


SONG OF CONTRARIES. 


From day to day, I learn but to unlearn ; 
I live to die; my pleasure is my woe ; 
In dreary darkness I can light discern ; 
Though blind, I see; and all but knowledge 
know. 

I nothing grasp, and yet the world embrace ; 
Though bound to earth, o’er highest heaven I fly ; 
With what’s behind I run an untired race, 
And break from that which holds me mightily. 


Evil I find, when hurrying after bliss; 
Loveless, I love; and doubt of all I see ; 

All seems a dream, that most substantial is ; 
I hate myself, — others are dear to me. 

Voiceless, I speak; I hear, of hearing void ; 
My ay is no; truth becomes falsehood strange ; 

I eat, not hungry; shift, though unannoyed ; 
Touch without hands ; and sense to folly change. 


I seek to soar, and then the deeper fall ; 
When most I seem to sink, then mount I still ; 
Laughing, I weep ; and waking, dreams I call; 
And when most cold, hotter than fire I feel. 
Perplexed, I do what I would leave undone; 
Losing, I gain; time fleetest slowliest flows ; 
Though free from pain, ‘neath pain’s attacks I 
groan ; 
To craftiest fox the gentlest lambkin grows. 


Sinking, I rise; and dressing, I undress; 
The heaviest weight too lightly seems to fall ; 

I swim, — yet rest in perfect quietness ; 
And sweetest sugar turns to bitterest gall. 

The day is night to me, —and darkness day ; 
The time that’s past is present to my thought ; 

Strength becomes weakness; hard is softest 

clay ; 


I linger, wanting what I wanted not. 


I stand unmoved, — yet never, never stop ; 
And what I seek not, that besets me wholly ; 
The man [ trust not is my firmest prop; 
The low is high, —the high runs ever lowly. 
I chase what I can never hope to gain; 
What ’s weak as sand-rope looks like firmest 
ground ; 
The whirlpool seems a fountain’s surface 
plain, 
And virtue but a weak and empty sound. 


My songs are but an infant’s uttering slow ; 
Disgusting in my eyes is all that ’s fair ; 

I turn, because I know not where to go; 
I’m not at peace, but cannot war declare. 

And thus it is, and such is my dark doom, 
And so the world and so all nature fleets, 

And I am curtained in the general gloom ; 
And I must live, — deceived by these deceits. 


TORNADA. 
Let each apply what may to each belong, 
And by these rules contrarious wisely steer ; 
For right oft flows from darkness-covered 
wrong, 
And good may spring from seeming evil here. 


—_@— 


DON JUAN MANUEL. 


Turs distinguished prince and author was 
born in 1280. He served Alfonso the Eleventh, 
who appointed him governor of the Moorish 
frontiers. He carried on the war against the 
Moors for twenty years, and gained many victo- 
ries. He died in 1347. 

His most important work is *¢ El] Conde Luca- 
nor,” which may be regarded not only as the 
finest monument of Spanish prose in the four- 
teenth century, but, indeed, as the first success- 
ful essay in that department of Spanish litera- 
ture. Itis a work of moral and political phi- 
losophy, illustrated in a series of forty-nine 
moral tales. He wrote, besides, a ‘¢ Cronica de 
Espafia,” the “ Libro del Caballero,”’ the “ Li- 
bro de los Sabios,” and a collection of poems. 

It is a contested point whether the following 
‘ballad belongs to this poet or to a Portuguese 
writer of the same name. 


BALLAD. 


Aut alone the knight is wandering, 
Crying with a heavy tone ; 

Clad in dark funereal garments, 
Lined with serge, he walks alone. 

To the dreary, trackless mountains 
He retires to weep and mourn, — 

Barefoot, lonely, and deserted, 
Swearing never to return, 

Where the voice of lovely woman 
Might betray him to forget 

Her, whose ever-blessed memory 
Lives within his heart-shrine yet, — 


1 Desesperar. 


SAN JORDI.—JUAN MANUEL. 639 


Her, who, promised to his passion, 
Ere he had possessed her, died ! 
Now he seeks some desert country, 
There in darkness to abide. 
In a distant, gloomy mountain, 
Where no human beings dwell, 
There he built a house of sadness, 
Sadder than the thoughts can tell. 
Of a yellow wood he built it, 
Of a wood that ’s called despair ; * 
Black the stone that formed the dwelling, 
Black the blending mortar there. 
Roof he raised of gloomy tilings 
O’er the beams of ebony ; 
Sheets of lead he made his flooring, 
Heavy as his misery. 
Leaden were the doors he sculptured, — 
His own chisel carved the door ; 
His own weary fingers scattered 
Faded vine-leaves on the floor. 
He who makes his home with sorrow 
Should not fly to joy’s relief: 
Here, in this dark, dolorous mansion, 
Dwelt he, votary of grief. 
Discipline is his, severer 
Than the mouths of stern Paular ; 
And his bed was made of tendrils, 
And his food those tendrils are ; 
And his drink is tears of sorrow, 
Which soon turned to tears again : 
Once a day he ate, — once only, — 
Sooner to be freed from pain. 
Like the wood the walls he painted, — 
Like that dark and yellow wood; 
There a cloth of silk suspended, 
White as snow in solitude ; 
And an alabaster altar 
Even before that emblem stood ; 
There a taper of bitumen 
O’er the altar faintly moved. 
And the image of his lady, 
Of the lady that he loved, 
There he placed: ber form of silver, 
And her cheeks of crystal clear, 
Clad in robes of silvery damask, 
Such as richest maidens wear ; 
Next a snow-white convent-garment, 
And a flounce of purést white, 
Covered o’er with moons, whose brightness 
Shed a chaste and gentle light; 
On her head a royal coronet, 

Such as honored monarchs see, — 
*T’ was adorned with chestnut-branches 
Gathered from the chestnut-tree : 
Mark! beneath that word mysterious 
Hidden sense may chance to be, — 

Chestnut-branches may betoken, 
May betoken chastity.2 
Two-and-twenty years the maiden 
Lived,—and died so fair, so young : 
Tell me how such youth and beauty 
Should in fitting words be sung ; 


2 Castahas, chestnuts, —casta, chaste. 


a a ee ane ee 


640 SPANISH POETRY. 


Tell me how to sing his sorrow, 

Who thus mourned his perished maid: — 
There he lived in woe and silence, 

With her image and her shade. 
Pleasure from his house be banished, 

While he welcomed pain and woe: 
They shall dwell with him for ever, 

They from him shall never go. 


—+— * 


JUAN RUIZ DE HITA. 


Juan Ruiz, arcipreste, or arch-priest, of Hita, 
flourished about 1343. The place of his birth 
is uncertain, though there is some reason to 
suppose that he may have been a native of Al- 
cala. He seems to have travelled, for he speaks 
of having been at the court of Rome. The 
Latin poets were familiar to him, particularly 
Ovid, whom he repeatedly quotes. He died 
about 1351. He is remarkable for having in- 
troduced a variety of metres into Spanish poe- 
try; and his works, consisting of six or seven 
thousand verses, are distinguished for invention 
and wit, and abound in poetical expression and 
animated figures. 


oy 


PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN. 


I wisn to make my sermon brief, — to shorten 
my oration, — 

For a never-ending sermon is my utter detesta- 
tion: 

I like short women, — suits at law without pro- 
crastination, — 

And am always most delighted with things of 
short duration. 


A babbler is a laughing-stock ; he ’s a fool who ’s 
always grinning ; 

But little women love so much, one falls in 
love with sinning. 

There are women who are very tall, and yet 
not worth the winning, 

And in the change of short for long repentance 
finds beginning. 


To praise the little women Love besought me 
in my musing ; 

To tell their noble qualities is quite beyond re- 
fusing : 

So I'll praise the little women, and you ’Il find 
the thing amusing ; 

They are, I know, as cold as snow, whilst flames 
around diffusing. 


They ’re cold without, whilst warm within the 
flame of Love is raging ; 

They ’re gay and pleasant in the street, — soft, 
cheerful, and engaging ; 

They ’re thrifty and discreet at home, — the 
cares of life assuaging : 

All this and more ; — try, and you ’ll find how 
true is my presaging. 


In a little precious stone what splendor meets 
the eyes! 

In a little lump of sugar how much of sweet- 
ness lies ! 

So in a little woman love grows and multiplies ; 

You recollect the proverb says, —.4 word unto 
the wise. 


A pepper-corn is very small, but seasons every 
dinner 

More than all other condiments, although ’t is 
sprinkled thinner : 

Just so a little woman is, if Love will let you 
win her, — 

There ’s not a joy in all the world you will not 
find within her, 


And as within the little rose you find the rich- 
est dyes, 

And in a little grain of gold much price and 
value lies, : 

As from a little balsam much odor doth arise, 

So in a little woman there ’s a taste of paradise. 


Even as the little ruby its secret worth. betrays, | 


Color, and price, and ‘virtue, in the clearness 
of its rays, — 

Just so a little woman much excellence dis- 
plays, 

Beauty, and grace, and love, and fidelity always. 


The skylark and the nightingale, though small 
and light of wing, 

Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the 
birds that sing: 

And so a little woman, though a very little 
thing, 

Is sweeter far than sugar, and flowers that bloom 
in spring. ‘ 


The magpie and the golden thrush have many 
a thrilling note, 

Each as a gay musician doth strain “his little 
throat, — 

A merry little songster in his green and yellow 
coat : 

And such a little woman is, when Love doth 
make her dote. 


There ’s naught can be compared to her, through- 
out the wide creation ; . 

She is a paradise on earth, — our greatest con- 
solation, — 

So cheerful, gay, and happy, so free from all 
vexation : . 

In fine, she 's better in the proof than in antici- 
pation. 


If as her size increases are woman’s charms 
decreased, 

Then surely it is good to be from all the great 
released. 

Vow of two evils choose the less, — said a wise 
man of the Kast: 

By consequence, of woman-kind be sure to 
choose the least. 


a nn ne ne ee ee 


HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 


Tou Flower of Flowers! Ill follow thee, 
And sing thy praise unweariedly : 
Best of the best! O, may I ne'er 
From thy pure service flee ! 


Lady! to thee I turn my eyes, 
On thee my trusting hope relies; 
O, let thy spirit, smiling here, 
Chase my anxieties ! 


Most Holy Virgin! tired and faint, 
I pour my melancholy plaint ; 
Yet lift a tremulous thought to thee, 
Even ’midst mortal taint. 


Thou Ocean-Star! thou Port of Joy! 
From pain, and sadness, and annoy, 
O, rescue me! O, comfort me, 


Bright Lady of the Sky ! 


Thy mercy is a boundless mine ; 
Freedom from care, and life are thine : 
He recks not, faints not, fears not, who 
Trusts in thy power divine. 


Iam the slave of woe and wrong, 
Despair and darkness guide my song; 
Do thou avail me, Virgin! thou 
Waft my weak bark along! 


— ee 


LOVE. 


Love to the slowest subtilty can teach, 

And to the dumb give fair and flowing speech 5 
It makes the coward daring, and the dull 

And idle diligent and promptness-full. 


It makes youth ever youthful ; takes from age 
The heavy burden of time’s pilgrimage, 
Gives beauty to deformity; is seen 

To value what is valueless and mean. 


Enamoured once, however vile and rude, 
Each seems to each all-wise, all-fair, all-good, 


Brichtest of nature’s works, and loveliest : 
5 ) 


Desire, ambition, covet not the rest. 


Love spreads its misty veil o’er all, and when 
One sun is fled, another dawns again ; 

But valor may ’gainst adverse fate contend, 
As the hardest fruit is ripened in the end. 


—_@—- 


RABBI DON SANTOB, OR SANTO. 

Tus poet, a Jew by birth, flourished about 
1360. His name is not known, but he seems 
to have received the title of Santo by way of 
honor; ‘perhaps,’’ says Sanchez, “ for his 
moral virtues and his Jearning.”’ He is sup- 
posed to have been either a native or a resident 


JUAN RUIZ.—SANTOB. 


641 


THE DANCE OF DEATH. | 


Here begins the general dance, in which it 
is shown how Death gives advice to all, that 
they should take due account, of the brevity of | 
life, and not to value it more highly than it de- | 
serves; and this he orders and requires, that 
they see and hear attentively what wise preach- 
ers tell them and warn them from day to day, 
giving them good and wholesome counsel that | 
they Jabor in doing:good works to obtain pardon | 
of their sins, and showing them by experience ; 
who, he says, calls and requires from all classes, 
whether they come willingly or unwillingly ; 
and thus beginning : — 


Lo! Iam Death! With aim as sure as steady, 
All beings that are and shall be I draw near 
me. 
I call thee, —I require thee, man, be ready ! 
Why build upon this fragile life ? — Now 
hear me! 
Where is the power that does not own me, 
fear me? ; 
Who can escape me, when I bend my bow ? 
I pull the string, — thou liest in dust below, 
Smitten by the barb my ministering angels 
bear me. 


Come to the dance of Death! Come hither, 


even 
The last, the lowliest, — of all rank and sta- 
tion ! 
Who will not come shall be by scourges driv- 
en: 


I hold no parley with disinclination. 
List to yon friar who preaches of salvation, 
And hie ye to your penitential post ! 
For who delays, — who lingers, — he is lost, 
And handed o’er to hopeless reprobation. 


I to my dance —my mortal dance— have 
brought 

Two nymphs, all bright in beauty and in 

bloom. 
They listened, fear-struck, to my songs, me- 
thought ; 

And, truly, songs like mine are tinged with 

gloom. 

But neither roseate hues nor flowers’ perfume 
Will now avail them, — nor the thousand charms 
Of worldly vanity ; — they fill my arms, — 

They are my brides, — their bridal bed the 

tomb. 


° 


And since ’tis certain, then, that we must die,— 
No hope, no chance, no prospect of redress, — 
Be it our constant aim unswervingly 
To tread God’s narrow path of holiness: 
For he is first, last, midst. O, let us press 
Onwards! and when Death’s monitory glance 
Shall summon us to join his mortal dance, 
Even then shall hope and joy our footsteps 
bless. 


of Carrion. 
81 3B* 


as 


ly GES a 


BALLADS. 


a 


IL.—HISTORICAL BALLADS. 


LAMENTATION OF DON RODERICK. Unhappy me, that I should see the sun go down 
to-night ! 
O Death, why now so slow art thou? why fear- 


est thou to smite? ” 


Tue hosts of Don Rodrigo. were scattered in 
dismay, — ‘ 

When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor 
hope had they ; 

He, when he saw ‘that field was lost, and all his, 
hope was flown, 

He turned him from his flying host, and took 
his way alone. 


—_¢—— 


MARCH OF BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 


Wirn three thousand men of Leon, from the 
city Bernard goes, 

To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of 
Frankish foes, — 

From the city which is planted in the midst be- 
tween the seas, 

To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo’s 
victories. 


His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, — he 
_ could no farther go ; 
Dismounted, without path or aim, the king 
stepped to and fro: 
It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, 
For, sore athirst and hungry, he staggered, faint 
and sick. 


The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of 
the knight, — 

He quits his team for spear and shield and gar- 
niture of might ; 

The shepherd hears it ’mid the mist, — he fling- 
eth down his crook, 

And rushes from the mountain like a tempest- 

, troubled brook. 


All stained and strewed with dust and blood, 
like to some smouldering brand 

Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed : — his 
sword was in his hand, 

But it was hacked into a saw of dark and pur- 
ple tint ; 

His jewelled mail had many a flaw, Ris helmet 
many a dint. 


The youth who shows a maiden’s chin, whose 
brows have ne’er been bound 

The helmet’s heavy ring within, gains manhood 
from the sound ; 

The hoary sire beside the fire forgets his feeble- 
ness, 

Once more to feel the cap of steel a warrior’s 
ringlets press, 


He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he 
could see ; 

Thence all about of that wide rout his last long 
look took he: 

He saw his royal banners, where they lay 
drenched and torn ; 

He heard the cry of victory, the Arab’s shout 
of scorn, 


As through the glen his spears did gleam, these 
soldiers from the hills, 

They swelled his host, as mountain-stream re- 
ceives the roaring rills; ; 
They round his banner flocked, in scorn of 

haughty Charlemagne, 
And thus upon their swords are sworn the faith- 
ful sons of Spain: — ‘ 


He looked for the brave captains that led the 
hosts of Spain, 

But all.were fled except the dead, —and who 
could count the slain? 

Where’er his eye could wander, all bloody was 
the plain, 

And, while thus he said, the tears he shed run 
down his cheeks like rain : — 


*¢ Last night I was the king of Spain, — to-day 
no king am [; 

Last night fair castles held my train, — to-night 
where shall I lie? 

Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the 
knee, — 

To-night not one I call mine own, not one 
pertains to me. 


“Free were we born,” ’t is thus they cry, 
“though to our king we owe 
The homage and the fealty behind his crest to 


0; 
By Goa’s behest our aid he shares, but God did 
ne’er ‘command 
That we should leave our children heirs of an 
enslaved land. 


*O, luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed 
was the day, 

When I was born to have the power of this 
great seigniory ! 


“Our breasts are not so timorous, nor are our 
arms so weak, 

Nor are our veins so bloodless, that we our vow 
should break, 


To sell our freedom for the fear of prince or 
paladin ; 

At least, we ‘ll sell our birthright dear, —no 
bloodless prize they ‘ll win. 


6 At least, King Charles, if God decrees he must 
be lord of Spain, 

Shall witness that the Leonese were not aroused 
in vain; 

He shall bear witness that we 4ied as lived our 
sires of old, — 

Nor only of Numantium’s pride shall minstrel 
tales be told. 


«The Lion that hath bathed his paws in seas 
of Lybian gore, 


yore? 

Anointed cravens may give gold to whom it 
likes them well, 

But steadfast heart and spirit bold Alfonso 
ne’er shall sell.” 


——es 
BAVIECA. 

Tue king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal 
true ; 

Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after rever- 
ence due: 

“O King, the thing is shameful, that any man, 
beside 

The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavie- 
ca Tide: 


“For neither Spain nor Araby could another 
charger bring 

So good as he; and, certes, the best befits my 
king. 

But that you may behold him, and know him 
to the core, 

I ll make him go as he was wont when his 
nostrils smelt the Moor.” 


With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle 
furred and wide, 

On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side ; 

And up and down, and.round and round, so 
fierce was his career, 

Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz’ 
minivere. 


And all that saw them praised them,—they 
lauded man and horse, 

| As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and 
force ; 

Ne’er had they looked on horseman might to 
this knight come near, 

Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier. 


Thus to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furi- 
ous steed, 

He snapped in twain his hither rein : —‘ God 
pity now the Cid ! — 


HISTORICAL BALLADS. 


i 


Shall he not battle for the laws and liberties of 


643 


God pity Diaz!” cried the lords ;— but when 
they looked again, 


They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the frag- 


ment of his rein ; 


They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm 


and calm, 
Like a true lord commanding, —and obeyed as 
by a lamb. 


And so he led him foaming and panting to the 
king : — 3 

But “No!” said Don Alfonso, “it were a 
shameful thing 

That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid 

By any mortal but Bivar ;— mount, mount again, 


my Cid!” 


—— en 


THE POUNDER. 


Tur Christians have beleagured the oa 
walls of Xeres: 

Among them are Don Alvar and Don Diego 
Perez, 

And many other gentlemen, who, day succeed- 
ing day, 

Give challenge to the Saracen and all his chiv- 
alry. 


When rages the hot battle before the 
Xeres, 

By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless 
path of Perez: 

No knight like Don Diego, — no sword like his 
is found 

In all the host, to hew the boast of paynims to 
the ground. 


gates of 


It fell, one day, when furiously they battled on 
the plain, 

Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade 
in twain: 

The Moors that saw it shouted ; for esquire none 
was near, 

To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, 
or spear. 


Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was 
his eye, 

But by God’s grace before his face there stood 
a tree full nigh, — 

An olive-tree with branches strong, 
the wall of Xeres : — 

“Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow,” quoth 
Don Diego Perez. 


close by 


A gnarled branch he soon did wronel down 
from that olive strong, 

Which o’er his headpiece brandishing, 
among the throng: 

God wot, full many a pagan must in his saddle 
reel ! ly 

What leech may cure, what beadsman: shrive, 
if once that weight ye feel ? 


he spurs 


Sol 


But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising 
down the foe, 

Quoth he, “I’ve seen some flail-armed man 
belabor barley so ; — 

Sure, mortal mould did ne’er infold such mas- 
tery of power: 

Let’s call Diego Perez THE PounpeEr, from this 

hour.” 


——¢—_. 


THE DEATH OF DON PEDRO. 


Henry and King Pedro, clasping, 
Hold in straining arms each other ; 
Tugging hard, and closely grasping, 
Brother proves his strength with brother. 


Harmless pastime, sport fraternal, 
Blends not thus their limbs in strife; 

Either aims, with rage infernal, 

4. Naked dagger, sharpened knife. 


Close Don Henry grapples Pedro, 
Pedro holds Don Henry strait, — 

Breathing, this, triumphant fury, 
That, despair and mortal hate. 


COUNT ARNALDOS. 


Wuo had ever such adventure, 
Holy priest, or virgin nun, 

‘As befell the Count Arnaldos 
At the rising of the sun? 


On his wrist the hawk was hooded, 
Forth with horn and hound went he, 
When he saw a stately galley 
Sailing on the silent sea. 


Sail of satin, mast of cedar, 
Burnished poop of beaten gold, — 
Many a morn you ’Il hood your falcon, 

Ere you such a bark behold. 


Sails of satin, masts of cedar, 
Golden poops may come again ; 
But mortal ear no more shall listen 

To yon gray-haired sailor’s strain. 


Heart may beat, and eye may glisten, 
Faith is strong, and Hope is free ; 

But mortal ear no more shall listen 
To the song that rules the sea. 


When the gray-haired sailor chanted, 
Every wind was hushed to sleepy—— 
Like a virgin’s bosom panted 
All the wide reposing deep. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Sole spectator of the struggle, 
Stands Don Henry’s page afar, 

In the chase who bore his bugle, 
And who bore his sword in war. 


Down they go in deadly wrestle, 
Down upon the earth they go ; 
Fierce King Pedro has the vantage, 
Stout Don Henry falls below. 


Marking then the fatal crisis, 
Up the page of Henry ran, 

By the waist he caught Don Pedro, 
Aiding thus the fallen man. 


“King to place, or to depose him, 
Dwelleth not in my desire ; 
But the duty which he owes him 

To his master pays the squire,” 


Now Don Henry has the upmost, 
Now King Pedro lies beneath ; 
In his heart his brother’s poniard 
Instant finds its bloody sheath, 


Thus with mortal gasp and quiver, 
While the blood in bubbles welled, 
Fled the fiercest soul that ever 
In a Christian bosom dwelled 


IIl.—ROMANTIC BALLADS. 


Bright in beauty rose the/starfish 
From her green cave down below, 

Right above the eagle poised him, — 
Igoly music charmed them go. 


*“* Stately galley ! glorious galley ! 
God hath poured his grace on thee ! 

Thou alone may’st scorn the perils 
Of the dread, devouring sea! 


“False Almeria’s reefs and shallows, 
Black Gibraltar’s giant rocks, 

Sound and sandbank, gulf and whirlpool, 
All, —my glorious galley mocks !” 


“For the sake of God, our Maker ! ’— 
Count Arnaldos’ cry was strong, — 
*¢Old man, let me be partaker 
In the secret of thy song!” 


* Count Arnaldos! Count Arnaldos ! 
Hearts I read, and thoughts I know ;— 
Wouldst thou learn the ocean secret, 
In our galley thou must go.” 


en geee 


THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS. 


Tue day of Roncesvalles. was a dismal day for 


you, 


Ye men of France! for there the lance of King 


Charles was broke in two: 


ROMANTIC 


Ye well may curse that rueful field ; for many a 
noble peer, 

In fray or fight, the dust did bite, beneath Ber- 
nardo’s spear. 


There captured was Guarinos, King Charles’s 
admiral ; 

Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized 
him for their thrall : 

Seven times, when all the chase was o’er, for 
Guarinos lots they cast ; 

Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the 
knight was his at last. 


Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive 
much did prize ; 

Above all the wealth of Araby, he was precious 
in his eyes. 

Within his tent at evening he made the best of 
cheer, 

And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his 
prisoner : — 


“ Now, for the sake of Alla, Lord Admiral Gua- 
rinos, 

Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever 
rest between us : 

Two daughters have I; —all the day thy hand- 
maid one shall be ; 

The other —and the fairer far — by night shall 
cherish thee. 


“¢ The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary 
feet to lave, 

To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee 
garments brave ; 

The other—she the pretty—shall deck her 
bridal bower, 

And my field and my city they both shall be 


her dower. 


“If more thou wishest, more I ’ll give; speak 
boldly what thy thought is.”’ 

Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said 
Marlotes. 

But not a moment did he take to ponder or to 
pause ; 

Thus clear and quick the answer of the Chris- 
tian captain was : — 


“© Now, God forbid, Marlotes, — and Mary, his 
dear Mother, — 

That I should leave the faith of Christ and bind 
me to another! 

For women, —I ’ve one wife in France, and 
I ‘ll wed no more in Spain: 

I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy 
or gain.” 


Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he 


heard bim say, 
And all for ire commanded he should be led 


away, — 

Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vaults 
to lie, 

With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off 
from sun and sky. 


CII As A ME ES os i RCS EA DRS Ni RR sia 


BALLADS. 


With iron bands they bound his hands: that 
sore, unworthy plight 

Might well express his helplessness, doomed 
never more to fight. 

Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts 
of iron he bore, 

Which signified the knight should ride on char- 
ger never more. 


Three times alone, in all the year, it is the cap- 
tive’s doom 

To see God’s daylight bright and clear, instead 
of dungeon-gloom ; 

Three times alone they bring him out, like 
Samson long ago, 

Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport 
and show. 


On three high feasts they bring him forth, a 
spectacle to be, — 

The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the 
Nativity, 

And on that morn, more solemn yet, when 
maidens strip the bowers, 

And gladden mosque and minaret with the 
firstlings of the flowers. 


Days come and go of gloom and show: seven 
years are come and gone ; 

And now doth fall the festival of the holy Bap- 
tist John ; 

Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give 
it homage due, 

And rushes on the paths to spread they force 
the sulky Jew. 


Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high 
doth rear, — 

Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce 
it with the spear ; 

But ’t-is so high up in the sky, albeit much they 
strain, 

No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes’ 
prize to gain. 


Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld 
them fail ; 

The whisker trembled on his lip, — his cheek 
for ire was pale ; 

And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, 
through the town,— 

‘“¢Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till 
the mark be tumbled down.” 


The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's 
haughty sound, 

Did send an echo to the vault where the ad- 
miral was bound : 

«¢ Now help me, God!” the captive cries ; “ what 
means this din so loud ? 

O Queen of Heaven, be vengeance given on 
these thy haters proud ! 


“QO, is it that some pagan gay doth Marlotes’ 
daughter wed, 

And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph 
to his bed ? 


——e SSS arnt 


a 
646 


ful three, — 


heathen game of me?”’ 


+ 


thus to him he said: 
duct no bride to bed; 
that has the right 


the people’s sight! 


tist’s day, 

in his nation’s way ; 

quet shall begin, 
spearsman’s prize do win.” 


man should feed, 


gallant steed ! 


cap-a-pie, 


Full soon Marlotes’ prize I’d hold, whate’er its 


price may be! 


é be he is not dead, — 

All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast 
and head ; 

And give the lance I brought from France ; and 
if I win it not, 

My life shall be the forfeiture, —I ’ll yield it 


on the spot.” 


The jailer wondered at his words: thus to the 
knight said he: 

“‘Seven weary years of chains and gloom have 
little humbled thee ; 

There ’s never a man in Spain, I trow, the like 
so well might bear ; 

And if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the 
king repair.’’ 


The jailer put his mantle on, and came unto 
the king ; 

He found him sitting on the throne, within his 
listed ring : 

Close to his ear he planted him, and the 
did begin, 

How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman’s 
prize to win: 


story 


That, were he mounted but once more on his 
own gallant gray, 

And armed with the lance he bore on Ronces- 
valles’ day, 

What never Moorish knight could pierce, he 
would pierce it at a blow, 

Or give with joy his life-blood fierce at Mar- 
lotes’ feet to flow. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Or is it that the day is come, — one of the hate- 


When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make 


These «words the Jailer chanced to hear, and 
‘These tabours, Lord, and trumpets clear, con- 
Nor has the feast come round again, when he 


a enfeebled lord 
Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad 


“ This is the joyful morning of John the Bap- 
When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each 
But now our king commands that none his ban- 


Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the 


Then out and spake Guarinos: « O, soon each 
Were I but mounted once again on my own 


O, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed 


‘Give me my horse, mine old gray horse, —so 


Much marvelling, then said the king: 
Sir Guarinos forth, 

And in the grange go seek ye for his gray steed 
of worth ; 

His arms are rusty on the wall }— seven years 
have gone, I judge, 

Since that strong horse has bent his force to be 
a carrion drudge. 


“ Bring 


“Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the 


Essay to mount that ragged steed and draw 
that rusty sword; ; 

And for the vaunting of his phrase he well de- 
serves to die: 

So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your 
champion nigh.” 


They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuis- 
ses well they ’ve clasped, 

And they ’ve barred the helm on his visage pale, 
and his hand the lance hath grasped ; 
And they have caught the old gray horse, the 

horse he loved of yore, 
And he stands pawing at the gate, caparisoned 
once more. 


When the knight came out, the Moors did 
shout, and loudly laughed the king, 

For the horse he pranced and capered and fu- 
riously did fling : 

But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked 
into his face ; 

Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a 
calm and gentle grace. 


O, lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle- 
tree, 

And, slowly riding down, made halt before Mar- 
lotes’ knee : 

Again the heathen laughed aloud: «All hail, 
Sir Knight!” quoth he; 

‘“¢ Now do thy best, thou champion proud! thy 
blood I look to see!” 


With that, Guarinos, lance in rest, against the 
scoffer rode, 

Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and 
down his turban trode. 

Now ride, now ride, Guarinos, — nor lance nor 
rowel spare,-— 

Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life: the land of 
France lies there ! 


—— 


COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA 
SOLISA. 


ALong, as was her wont, she sat, — within her 
bower alone ; 

Alone and very desolate, Solisa made her moan : 

Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should 
pass away, 

And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a 
bridal day. 


~ , a “ 
ee a SN a et hi 


ef Liisi ake aio Natbe ey 
. ROMANTIC BALLADS. 


Thus said the sad Infanta: “I will not hide 
my grief ; 

I ‘ll tell my father of my wrong, and he will 
yield relief.” 

The king, when he beheld her near, “ Alas! 
my child,” said he, 

© What means this melancholy cheer ? — reveal 


thy grief to me.” 


‘¢ Good King,” she said, “my mother was bur- 
ied long ago; 

She left me to thy keeping; none else my grief 
shall know: 

I fain would have a husband, —’t is time that I 
should wed ; 

Forgive the words I utter, — with mickle shame 
they ’re said.” 


‘T was thus the king made answer: “ This fault 
is none of mine, — 

You to the prince of Hungary your ear would 
not incline ; 

Yet round us here where lives your peer, — 
nay, name him if you ean, — 

Except the Count Alarcos? and he’s a married 
man.” 


“© Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he 
did not plight 

To be my husband evermore, and love me day 
and night ; 

If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he 
cannot break : 

Alas! I’ve lost a loyal spouse, for a false lov- 
er’s sake.” 


The good king sat confounded in silence for 
some space ; 

At length he made his answer, with very trou- 
bled face : 

‘¢ Tt was not thus your mother gave counsel you 
should do ; 

You ’ve done much wrong, my daughter ; we ’re 
shamed, both I and you. 


“Tf it be true that you have said, our honor "s 
lost and gone ; 

And while the countess is in life, remeed for us 
is none: 

Though justice were upon our side, ill talkers 
would not spare ; — 

Speak, daughter, for your mother ’s dead, whose 
counsel eased my care.” 


«¢ How can I give you counsel ? — but little wit 
have I; 

But, certes, Count Alarcos may make this count- 
ess die: 

Let it be noised that sickness cut short her ten- 
der life, 

And then let Count Alarcos come and ask me 
for his wife. 

What passed between us long ago, of that be 
nothing said ; 

Thus none shall our dishonor know, — in honor 
I shall wed.” 


The count was standing with his friends, —thus 
in the midst he spake: 

“6 What fools be men! — what boots our pain 
for comely woman’s sake ? 

I loved a fair one long ago; — though I ’ma 
married man, 

Sad memory I can ne’er forego how life and 
love began.” 


While yet the count was speaking, the good 
king came full near ; 

He made his salutation with very courteous 
cheer : 

«¢Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with 
me this day, 

For I have something secret I in your ear must 
say.” 


The king came from the chapel, when he had 
heard the mass ; 

With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber 
pass ; 

Full nobly were they served there by pages 
many a one; 

When all were gone, and they alone, ’t was 
thus the king begun : — 


«¢ What news be these, Alarcos, that you your 
word did plight 

To be a husband to my child and love her day 
and night ? 

If more between you there did pass, yourself 
may know the truth; 

But shamed is my gray head, alas! and scorned 
Solisa’s youth. 


“©T have a heavy word to speak: a lady fair 
doth he 

Within my daughter’s rightful place, and, certes, 
she must die: 

Let it be noised that sickness cut short her 
tender life ; 

Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall 
be your wife. 

What passed between you long ago, of that be 
nothing said ; 

Thus none shall my dishonor know, — in honor 
you shall wed.” 


Thus spake the Count Alareos: “The truth 
1 ’ll not deny, — 

I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it 
shamefully ; 

I feared my king would ne’er consent to give 
me his fair daughter. 

But, O, spare her that ’s innocent! — avoid that 
sinful slaughter !”’ 


“She dies! she dies!” the king replies;— 
“from thine own sin it springs, 

If guiltless blood must wash the blot that stains 
the blood of kings ; 

Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine 
must be the deed, — 

Else thou on shameful block must bend : there- 
of is no remeed.’? 


TE MPS a TE 


SE See | 


“77H tell you all, —TI ’ll tell you all; it is not 


SPANISH 


POETRY. 


ttt a 


“Good King, my hand thou may’st command, 
else treason blots my name: 

Ill take the life of my dear wife. — God! mine 
be not the blame ! — 

Alas! that young and sinless heart for others’ 
sin should bleed ! 

Good King, in sorrow I depart.” « May God 
your errand speed!” 


{In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rode 

The weary journey from that place unto his 
own abode: 

He grieved for his fair countess, — dear as his 
life was she; 

Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his chil- 
dren three. 


The one was yet an infant upon its mother’s 
breast, — 

For though it had three nurses, it liked her 
milk the best ; 

The others were young children, that had but 
little wit, 

Hanging about their mother’s knee while nurs- 
ing she did sit. 


*‘ Alas!” he said, when he had come within a 
little space, — 

“« How shall I brook the cheerful look of my 
kind lady’s face ? 

To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in 
my hall, 

When she so soon a corpse must be,—and I 
the cause of all!” 


Just then he saw her at the door with all her 
babes appear 


' (The little page had run before to tell his lord 


was near) : 

“Now welcome home, my lord, my life! — 
Alas! you droop your head ! 

Tell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes 
your eyes so red?” i 


yet the hour ; 

We ’ll sup together in the hall, —I ll tell you 
in your bower.” 

The lady brought forth what she had, and down 
beside him sat ; 

He sat beside her pale and sad, but neither 
drank nor ate. 


The children to his side were led, — he loved 
to have them so; 

Then on the board he laid his head, and out 
his tears did flow : 

“T fain would sleep, —I fain would sleep,’’ the 
Count Alarcos said : 

Alas! be sure, that sleep was none that night 
within their bed. 


They came together to the bower where they 
were used ‘to rest, — 

None with them’ but the little babe that was 
upon the breast : 


The count had barred the chamber-doors, — 
they ne’er were barred till then: 

** Unhappy lady,” he began, ‘and I most lost 
of men!” 


‘Now speak not so, my noble lord, my hus- 
band, and my life ! 

Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos’ 
wife.”’ 

“Alas! unhappy lady, ’tis but little that you 
know ; 

For in that very word you ’ve said is gathered 
all your woe. 


‘“‘ Long since I loved a lady, —long since I 
oaths did plight ‘ 

To be that lady’s husband, to love her day and 
night; 

Her father is our lord the king, —to him the 
thing is known; 

And now that I the news should bring! she 
claims me for her own. 


“Alas! my love!— alas! my life !— the right 
is on their side ; 

Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was 
betrothed my bride ; 

But, O, that I should speak the word ! — since 
in her place you lie, 

It is the bidding of our lord that you this night 
must die.” 


‘« Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and 
so leal ? 

O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy 
foot I kneel ! 

But send me to my father’s house, where once 
I dwelt in glee ; 

There will I live a lone, chaste life, and rear 
my children three.” 


‘It may not be, — mine oath is strong, — ere 
dawn of day you die!” 

“O, well ’t is seen how all alone upon the 
earth am [! — 

My father is an old, frail man, —my mother’s 
in her grave, — 

And dead is stout Don Garci, — alas ! my 
brother brave ! 


“© "T was at this coward king’s command they 
slew my brother dear, 

And now I’m helpless in the land: it is not 
death I fear ; 

But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my 
children so ; — 

Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss 
them ere I go,” 


‘‘ Kiss him that lies upon thy breast, — the rest 
thou may’st not see.” 

“T fain would say an ave.” “Then say it 
speedily.”’ 

She knelt her down upon her knee: “O Lord, 
behold my case ! 


Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and 


great grace!’ 


MOORISH BALLADS. 


When she had made her orison, up from her 
knees she rose: — 

«‘ Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for 
my repose ; 

And now give me my boy once more upon my 
breast to hold, 

That he may drink one farewell drink, before 
my breast be cold.” 


«© Why would you waken the poor child? you 
see he is asleep; 

Prepare, dear wife, —there is no time, — the 
dawn begins to peep.” 

‘© Now hear me, Count Alarcos! I give thee 
pardon free, 

I pardon thee for the love’s sake wherewith 
I’ve loved thee ; — 


¢‘ But they have not my pardon, the king and 
his proud daughter ; 

The curse of God be on them, for this unchris- 
tian slaughter ! 

I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty 
days be gone, 

To meet me in the realm of death, and at God’s 
awful throne! ” 


649 


i 


He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew it 
tight and strong, 

Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber- 
floor along ; 

He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneel- 
ing by her side, 

To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried. 


Then called he for his esquires: — O, deep was 
their dismay, 

When ‘they into the chamber came, and saw her 
how she lay. 

Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void of 
wrong ; 

But God took heed of their offence, — his 
vengeance stayed not long. 


Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the In- 
fanta passed away ; 

The cruel king gave up his soul upon the twen- 
tieth day ; 

Alarcos followed, ere the moon had made her 
round complete : 

Three guilty spirits stood right soon before 
God’s judgment-seat. 


IlIIL.—MOORISH BALLADS. 


THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. 


At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts 
are barred, 

At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a tram- 
pling heard ; 

There is a trampling heard, as of horses tread- 
ing slow, 

And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy 
sound of woe! — 

«¢ What tower is fallen? what star is set? what 
chief come these bewailing ? ”’ 

«© A tower is fallen! a star is set!— Alas! alas 
for Celin!”’ 


Three times they knock, three times they cry,— 
and wide the doors they throw ; 

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; 

In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath 
the hollow porch, 

Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and 
flaming torch ; 

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around 
is wailing, — 

For all have heard the misery, —* Alas! alas 
for Celin!”’ 


Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage’s 
blood, — 

'T was at the solemn jousting,—around the 
nobles stood ; 

The nobles of the land were by, and ladies 
bright and fair 

Looked from their latticed windows, the haugh- 


ty sight to share: 


But now the nobles all lament, — the ladies are 
bewailing, — 
For he was Granada’s darling knight, —“ Alas! 


1? 


alas for Celin ! 


Before him ride his vassals, in order two by 
two, 

With ashes on their turbans spread, most. pitiful 
to view ; 

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in 
sable veil, 

Between the tambour’s dismal strokes take up 
their doleful tale ; 

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their 
brotherless bewailing, 

And all the people, far and near, cry, — “ Alas! 
alas for Celin!”’ 


O, lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple 
all, 

The foier of all Grangda’s youth, the loveliest 
of them all ! 

His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is 
pale, 

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his 
burnished mail ; 

And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in 
upon their wailing, — 

Its sound is like no earthly sound, —“ Alas ! 
alas for Celin!” 


The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, —the 
Moor stands at his door ; 

One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is 
weeping sore ; 


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Down to the dust men bow their heads, and 
ashes black they strew 

Upon their broidered ‘garments, of crimson, 
green, and blue ; 

Before each gate the bier stands still, —then 
bursts the loud bewailing, 

From door and lattice, high and low, —“ Alas 
alas for Celin!” 


An old, old woman cometh forth, when she 
hears the people ery, — 

Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed 
eye ; 

"T was she that nursed him at her breast, — that 
nursed him long ago: 

She knows not whom they all lament, but soon 
she well shall know ! 

With one deep shriek, she through doth break, 
when her ears receive their wailing, — 

‘¢ Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die!— Alas! alas 
for Celin!” 


—— 


THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 


Kine Atmanzor of Granada, he hath bid the 
trumpet sound, 

He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from 
the hills and plains around ; 

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 

They have come with helm and cuirass of gold 
and twisted steel. 


’T is the holy Baptist’s feast they hold in roy- 
alty and state, 

And they have closed the spacious lists, beside 
the Alhambra’s gate ; 

In gowns of black with silver laced, within the 
tented ring, 

Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in 
presence of the king. 


Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with stalwart 
arm and true, 

The onset of the beasts abide, as they come 
rushing through : 

The deeds they ’ve done, the spoils they ‘ve 
won, fill all with hope and trust ; 

Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they 
all have bit the dust! 


Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs 
the loud tambour : 

Make room, make room for Gazul !— throw 
wide, throw wide the door !— 

Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still ! more loud- 
ly strike the drum ! — 

The alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth 
come. 


And first before the king he passed, with rey- 
erence stooping low ; 

And next he bowed him to the queen, and the 

Infantas all a-row ; 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Then to his lady’s grace he turned, and she to 
him did throw ; 

A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than 
the snow. 


With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all 
slippery is the sand, 

Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta’en his 
stand ; 

And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords 
with anxious eye : 

But firmly he extends his arm,— his look is 
calm and high. 


Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and 
two come roaring on: 

He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his 
TEJON ; 

Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him 
such a blow, 

He blindly totters and gives back across the 
sand to go. 


“Turn, Gazul,—turn!’’ the people cry : the 
third comes up behind ; 

Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils 
snuff the wind ; — 

The mountaineers that lead the steers without 
stand whispering low, 

‘Now thinks this proud aleayde to stun Har 
pado so?” 


From Guadiana comes he. not, he comes not 
from Xenil, 

From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of the 
hill ; 

But where from out the forest burst Xarama’s 
waters clear, 

Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, —this 
proud and stately steer. 


Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood 


within doth boil, 

And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he 
paws to the turmoil : 

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal 
rings of snow ; 

But now they stare with one red glare of brass 
upon the foe. 


Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand 
close and near, — 

From out the broad and wrinkled skull like 
daggers they appear ; 

His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, 
knotted tree, 

Whereon the monster’s shagged mane, like bil- 
lows curled, ye see. 


His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs 
are black as night, 

Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness 
of his might ; 

Like something molten out of iron, or hewn 
from forth the rock, 

Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcayde’s 
shock. 


Now stops the drum: close, close they come ; 
thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 

The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger’s 
breast of black, — 

The white foam of the charger on Harpado’s 
front of dun; — 

Once more advance upon his lance,— once 
more, thou fearless one ! 


Once more, once more!—in dust and gore to 
ruin must thou reel! — 

In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with fu- 
rious heel ! — 

In vain, in vain, thou noble beast !—TI see, I 
see thee stagger ! 


Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the 
stern alcayde’s dagger ! 


They have slipped a noose around. his feet, six 
horses are brought in, 

And away they drag Harpado with a loud and 
joyful din. 

Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the 
ring of price bestow 

Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath Jaid Harpado 
low ! 


THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 


“Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cush- 
ion down ; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 
all the town! 

From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are 
flowing, 

And the lovely Jute doth speak between the 
trumpet’s lordly blowing ; 


And banners bright from lattice light are wav- 
ing everywhere, 

And the tall, tall plume of our cousin’s bride- 
groom floats proudly in the air: 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion 
down ; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 
all the town ! 


«¢ Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla’s face, — 

He bends him to the people with a calm and 
princely grace ; 

Through all the land of Xeres and banks of 
Guadalquivir 

Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave 


and lovely, never. 

Yon tall plume waving o’er his brow, of purple 
mixed with white, 

I guess ’t was wreathed by Zara, whom he will 
wed to-night. 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion 
down; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 
all the town! 


MOORISH BALLADS. 651 


cas RSENS Ege aS Ge ee ae ND aL a SST EOS 


«© What aileth thee, Xarifa? — what makes thine 
eyes look down? 

Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze 
with all the town ? 

I’ve heard you say, on many a day, —and, sure, 
you said the truth, — 

Andalla rides without a peer among all Grana- 
da’s youth. 

Without a peer he rideth, — and yon milk-white 
horse doth go, 

Beneath his stately master, with a stately step 
and slow: 

Then rise, O, rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cush- 
ion down; 

Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze 
with all the town!” 


The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion 
down, 

Nor came she to the window to gaze: with all 
the town ; 

But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain 
her fingers strove, — 

And though her needle pressed the silk, no 
flower Xarifa wove : 

One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the 
noise drew nigh ; 

That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping 
from her eye. 

«¢No, no!” she sighs, — “bid me not rise, nor 
lay my cushion down, 

To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing 
town!” 


«© Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cush- 
ion down ? 

Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing 
town ? 

Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how 
the people cry! 

He stops at Zara’s palace-gate ;—why sit ye 
still, —O, why?” 

“At Zara’s gate stops Zara’s mate ; in him shall 
I discover 

The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with 
tears, and was my lover? 

I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my 
cushion down, 

To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing 
town!” 


2 


W®E IS ME, ALHAMA!* 


Tur Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada’s royal town ; 
From Elvira’s gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


* The effect of the original ballad— which existed both 
in Spanish and Arabic — was such, that it was forbidden to 
be sung by the Moors, within Granada, on pain of death. 


Ste el 


yee ee, 


att 
7 
4 


ul 


~ 


Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama’s city fell; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

4 Woe is me, Alhama! 


He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


When the Alhambra walls he gained, 
On the moment he ordained 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


And when the hollow drums of war 

Beat the loud alarm afar, 

That the Moors of town and plain 

Might answer to the martial strain, — 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recalled them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


Out then spake an aged Moor 

In these words the king before : 

“¢ Wherefore call on us, O King? 

What may mean this gathering?” 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 


“Friends! ye have, alas! to know 

Of a most disastrous blow, — 

That the Christians, stern and bold, 

Have obtained Alhama’s hold.” 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


Out then spake old Alfaqui, 

With his beard so white to see: 

‘“‘ Good King, thou art justly served, — 

Good King, this thou hast deserved. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 


‘« By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada’s flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee, 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


*‘ And for this, O King, is sent 

On thee a double chastisement : 

Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 

One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


‘¢ He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone.” 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Fire flashed from out the old Moor’s eyes ; 


The monarch’s wrath began to rise, 

Because he answered, and because 

He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


‘ There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings.’ : — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, 
Woe is-me, Alhama! 


Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The king hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Alhama’s loss displeased ; — 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


And to fix thy head upon 

High Alhambra’s loftiest stone : 

That this for thee should be the law, 

And others tremble when they saw. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


‘Cavalier! and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth; 
Let the Moorish monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 


“But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the king his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


‘Sires have lost their children, — wives, 


Their lords, — and valiant men, their lives; 


One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, — another, wealth or fame. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 


“I lost a damsel in that hour, 

Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 

Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 

And think her ransom cheap that day.” 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


And as these things the old Moor said, 
They severed from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra’s wall with speed 


"T was carried, as the king decreed. 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada’s ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


And from the windows o’er the walls 

The sable web of mourning falls ; 

The king weeps as a woman o’er 

His loss, — for it is much and sore. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 


and doomed him dead. 


ee — 


JUAN I1.—SANTILLANA. 653 


POETS OF THE CANCIONEROS. 


JUAN II, KING OF CASTILE. Ere, my sweet idol, thou shalt fret, 
Neglect in me to trace, — 

Ere I one lineament forget 
In all that charming face. 


—=. 


Tue reign of this king extended from 1407 
to 1454. Asa monarch, he‘ displayed but little 
energy; yet his taste for letters attracted the 
most distinguished poets to his court. Juan de 
Mena was his chronicler; and song-writing 
was the fashionable pastime of his courtiers. 


Sinon shall guilelessly behave, 
Thais with virtue, Cupid 
Meekly, Sardanapalus brave, 
And Solomon grow stupid, 
Ere, gentle creature, from my mind 
Thine image flits away, 
I NEVER KNEW IT, LOVE, TILL NOW. Whose evermore I am, resigned 
Thy biddings to obey. 


—— 


I ne’er imagined, Love, that thou 


Wert such a mighty one ; at will, Swart Ethiopia shall grow chill 
Thou canst both faith and conscience bow, With wintry congelation, 

And thy despotic law fulfil : Cold Scythia hot, and Scylla still 
I never knew it, Love, till now. Her boiling tide’s gyration, 

Ere my charmed spirit shall have power 

I thought I knew thee well,— I thought ~ To tear itself away, 

That I thy mazes had explored ; In freedom, but for one short hour, 
But I within thy nets am caught, From thy celestial sway. 


And now I own thee sovereign lord. 

I ne’er imagined, Love, that thou Lions and tigers shall make peace 
5 ’ ’ g 
f a ED 

Wert such a mighty one; at will, With lambs, and play together, 

Thou bidd’st both faith and conscience bow Sands shall be counted, and deep seas 
y ? 

And thy despotic law fulfil: Grow dry in rainy weather, 
I never knew it, Love, till now. Ere Fortune shall the influence have 

To make my soul resign 
Its bliss, and call itself the slave 

Of any charms but thine. 


es 


LOPE DE MENDOZA, MARQUES DE 


For thou the magnet art, and I 


SANTILLANA. The needle, O my beauty! 
Dy ; a And every hour thou draw’st me nigh 
Tuts distinguished nobleman and poet was : ) ‘ at 
5 spe : 4 : In voluntary duty: 
born in 1398. He exercised great influence In 3 : } 
‘ ahs : te : Nor is this wonderful ; for call 
public affairs, and united with the business of The proudest, she withdeal 
state the cultivation of poetry His letter on Th: ee 
3 Fir See: iat thou the mirror art of all 
the ancient poets of Spain is highly valued ew « ant 
i Bede Sas The ladies in Castile. 
for its learning and sound criticism. He was 
created Marques de Santillana after the battle Soe 
of Olmedo, in 1445, his marquisate being the SERRANA. 
second in Castile. He died in 1458. , 
I ne’rer on the border 
Saw girl fair as Rosa, 
. The charming milk-maiden | 
SONG. Of sweet Finojosa. | 
First shall the singing spheres be dumb, Once making a journey 
And cease their rolling motion, To Santa Maria 
Alecto Na become, Of Calataveno, 
e i} 
And Pluto move devotion, From weary desire 
Ere to thy virtues, printed deep Of sleep, down a valley: 
Within my heart, I prove I strayed, where young Rosa 
Thoughtless, or leave thine ores to weep, I saw, the milk-maiden 
My soul, my life, my love! Of lone Finojosa. 
Successful Cesar first shall cease In a pleasant green meadow, 
To fight for an ovation, ’Midst roses and grasses, 
And force defenced Priamides Her herd she was tending, 
To sign a recantation, With other fair lasses ; | 
30 * | 


+ 
—— we. 


4 t 


654 


Juan pe Mena was born in Cordova, about 
1400, and belonged to a distinguished family. 
He studied at Salamanca, and then visited Rome, 
quainted with the writings 
On his return, his talents recom- 
mended him to the favor of King Juan II. and 
the Marques de Santillana. 
‘El Laberinto,” or ‘“ Las’ Trecientas Coplas,”’ 
is an allegorical composition in imitation of 
Mena died in 1456, at Guadalaxara, 


where he became ac 
of Dante. 


Dante. 


So lovely her aspect, 

I could not suppose her 
A simple milk-maiden 

Of rude Finojosa. 


I think not primroses 
Have half her smile’s sweetness, 
Or mild, modest beauty ; — 
I speak with discreetness, 
O, had I beforehand 
But known of this Rosa, 
The handsome milk-maiden 
Of far Finojosa, — 


Her very great beauty 
Had not so subdued, 
Because it had left me 
To do as I would! 
I have said more, O fair one, 
By learning ’t was Rosa, 
The charming milk-maiden 
Of sweet Finojosa. 


JUAN DE MENA. 


—__. 


FROM THE LABERINTO. 


MACIAS EL ENAMORADO. 


We in this radiant circle looked so long, 
That we found out Macias; in a bower 
Of cypress was he weeping still the hour 


That ended his dark life and love in wrong. 


Nearer I drew, for sympathy was strong 


In me, when I perceived he w 
And there I he 


That ere was tuned in elegiac song. 


“ Love crowned me with 


name 


Will be pronounced by many ; but, alas! 


When his pangs caused me bliss, not slighter 
The mournful suffering th 


His sweet snares conquer the lorn mind the 


was 
frame. 


tame, 


But do not always then continue sweet; 


And since they caused me ruin So-complete, 


Turn, lovers, turn, and disesteem his flame. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


His greatest work, 


as from Spain ; 
ard him sing the saddest strain 


his myrtle crown ; my 


at consumed my 


“‘ Danger so passionate be glad to miss; 
Learn to be gay; flee, flee from sorrow’s 
touch ; 
Learn to disserve him you have served so 
much ; 
Your devoirs pay at any shrine but his: 
If the short joy that in his service igs 
Were but proportioned to the long, long pain, 
Neither would he that once’ has loved com- 
plain, 
Nor he that ne’er has loved despair of bliss. 


‘“‘ But even as some assassin or night-rover, 
Seeing his fellow wound upon the wheel, 
Awed by the agony, resolves with zeal 

His life to amend and character recover ; 

But when the fearful spectacle is over, 
Reacts his crimes with easy unconcern: 
So my amours on my despair return, 

That I should die, as I have lived, a lover!” 


LORENZO DAVALOS. 


Hx whom thou view’st there in the round of 
; Mars, 
Who toils to mount, yet treads on empty air, — 
Whose face of manly beauty ’s seen to bear 
The gashing print of two deforming scars, — 
Virtuous, but smiled on by no partial stars, — 
Is young Lorenzo, loved by all; a chief, 
Who waged and finished, in a day too brief, 
The first and last of his adventured wars. 


He, whom his sire’s renown had ever spurred 
To worth, the Infante’s cherished friend, and 
pride 
Of the most mournful mother that e’er sighed 
To see her pleasant offspring first interred ! — 
O sharp, remorseless Fortune ! at thy word, 
Two precious things were thrown away in 
vain, — 
His brave existence, and her tears of pain, 
By the keen torment of the sword incurred. 


Well spoke the mother in the piteous cries 
She raised, soon as she saw, with many a tear, 
That body stretched upon the gory bier, 

Which she had nursed with such unsleeping 

eyes ! 

With cruel clamors she upbraids the skies, 
Wounds with new sorrows her weak frame, 

and so 
Droops, — weary soul !— that, with the migh- 
ty woe, 

She faints and falls in death’s serene disguise, 


Then her fair breast with little ruth or dread 
To beat, her flesh with eruel nails to tear, 
Kiss his cold lips, and in her mad despair 

Curse the fierce hand that smote his helmed head, 

And the wild battle where her darling bled, 

Is all she does, — whilst, quarrelsome from 
grief 
And busy wrath, she wars with all relief, 
Till scarce the living differs from the dead. 


Weeping, she murmurs, ‘It had been more 
kind, 
O cruel murderer of my son, to kill 
Me, and leave him, who was not in his will 
So fierce a foe! he to a mother’s mind 
Was much more precious, — and who slays, to 
bind 
The lesser prey? thou never shouldst have 
bared 
Thy blade on him, unless thou wert prepared 
To leave me sad and moaning to the wind. 


© Had death but struck me first, my darling boy 

With these his pious hands mine eyes had 

closed, 

Ere his were sealed, and I had well reposed, 
Dying but once ; whilst now—alas, the annoy '— 
I shall die often ; I, whose sole employ 

Is thus to bathe his wounds with tears of blood 

Unrecognized, though lavished in a flood 
Of fondness, dead to every future joy ! o 


——_o——— 


ALONSO DE CARTAGENA. 


Tus poet belongs to the first half of the 
fifteenth century. He is particularly noted for 
the fire and passion of his amatory poetry, 
which he probably wrote in his youth. The 
latter portion of his life was devoted to spiritual 
affairs, and he died Archbishop of Burgos, in 
1456. 


————— 


PAIN IN PLEASURE. 


O, LaBor not, impatient will, 

With anxious thought and busy care ' 
Whatever be thy doom, — whate’er 
Thy power, or thy perverseness, —still 

A germ of sorrow will be there. 


If thou wilt think of moments gone, 
Of joys as exquisite as brief, 

Know, memory, when she lingers on 
Past pleasure, turns it all to grief. 

The struggling toil for bliss is vain, 
The dreams of hope are vainer yet, 
The end of glory is regret, 

And death is but the goal of pain, - ’ 
And memory’s eye with tears is wet. 


NO, THAT CAN NEVER BE! 


Yrs! I must leave, —O, yes! 
But not the thoughts of thee; 
For that can never be! 


To absence, loneliness, 

'T is vain, —’t is vain to flee; 
I see thee not the less, 

When memory’s shades I see ; 
And how can I repress 

The rising thoughts of thee? 

No, that can never be! 


Yet must I leave ; — the grave 
Shall be a home for me, 
Where fettered grief shall have 
A portion with the free. 
I other than a slave 
To thy strange witchery 
Can never, never be! 


JORGE MANRIQUE. 


Don Joran Manriauez, the author of the 
following poem, flourished in the latter half of 
the fifteenth century. He followed the profes- 
sion of arms, and died on the field of battle. 
Mariana, in his “ History of Spain,” makes 
honorable mention of him, as being present at 
the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as “a 
youth of estimable qualities, who in this war 
gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died 
young ; and was thus cut off from long exer- 
cising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the 
world the light of his genius, which was 
already known to fame.” He was mortally 
wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the 
year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father 
of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de 
Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and 
song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, 
in the town of Uclés; but, according to the 
poem of his son, in Ocanha. It was his death 
that called forth the poem upon which rests the 
literary reputation of the younger Manrique. 
In the language of his historian, ‘¢ Don Jorge 
Manrique, in an elegant ode, full of poetic 
beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and 
high moral reflections, mourned the death of 
his father as with a funeral hymn.”’ This praise 
is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in 
its kind. Its conception is solemn and beauti- 
ful; and in accordance with it the style moves 
on, —calm, dignified, and majestic. 


—— 


ODE ON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER. 


O, vet the soul her slumbers break ! 

Let thought be quickened, and awake ,— 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 

And death comes softly stealing on, —~ 
How silently ! 


Swiftly our pleasures glide away : 

Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 

The moments that are speeding fast 

We heed not; but the past — the past — 
More highly prize. 


Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; ’ 


cack asd han amt a a REL RR SS eee ett 


| JUAN DE MENA.—CARTAGENA.—MANRIQUE. 


~.£.2———->————————e—e 


| 
| 
| 


— 
— 


656 


And did ‘we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 


Let no one fondly dream again 

That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 

Remembered like a tale that ’s told, 
They pass away. 


Our lives are rivers, gliding free 

To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave: 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 

Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 


Thither the mighty torrents stray, 

Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 

There all are equal. Side by side, 

The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 


I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 
The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves 
Lies poisonous dew. 


To One alone my thoughts arise, — 

The Eternal Truth, — the Good and Wise : 
To Him I ery, 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 

But the world comprehended not 
His deity. 


This world is but the rugged road 

Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above; 

So let us choose that narrow way 

Which leads no traveller’s foot astray 
From realms of love. 


Our cradle is the starting-place ; 
In life we run the onward race, 
And reach the goal ; 
When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 


Did we but use it as we ought, 
This world would school each wandering 
thought 
To its high state. 
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 
Up to that better world on high 
' For which we wait. 


Yes, — the glad messenger of love, 

To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 

Born amid mortal cares and fears, 

He suffered in this vale of tears 

A death of shame. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Behold of what delusive worth 

The bubbles we pursue on earth, 
The shapes we chase, 

Amid a world of treachery ! 

They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 
And leave no trace. 


Time steals them from us, — chances 
Strange, 
Disastrous accidents, and change, 
That come to all: 
Even in the most exalted state, 
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 
The strongest fall, 


Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, — 
The hues that play 
O’er rosy lip and brow of snow, — 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they ? 


The cunning skill, the curious arts, 

The glorious strength that youth imparts 
In life’s first stage, — 

These shall become a heavy weight, 

When Time swings wide his outward gate 
To weary age. 


The noble blood of Gothic name, 

Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array, — 

How, in the onward course of time, 

The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 


Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others by guilt and crime maintain 
The scutcheon that without a stain - 
Their fathers bore. 


Wealth and the high estate of pride, 

With what untimely speed they glide, 
How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, — 

The vassals of a mistress they, 


Of fickle heart. 


These gifts in Fortune’s hands are found ; 
Her swift-revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 


Even could the hand of avarice save 

Its gilded bawbles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 

Let none on such poor hopes rely , 

Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 
And where are they ? 


Earthly desires and sensual lust 
Are passions springing from the dust, — 
They fade and die; 


But, in the life beyond the tomb, 
They seal the immortal spirit’s doom 
Eternally ! 


The pleasures and delights which mask 

In treacherous smiles life’s serious task, 
What are they all, 

But the. fleet coursers of the chase, — 

And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall? 


No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 

Brook no delay, — but onward speed, 
With loosened rein ; 

And when the fatal snare is near, 

We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 


Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 
As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, — 


How busily, each passing hour, 

Should we exert that magic power ! 
What ardor show 

To deck the sensual slave of sin, 

Yet leave the freeborn soul within 
In weeds of woe! 


Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 
Famous in history and in song 
Of olden time, 
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 
Their race sublime. 


Who is the champion? who the strong ¢ 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 
On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd’s breath 
Beside his stall. 


I speak not of the Trojan name, — 
Neither its glory nor its shame 
Has met our eyes ; 
Nor of Rome’s great and glorious dead, — 
Though we have heard so oft, and read, 
Their histories. 


Little avails it now to know 
Of ages past so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 


Like days of old. 


Where is the king, Don Juan? where 
Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon ? 
Where are the courtly gallantries ? 
The deeds of love and high emprise, 


In battle done? 
83 


MANRIQUE. 657 


EI aT et a GI mr an Nea RLS A 


Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
And nodding plume, — 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What, but the garlands, gay and green, 
That deck the tomb? 


Where are the high-born dames, and where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odors sweet ? 
Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel, and breathe love’s ardent flame, 
Low at their feet? 


Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 
They loved of yore? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, — 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 
The dancers wore? 


And he who next the sceptre swayed, 

Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride, — 

O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 

The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 


But, O, how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 
She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 


The countless gifts, — the stately walls, 
The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold; 
Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 
Chambers with ample treasures fraught 


Of wealth untold ; 


The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 

In rich array ; — 
Where shall we seek them now? Alas! 


Like the bright dew-drops on the grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 

Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 


Unskilled to reign, — 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 
But he was mortal, and the breath 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death 
Blasted his years ; 
Judgment of God! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears! 


Spain’s haughty Constable, —the true 
And gallant Master, — whom we knew 
Most loved of all, — 


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SPANISH POETRY. 


Breathe not a whisper of his pride ; 
He on the gloomy scaftold died, — 
Ignoble fall! 


The countless treasures of his care, 
His hamlets green and cities fair, 
lis mighty power, — 
What were they all but grief and shame, 
Tears and a broken heart, when came 
The parting hour? 


His other brothers, proud and high, — 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings, — 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings, — 


What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, — 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died? 


So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
And baron brave, 


That might the sword of empire wield, — 


All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 


Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 

In peaceful days, or war’s alarms, 
When thou dost show, 

O Death, thy stern and angry face, 

One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow ! 


Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, —— 


Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed, — 

High battlements intrenched around, 

Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 


And covered trench, secure and deep, — 
All these cannot one victim keep, 
O Death, from thee, 
When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 
And thy strong shafts pursue their path 
Unerringly ! 


O World! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed! 
Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when, at last, 
The soul is free. 


Our days are covered o’er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil allin gloom; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom 


Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 

And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 

Midway so many toils appear, 

That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 


Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 


By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 


And he, the good man’s shield and shade, 


To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
As Virtue’s son, — 

Roderick Manrique, — he whose name 

Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain’s champion ; 


His signal deeds and prowess high 
Demand no pompous eulogy, — 
Ye saw his deeds ! 


Why should their praise in verse be sung? 


The name that dwells on every tongue 
No minstrel needs. 


To friends a friend ; — how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 
To foes how stern a foe was he! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 


What prudence with the old and wise ! 
What grace in youthful gayeties ! 
In all how sage ! 
Benignant to the serf and slave, 
He showed the base and falsely brave 
A lion’s rage. 


His was Octavian’s prosperous star, 
The rush of Cesar’s conquering car 
At battle’s call ; 
His, Scipio’s virtue ; his, the skill 
And the indomitable will 
Of Hannibal. 


His was a Trajan’s goodness; his 
A Titus’ noble charities 

And righteous laws; 
The arm of Hector, and the might 
Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth’s just cause ; 


The clemency of Antonine ; 

Aurelius’ countenance divine, 
Firm, gentle, still; 

he eloquence of Adrian ; 

And Theodosius’ love to man, 
And generous will; 


In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander’s vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 


The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, — 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 


He left no well filled treasury, 
He heaped’no pile of riches high, 
Nor massive plate ; 
He fought the Moors, — and, in their fall, 
City and tower and castled wall 
Were his estate. 


Upon the hard-fought battle-ground 

Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior’s hand did gain 

The rents, and the long vassal train, 
That conquest gave. 


And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 
Brothers aud bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 


After high deeds, not left untold, 
In the stern warfare which of old 
'T was his to share, 
Such noble leagues he made, that more 
And fairer regions than before 
His guerdon were. 


These are the records, half effaced, 
Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 
On history’s page 5 
But with fresh victories he drew 
Each fading character anew 
In his old age. 


By his unrivalled skill, by great 

And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 

He stood, in his high dignity, 

The proudest knight of chivalry, — 
Knight of the Sword. 


He found his cities and domains 

Beneath a tyrant’s galling chains 
And cruel power ; 

But, by fierce battle and blockade, 

Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 


By the tried valor of his hand 
His monarch and his native land 
Were nobly served ; — 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 
And proud Castile, who shared the glory 
His arms deserved. 


And when s0 oft, for weal or woe, 
His life upon the fatal throw 
Had been cast down, — 
When he had served, with patriot zeal, 
Beneath the banner of Castile, 
His sovereign’s crown, — 


MANRIQUE. 


And done such deeds of valor strong, 
That neither history nor song 
Can count them all; 
Then, on Ocana’s castled rock, 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call, — 


Saying, ‘* Good Cavalier, prepare 

To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 

Put on its armour for the fray, — 
The closing scene. 


« Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 
So prodigal of health and life, 
For earthly fame, 
Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 
Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
They call thy name. 


« Think not the struggle that draws near 
Too terrible for man, nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 


«¢ A life of honor and of worth 

Has no eternity on earth, — 
'T is but a name ; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life which leads 
To want and shame. 


«The eternal life, beyond the sky, 

Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 

The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit 

Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 


« But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 

His prayers and tears ; 
And the brave knight, whose arm endures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 

His standard rears. 


“¢ And thou, brave knight, whose hand has 
poured 
The life-blood of the pagan horde 
O’er all the land, 
In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 


«¢ Cheered onward by this promise sure, 

Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess, 

Depart, — thy hope is certainty ; — 

The third —the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess.” 


“© O Death, no more, no more delay ! 
My spirit longs to flee away 
And be at rest ; — 


SPANISH POETRY. 


The will of Heaven my will shall be, — 
I bow to the divine decree, 


To God’s behest. ; 


And let thoughts profound and holy 
Penetrate his heart, 
Low in dust! 


“My soul is ready to depart, — 

No thought rebels, — the obedient heart 
Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 


Were vain, when ’t is God’s sovereign will 
That we shall die. 


Lead him to the realms sublime, 

Where thy footsteps tread ! 

Teach him, Virgin, so to dread 
Judgment’s soul-tormenting clime, 
That he may harvest for the better time ! 


aa 


iS Rn ae 


**O thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth! 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, — 


—¢—_ 


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JUAN DE LA ENZINA. 


Pence 


Juan DE LA Enzina was born in Sal 
about 1468, and was distinguished as a poet 
and musician. He went to Rome, and became 
Musical Director to Pope Leo the Tenth. In 
1519, he visited Jerusalem, in company with 
the Marques de Tarifa; of which journey he 
afterwards, published a poetical account. He 
Wrote songs, lyric romances, and humorous 
pieces, called disparates. He also wrote sacred 
and profane eclogues in the form of dialogues, 
which were dramatically represented. He died 
at Salamanca, in 1534, 


amanca, 


‘And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 
So patiently ! 
By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
O, pardon me! ” 


As thus the dying warrior prayed, 

Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind, — 

Encircled by his family, 

Watched by affection’s gentle eye, 
So soft and kind, — 


——— 


DON’T SHUT YOUR DOOR. 


His soul to Him who gave it rose. 
God lead it to its long repose, 
Its glorious rest ! 
And, though the warrior’s sun has set, 
Its light shall linger round us yet, 
Bright, radiant, blest. 


Don’r shut your door,—don’t shut your door: 
If Love should come and call, 
"T will be no use at all. 


If Love command, you ’d best obey; '—~ 
Resistance will but hurt you, — 

And make, for that ’s the safest way, 
Necessity a virtue. 

So don’t resist his gentle sway, 
Nor shut your door if he should call ives 
For that ’s no use at all. 


—_@——. 


RODRIGUEZ DEL PADRON. 


Tus poet, the dates of whose birth and death 
are both unknown, was one of the writers of 
the reign of Juan II. The place of his nativity 
was El Padron, in Galicia, from which he is 
named. He wrote amatory poems in the Cas- 
tilian, — leaving his native idiom, the Galician. 
The tragical death of his friend, the Galician 
poet, Macias, surnamed el Enamorado, who was 
slain by a jealous husband for sending too many 
love-poems to his wife, had such an effect upon 
him, that he shut himself up in a Dominican 


cloister, where he became a monk, and remained 
until his death. 


I ’ve seen him tame the wildest beast, 
And strengthen, too, the weakest : 

He loves him most who plagues him least; 
His favorites are the meekest, 

The privileged guests who grace his feast 
Have ne’er opposed his gentle call, — 
For that ’s no use at all. 


He loves to tumble upside down 
All classes, all connections ; 

Of those who fear or wear a crown 
He mingles the affections, 

Till all by Love is overthrown; 
And moated gate or castle-wall 
Will be no use at all. 


cs 


PRAYER, 
Fire of heaven’s eternal ray, 
Gentle and unscorching flame, 
Strength in moments of dismay, 
Grief’s redress and sorrow’s balm, — 
Light thy servant on his way ! 


He is a strange and wayward thing, — 
Young, blind, and full of malice ; 
He makes a shepherd of a king, 
A cottage of a palace. 
’T is vain to murmur; and to fling 
All its dazzling art, Your thoughts away in grief and gall 


| To distrust ; Will be no use at all. 
a 


se lr 


Teach him all earth’s passing folly, 


ENZINA.—ANONYMOUS. 


Ne ee etter mee otter 


He makes the coward brave ; he wakes 
The sleepy with his thunders ; 

In mirth he revels, and mistakes, 
And miracles, and wonders ; 

And many a man he prisoner makes, 
And bolts the door: — you cry and call ; 
But ’t is no use at all. 


LET US EAT AND DRINK, FOR TO-MORROW 
WE DIE.” 


Come, let ’s enjoy the passing hour ; 
For mournful thought 
Will come unsought. 


Come, let ’s enjoy the fleeting day, 
And banish toil, and laugh at care; 
For who would grief and sorrow bear, 
When he can throw his griefs away ? 


ANONYMOUS POEMS FROM THE CANCIONEROS AND ROMANCEROS. 


WHAT WILL THEY SAY OF YOU 
AND ME? 


Wauar of you and me, my lady, 
What will they say of you and me? 


They will say of you, my gentle lady, 
Your heart is love and kindness’ throne, 
And it becomes you to confer it 
On him who gave you all his own ; 
And that as now, both firm and faithful, 
So will you ever, ever be. — 
What of you and me, my lady, 
What will they say of you and me? 


They will say of me, my gentle lady, 
That I for you all else forgot: 
And Heaven’s dark vengeance would have 
scathed me, — 
Its darkest vengeance, —had I not. 
My love, what envy will pursue us, 
Thus linked in softest sympathy ! — 
What of you and me, my lady, 
What will they say of you and me? 


They will say of you, my gentle lady, 
A thousand things, in praises sweet, — 
That other maidens may be lovely, 
But none so lovely and discreet. 
They will wreath for you the crown of beauty, 
And you the queen of love shall be. — 
What of you and me, my lady, 
What will they say of you and me? 


They will say of me, my gentle lady, 
That I have found a prize divine, — 

A prize too bright for toils so trifling, 
So trifling as these toils of mine ; 


Away, away!—begone! I say; 
For mournful thought 
" Will come unsought. 
So let ’s come forth from misery’s cell, 
And bury all our whims and woes ; 
Wherever pleasure flits and goes, 
O, there we ’ll be! O, there we ’ll dwell! 
'T’ is there we ‘ll dwell! ’T is wise and well; 
For mournful thought 
Will come unsought. 


Yes, open all your heart; be glad, — 
Glad as:a linnet on the tree; 
Laugh, laugh away, —and merrily 

Drive every dream away that’s sad. 

Who sadness takes for joy is mad ; 

And mournful thought 
Will come unsought. 


And that from heights so proud and lofty 
Deeper the fall is wont to be. — 
What of you and me, my lady, 
What will they say of you and me? 


he 


FOUNT OF FRESHNESS! 


Fount of freshness! fount of freshness ! 
Fount of freshness and of love! 

Where the little birds of spring-time 
Seek for comfort, as they rove ; 

All except the widowed turtle, — 
Widowed, sorrowing turtle-dove. 


There the nightingale — the traitor ! — 
Lingered pn his giddy way ; 

And these words of hidden treachery 
To the dove I heard him say : 

“© T will be thy servant, lady! 
I will ne’er thy love betray.” 


‘¢ Off ! false-hearted ! vile deceiver ! 
Leave me, nor insult me so: 
Dwell I, then, ’midst gaudy flowerets ? 
Perch I on the verdant bough? 
Even the waters of the fountain 
Drink I dark and troubled now. 
Never will I think of marriage, — 
Never break the widow-vow. 


‘Had I children, they would grieve me, 
They would wean me from my woe: 
Leave me, false one! thoughtless traitor! 
Base one! vain one! sad one! go! 

I can never, never love thee, — 
I will never wed thee, —no!” 


3D | 


SPANISH POETRY. 


| THE TWO STREAMLETS. DEAR MAID OF HAZEL BROW! 
| Two little streams o’er plains of green , Dzar maid of hazel brow ! 
| Roll gently on, —the flowers between ; O, what a sight to see | 
| But each to each defiance hurls, — Thy fingers pull the bough 
{I All their artillery are pearls: Of the white jasmine tree ! 
i! They foam, they rage, they shout,—and then 
| Sink in their silent beds again ; Delighted I look on, 
And melodies of peace are heard And watch thy sparkling eye ; 
From many a gay and joyous bird. And charmed, yet wobegone, 
| I sigh, and then —I sigh. 
I saw a melancholy rill O, I'll retire, and now 
| Burst meekly from a clouded hill: I "ll not disquiet thee ! 
Another rolled behind, —in speed Dear maid of hazel brow, 
An eagle, and in strength a steed ; Do as thou wilt with me, 
It reached the vale, and overtook And pluck the happy bough 
| Its rival in the deepest nook ; Of the white jasmine tree ! 
\ aa And each to each defiance hurls, — 
iy. All their artillery are pearls: Amidst the flowers, sweet maid, 
. They foam, they rage, they shout,—and then I saw her footsteps trip, — 
Ba. Rest in their silent beds again. , And, lo, her cheeks arrayed 
ji ie In crimson from her lip ! 
be f And if two little streamlets break Bright, graceful girl! I vow 
os The law of love for passion’s sake, ’"T would be heayen’s bliss to be, 
fF How, then, should [ a rival see, Dear maid of hazel brow, 
i. 2. | Nor be inflamed by jéalousy ? Crowned with a wreath by thee, — 
i Be For is not Love a mightier power A wreath, — the emerald bough 
‘. | Than mountain stream, or mountain shower? Of the white jasmine tree. 
a fa el as 
i PK SHE COMES TO GATHER FLOWERS. EMBLEM. 
fie 
[ i¥ 4 * Pur on your brightest, richest dress, Wuar shall the land produce, that thou 
i! Wear all your gems, blest vales of ours! Art watering, God, so carefully ? : 
iy My fair one comes in her loveliness, — ‘Thorns to bind around my brow ; 
iL She comes to gather flowers. Flowers to form a wreath for thee.’ 
Streams from such a hand that flow 
Garland me wreaths, thou fertile vale ! Soon shall form a garden fair. 
Woods of green, your coronets bring ! “Yes; but different wreaths shall grow 
Pinks of red, and lilies pale, From the plants I water there.” 
Come with your fragrant offering ! Tell me who, my God, shall wear, 
Mingle your charms of hue and smell, Wear the garlands round their brow ? 
Which Flora wakes jn her springtide *‘T the wreath of thorns shall bear, 
hours! . And the flowery garland thou.” 
My fair one comes across the deliv 
She comes to gather flowers. EV CES 
Twilight of morn! from thy misty tower WHO ’LL BUY A HEART? 
Hang up thy gems on fruits and flower, Poor heart of mine! tormenting heart ! 


Bespangle the dewy ground ! 

Phoebus ! rest on thy ruby wheels, — 
Look, and envy this world of ours ! 

For my fair one now descends the hills, — 
She comes to gather flowers. 


Long hast thou teazed me, —thou and I 
May just as well agree to part. 
Who ’Il buy a heart? who ’Il buy? who ’Il 
buy? 


Scatter the trembling pearls around, 
| 
| 
They offered three testoons, —pbut, no! 


List! for the breeze on wing serene A faithful heart is cheap at more: 
Through the light foliage sails ; ’T is not of those that wandering go, 
Hidden amidst the forest green Like mendicants, from door ‘to door. 
Warble the nightingales, Here ’s prompt possession, — I might tell 
Hailing the glorious birth of day A thousand merits, —come and try ! 
With music’s divinest powers! I have a heart, —a heart to sell : 
Hither my fair one bends her way, — Who ’Il buy a heart? who ’Il buy ? who ’Il 


| She comes to gather flowers. buy? 
Sr nn 


How oft beneath its folds lay hid 
The gnawing viper’s tooth of woe ! — 
Will no one buy? will no one bid? 
'T is going now, —yes, it must go! 
So little offered, it were well 
To keep it yet, —but no, not I! 
I have a heart, —a heart to sell: 
Who ’ll buy a heart? who “Il buy? who ’Il 
buy ? 


I would ’t were gone! for I confess 
I ’m tired, and longing to be freed. 
Come, bid, fair maiden ! — more or less ; — 
So good, —and very cheap indeed. 
Once more, —but once ; —I cannot dwell 
So long, — ’t is going, — going : —fie! 
No offer? —I ’ve a heart to sell : 
Who ’ll buy a heart? who ’ll buy? who al 
buy? 


——_@-—— 


THE MAIDEN WAITING HER LOVER. 


Yx trees, that make so sweet a shade, 
Bend down your waving heads, when he, 
The youth ye honor, through your glade, 
Comes on Love’s messages to me! 
Ye stars, that shine o’er heaven's blue deep, 
And all its arch with glory fill, 
O, wake him, wake him from his sleep, 
If that dear youth be slumbering still ! 


Lark, that hailest the morn above, — 
Nightingale, singing on yonder bough, — 
Hasten, and tell my lingering love, — 
Tell him how long I’ve waited now! 
Past is the midnight’s shade : 
Where is he ? — where? 
Say, can some other maid 
His favors share ? 


se eS 


THE THRUSH. 


. 


Moruer of mine! yon tuneful thrush, 
That fills with songs the happy grove, — 
Tell him those joyous songs to hush ; 
For, ah! my nymph has ceased to love. 


Tell him to sympathize, — for this 
Is music’s triumph, music’s care ; 

Persuade him that another’s bliss 
Makes bitter misery bitterer. 


Then bid him leave the emerald bough, 
Seek her abode, — and warble there ; 
And if young Love has taught him how, 
Be Love’s sweet-tongued interpreter. 


He thinks his notes are notes of joy, — 
That gladness tunes his eager breath : 
O, tell him, mother mine, that I 
Hear in his songs the tones of death! 


ANONYMOUS. 


a a eR nn ee nen PUI MUEATAS TINIE 


If, spite of all those prayers of thine, 
He still will stay, —I ’ll pray that he 
‘May one day feel these pangs of mine, — 
And I, his thoughtless ecstasy. 


Then, mother mine, persuade the thrush 
To charm no more the verdant grove, — 
Bid him his sweetest music hush ; 
For, ah! my nymph has ceased to love. 


——$$—— 


'T IS TIME TO RISE! 


Lona sleep has veiled my spirit’s eyes : 
'T is time to rise !—’t is time to rise’! 


O, ’t is a dull and heavy sleep! 
Asif death’s robe had wrapped the soul; 
As if the poisons, vices steep 
Tn life’s deep-dregged and mingled bow], 
Had chilled the blood, and dimmed the eyes: 
But, lo! the sun towers o’er the deep: 
’'T is time to rise !—’t is time to rise! 


But angels sang in vain, — above 
Their voices blended: “ Soul, awake ! 
Hark to yon babe !— what wondrous love 
Bids God an infant’s weakness take ? — 
Long hast thou slept, — that infant's cries 
Shall the dark mist of night remove: 
'T is time to rise! —’t is time to rise!” 


SS 


SWEET WERE THE HOURS. 


Sweet were the hours, and short as sweet, 
Which, lady, I have passed with thee ; 
But those were dark and infinite 
Which rolled when thou wert far from me! 


For Time, as has been oft expressed, 
Is Fancy’s handmaid, — swift or brief: 
How short — how short, alas! for rest! 
How long — how long, alas! for grief ! 


How lightning-winged do pleasures fly ! 
And Love’s sweet pleasures fleeter yet, — 
On pinions of rapidity, 
That leave but terror, or regret! 


In mournful strains they roll along, 
’Midst hopes deceived and joys bereft ; 
While memory’s departed throng 
Are mourned, my joyless memory’s left. 


I think of days, when morning’s flame, 
Kindled by thee, shone fair and bright ; 

And then the dazzling noonday came, 
And then —the solitude of night. 


’"T was then, upon the elms, whose feet 
The Betis laves, I saw thee write, — 

O raptured hour ! —‘‘I love thee, sweet ao 
And my heart sparkled at the sight. 


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SPANISH 


THE PRISONER’S ROMANCE. 


Sir gaoler! leave the spirit free, — 
The spirit is a wanderer still; 

O gaoler! leave the spirit free, — 
And chain the body, if you will. 


My eyes between the iron bars 

Sull throw their living glances round, — 
And they shall be as Northern Stars, 

By which the friendly port is found ; 
And theirs shall be a tongue to be 

Heard when the mortal voice is still. 
O gaoler! leave the spirit free, — 

And chain the body, if you will. 


You cannot, cannot chain the soul, 
Although the body you confine : 
The spirit bursts through all control, 

And soon is free, —and so ig mine. 
Love has unbounded mastery 
In this your prison. You fulfil, 
Sir gaoler, Love’s supreme decree : 
Love is the lord imperial still. 
O gaoler! leave the spirit free, — 
And chain the body, if you will, 


—_4__. 


YIELD, THOU CASTLE! 


Yr1ExLD, thou castle! yield !— 
I march me to the field. 


Thy walls are proud and high, 
My thoughts all dwell with thee ; 
Now yield thee! yield thee! —I 
Am come for victory ; 
I march me to the field, 


Thy halls are fair and gay, 
And there resides my grief; 

Thy bridge, thy covered way, 
Prepare for my relief; 

I march me to the field. 


Thy towers sublimély rise 
In beauty’s brightest glow ; 
There, there, my comfort lies, — 
O, give me welcome now! 
I march me to the field. 


—_@——. 


AMARYLLIS. 


Sue sleeps ; — Amaryllis 
"Midst flowerets is laid; 

And roses and lilies 
Make the sweet shade. 


The maiden is sleeping, 

Where, through the green hills, 
Manzanares is creeping 

Along with his rills. 


re pe 


POETRY. 


Wake not Amaryllis, 
Ye winds in the glade, 
Where roses and lilies 
Make the sweet shade ! 


The sun, while upsoaring, 
Yet tarries awhile, 
The bright rays adoring 
Which stream from her smile. 


The wood-music still is, — 
To rouse her afraid, — 


Where roses and lilies 
Make the sweet shade. 


oes 


SHARPLY I REPENT OF IT. ° 


Hx who loses gentle lady, 
For a want of ready wit, 
Sharply shall repent of it. 


Once I lost her in a garden, 
Gathering every flower that grows ; 
And her cheeks were red with blushes, 
Red as is the damask rose : 
All Love’s burning blushes those. 
I was dumb, — so short of wit; 
Sharply I repent of it. 


Once J lost her in a garden, 
Gently talking of her love; 

I, poor inexperienced shepherd, 
Did not answer, — did not move. 
If I disappointments prove, 

I may thank my frozen wit; 

Sharply I repent of it. 


———¢——— 


THE SIESTA. 


Airs! that wander and murmur round, 
Bearing delight where’er ye blow, — 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 


Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o’er: 

Sweet be her slumbers, — though in my breast 

' The pain she has waked may slumber no more! 
Breathing soft from the blue profound, 

Bearing delight where’er ye blow, 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

‘ While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 


Airs! that over the bending boughs, 
And under the shadows of the leaves, 
Murmur soft, like my timid vows, 
Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 
Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 
Bearing delight where’er ye blow, 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 


acre shan ANE 1A Pa BD aT A AA ESE tN. ot SAN IO PN 


THE SONG OF THE GALLEY. 


THE 


Yr mariners of Spain, 
Bend strongly on your oars, 
And bring my love again, — 
For he lies among the Moors! 


Ye galleys fairly built, 
Like castles on the sea, 

O, great will be your guilt, 
If ye bring him not to me! 


The wind is blowing strong, — 
The breeze will aid your oars ; 
O, swiftly fly along, — 
For he lies among the Moors ! 


The sweet breeze of the sea 
Cools every cheek but mine ; 
Hot is its breath to me, 
As I gaze upon the brine. 


Lift up, lift up your sail, 
And bend upon your oars ; 
O, lose not the fair gale, — 
For he lies among the Moors ! 


It is a narrow strait, — 

I see the blue hills over ; 
Your coming I ’Il await, 

And thank you for my lover. 


To Mary I will pray, 

While ye bend upon your oars ; 
"T will be a blessed day, 

If ye fetch him from the Moors! 


—}+—— 


WANDERING KNIGHT'S SONG. 


My ornaments are arms, 
My pastime is in war, 

My bed is cold upon the wold, 
My lamp yon star. 


My journeyings are long, 
My slumbers short and broken ; 
From hill to hill I wander still, 
Kissing thy token. 


I ride from land to land, 
I sail from sea to sea: 

Some day more kind I fate may find, 
Some night kiss thee! 


~~ 


SERENADE. 


Wuite myslady sleepeth, 
The dark blue heaven is bright; 
Soft the moonbeam creepeth 


Round her bower all night. 
84 


ANONYMOUS. 


Te ee ene ttm mera eer 


Thou gentle, gentle breeze! 
While my lady slumbers, 
Waft lightly through the trees 
Echoes of my numbers, 
Her dreaming ear to please. 


Should ye, breathing numbers, 
That for her I weave, 
Should ye break her slumbers, 
All my soul would grieve. 
Rise on the gentle breeze, 
And gain her lattice’ height 
O’er yon poplar-trees, — 
But be your echoes light 
As hum of distant bees. 


Al the stars are glowing 
In the gorgeous sky ; 
In the stream scarce flowing 
Mimic lustres lie: 
Blow, gentle, gentle breeze! 
But bring no cloud to hide 
Their dear resplendencies ; 
Nor chase from Zara’s side 
Dreams bright and pure as these. 


—___o——— 


SONG. 


© proap and limpid river! 
O banks so fair and gay! 
O meadows, verdant ever ! 
O groves in green array! 
O, if in field or plain 
My love should hap to he, 
Ask if her heart retain 
A thought of me! 


O clear and crystal dews, 
That in the morning ray, 
All bright with silvery hues, 

Make field and forest gay ! 
O, if in field or plain 

My love should hap to be, 
Ask if her heart retain 

A thought of me! 


O woods, that to the breeze 

With waving branches play ! 
O sands, where oft at ease 

Her careless footsteps stray ! 
O, if in field or plain 

My love should hap to be, 
Ask if her heart retain 

A thought of me! 


O warbling birds, that still 
Salute the rising day, 
And plain and vailey fill 
With your enchanting lay ! 
O, if in field or plain 
My love should hap to be, 
Ask if her heart retain 


A thought of me! 
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665 


JUAN BOSCAN ALMOGAVER. 


Tus poet was born about the close of the 
fifteenth century, at Barcelona. He was held 
in bigh estimation at the court of Charles the 
Fifth. At Granada he became acquainted with 
Andrea Navagero, the Venetian ambassador, by 
whose influence he was induced to imitate the 
Italian poets. He was appointed preceptor to 
the duke of Alba, but passed most of his time 
in literary pursuits at Barcelona. Among other 
labors, he undertook the publication of the works 
of his deceased friend, Garcilaso de la Vega; he 
also translated from the Greek and Italian. 
The date of his death is uncertain ; but it took 
place before 1543. 


a 


ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASO. 


TELL me, dear Garcilaso, — thou 
Who ever aim’dst at Good, 
And, in the spirit of thy vow, 
So swift her course pursued, 
That thy few steps sufficed to place 
The angel in thy loved embrace, 
Won instant, soon as wooed, — 
Why took’st thou not, when winged to flee 
From this dark world, Boscan with thee ? 


ae — Sg I Tt ee a tin Rt _ 
7 at ~~ 


‘Why, when ascending to the star 
Where now thou sitt’st enshrined, 

‘Left’st thou thy weeping friend afar, 
Alas! so far behind ? 

O,1 do think, had it remained 

With thee to alter aught ordained 
By the Eternal Mind, 

Thou wouldst not on this desert spot 

Have left thy other self forgot ! 


For if through life thy love was such, 
As still to take a pride 

In having me so oft and much 
Close to thy envied side, — 

I cannot doubt, I must believe, 

Thou wouldst at least have taken leave 
Of me; or, if denied, 

Have come back afterwards, unblest 

Till I, too, shared thy heavenly rest. 


ee 


FROM HIS EPISTLE TO MENDOZA. 


"T 1s peace that makes a happy life; 

And that is mine through my sweet wife: 
Beginning of my soul, and end, 

I ve gained new being from this friend, — 
She fills each thought and each desire, 

Up to the height I would aspire. 

This bliss is never found by ranging ; 
Regret still springs from saddest changing ; 


SPANISH VOR TRY. 


: 
SECOND PERIOD.—CENTURIES XVIL; XVII 


ee 


Such loves, and their beguiling pleasures, 
Are falser still than magic treasures, 
Which gleam at eve with golden color, 
And change to ashes ere the morrow. 
But now each good that I possess, 
Rooted in truth and faithfulness, 

Imparts delight to every sense ; 

For erst they were a mere pretence, 

And, long before enjoyed:they were, 
They changed-their smiles to grisly care. 
Now pleasures please, — love being single ; 
Evils with its delights ne’er mingle. 


Before, to eat I scarce was able ; 

Some harpy hovered o’er my table, 
Spoiling each dish when I would dine, 
And mingling gall with gladsome wine. 
Now, the content, that foolish I 

Still missed in my philosophy, 

My wife with tender smiles bestows, 
And makes me triumph o’er my woes; 
While with her finger she effaces 

Of my past folly all the traces, 

And, graving pleasant thoughts instead, 
Bids me rejoice that I am wed. 


And thus, by moderation bounded, 

I live by my own goods surrounded: 
Among my friends, my table spread 
With viands we may eat nor dread ; 
And at my side my sweetest wife, 
Whose gentleness admits no strife, — 
Except of jealousy the fear, 

Whose soft reproaches more endear; 
Our darling children round us gather, — 
Children who will make me grandfather. 
And thus we pass in town our days, 
Till the confinement something weighs ; 
Then to our village haunt we fly, 
Taking some pleasant company,— 
While those we love not never come 
Anear our rustic, leafy home : 

For better ’t is t’ philosophize, 

And learn a lesson truly wise 

From lowing herd and bleating flock, 
Than from some men of vulgar stock; 
And rustics, as they hold the plough, 
May often good advice bestow. 

Of love, too, we may have the joy: 

For Phebus as a shepherd-boy 
Wandered once among the clover, 

Of some fair shepherdess the lover ; 
And Venus wept, in rustic bower, 
Adonis turned to purple flower ; 
And Bacchus, ’midst the mountains drear, 
Forgot the pangs of jealous fear ; 
And Nymphs that in the waters play 
('T is thus that ancient fables say), 


And Dryads fair among the trees, 

Fain the sprightly Fauns would please. 
So in their footsteps follow we, 

My wife and I, —as fond and free ; 

Love in our thoughts and in our talk, 
Direct we slow our sauntering walk 

To some near murmuring rivulet, 
Where, ’neath a shady beech, we sit, 
Hand clasped in hand, and side by side, — 
With some sweet kisses, too, beside, — 
Contending there, in combat kind, 
Which best can love with constant mind. 


As the stream flows among the grass, 
Thus life’s clear stream with us does pass : 
We take no count of day nor night, 
While, ministering to our delight, 
Nightingales all sweetly sing, 

And loving doves, with folded wing, 
Above our heads are heard to coo ; 

And far ’s the ill-betiding crow. 

We do not think of cities then, 

Nor envy the resorts of men ; 

Of Italy the softer pleasures, — 

Of Asia, too, the golden treasures, — 
All these are nothing in our eyes ; 

The while a book beside us lies, 
Which tells the tales of olden time, 

Of gods and men the hests sublime, — 
Rneas’ voyage by Virgil told, 

Or song divine of Homer old, 

Achilles’ wrath and all his glory, 

Or wandering Ulysses’ story, 
Propertius too, who well indites, 

And the soft plaints Catullus writes ; 
These will remind me of past grief, 
Till, thinking of the sweet relief 

My wedded state confers on me, 

My by-gone ‘scapes I careless eye: 

O, what are all those struggles past, 
The fiery pangs which did not last, 
Now that I live secure for aye, 

In my dear wife’s sweet company ° 

I have no reason to repine, — 

My joys are hers, and hers are mine ; 
Our tranquil hearts their feelings share, 
And al! our pleasures mutual are. 

Our eyes drink in the shady light 

Of wood, and vale, and grassy height ; 
We hear the waters, as they stray, 
And from the mountains wend their way, 
Leaping all lightly down the steep, 
Till at our feet they murmuring creep ; 
And, fanning us, the evening breeze 
Plays gamesomely among the trees ; 
While bleating flocks, as day grows cold, 
Gladly seek their sheltering fold. 

And when the sun is on the hill, 

And shadows vast the valleys fill, 

And waning day, grown near its close, 
Sends tired men to their repose ; 

We to our villa sauntering walk, 

And of the things we see we talk. 

Our friends come out in gayest cheer, 
To welcome us, —and fain would hear 


ro" 


If my sweet wife be tired, — and smile, — 
Inviting us to rest the while. 
Then to sup we take our seat, — 

Our table plentiful and neat, 

Our viands without sauces dressed ; 

Good appetite the healthy zest 
To fruits we ’ve plucked in our own bowers, 
And gayly decked with odorous flowers, 
And rustic dainties, — many a one. 
When this is o’er and supper done, 
The evening passes swift along, 

In converse gay and sweetest song ; 
Till slumber, stealing to the eye, 
Bids us to our couches hie. 

Thus our village life we live, 

And day by day such joys receive 5 
Till, to change the homely scene, 
Lest it pall while too serene, 

To the gay city we remove, 

Where other things there are to love ; 
And graced by novelty, we find 

The city’s concourse to our mind. 
While our new coming gives a joy, 
Which ever staying might destroy, 
We spare all tedious compliment ; 
Yet courtesy with kind intent, 
Which savage tongues alone abuse, 
Will often the same language use. 
Thus in content we thankful live ; 
And for one ill for which we grieve, 
How much of good our dear home blesses . 
Mortals must ever find distresses ; 

But sorrow loses half its weight, 

And every moment has its freight 

Of joy, which our dear friends impart, 
And with their kindness cheer my heart, 
While, never weary us to visit, 

They seek our house when we are in it: 
If we are out, it gives them pain, 

And on the morrow come again. 

Noble Dural can cure our sadness, 

With the infection of his gladness. 
Augustin, too, — well read in pages, 
Productions of the ancient sages, 

And the romances of our Spain, — 

Will give us back our smiles again ; 
While he, with a noble gravity, 
Adorned by the gentlest suavity, 
Recounts us many a tale or fable, 
Which well to tell he is most able, — 
Serious, mingled with jokes and glee, 
The which as light and shade agree. 
And Monleon, our dearest guest, 

Will raise our mirth by many a jest; 
For while his laughter rings again, 

Can we to echo it refrain ? 

And other merriment is ours, 

To gild with joy the lightsome hours. 
But all too trivial would it look, 
Written down gravely in a book: 

And it is time to say adieu, 

Though more I have to write to you. 
Another letter this shall tell : 

So now, my dearest friend, farewell ! 


DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA. 


a 


Dizco Hurrapo pe Menpoza was born at 
Granada, about 1503. Being destined to the 
church, he received a literary education, and at 
the University of Salamanca became a proficient 
in the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic lan- 
guages. Finding the ecclesiastical profession 
ill-suited to his taste, Mendoza became a sol- 
dier and statesman, and enjoyed the favor of 
ane Charles the Fifth, who sent him ambassador to 
Venice. In 1545, he was appointed to attend, 


hit Trent; and in 1547, was made Governor and 
ib Captain-General of Siena. He held this sta- 
cei tion until 1554. The arbitrary character of his 
fe administration exposed him to the hatred of the 
i Tuscan Liberals, and several attempts were made 
to assassinate him. Notwithstanding these 
troubles, he employed himself in literary labors, 
ie particularly in the collection of Greek and Latin 


ie i || manuscripts. After the abdication of Charles 
pe fat the Fifth, he attached himself to the court of 
tf ae tae Philip fhe Second. He was imprisoned for hay- 
> Seba ay ing thrown a rival, in an affair of gallantry, from 
| 


Dy tne the balcony of the palace into the street, and 
| ; was afterwards banished to Granada, where he 
ii wrote his celebrated history of the “« Guerra de 
Granada.”’ After a retirement of several years, 
he reappeared at court at Valladolid, but died 
a few months afterward, in the year 1575. 
Mendoza wrote poetical epistles, in imitation 
of Horace, canciones, redondillas, quintillas, 


eS villancicos, and burlescas or satires. Among 
vi ; his most celebrated prose works is the comic 
a romance entitled “ Vida de Lazarillo de Tor- 
1 ae mes,” written while he was a student. This- 


work was the parent of the gusto picaresco. 


—_—— 


FROM HIS EPISTLE TO LUIS DE ZUNIGA. 


ANOTHER world I seek, a resting-place, 
Sweet times and seasons, and a happy home, 
Where I in peace may close my mortal race. 

There shall no evil passions dare presume 
To enter, turbulence, nor discontent : 

Love to my honored king shall there find room. 
¥ And if to me his clemency be sent, 

Bs). Giving me kindly wherewithal to live, 
if I will rejoice ; if not, will rest content. 

5 My days shall pass all idly fugitive, 

Careless my meals, and at no solemn hour ; 
My sleep and dreams such as content can give, 

Then will I tell, how, in my days of power, 
Into the East Spain’s conquering flag I led, 
All undismayed amid the fiery shower; 

While young and old around me throng in 

dread, 
Fair dames, and idle monks, a coward race, 
And tremble while they hear of foes that fled. 

And haply some ambassador may grace 
My humble roof, resting upon his way: 

His route and many dangers. he will trace 


NN 


SPANISH POETRY. 


as Imperial Plenipotentiary, at the Council of 


Upon my frugal board, and much will say 
Of many valiant deeds; but he ‘Il conceal 
His secret purpose from the light of day ; 

To mortal none that object he ’Il reveal : 
His secret mission you shall never find, 


Though you should se 
‘ed steel. 


—_—_—— 


j SONNET. 


Now, by the Muses won, I seize my lyre; 
Now, roused by valor’s stern and manly call,\ 
I grasp my flaming sword, in storm and fire, 
To plant my banner on some hostile wall; 
Now sink my wearied limbs to silent rest, 
And now I wake and watch the lonely night: 
But thy fair form is on my heart impressed, 
Through every change, a vision of delight. 
Where’er the glorious planet sheds his beams, 
Whatever lands his golden orb illumes, 

Thy memory ever haunts my blissful dreams, 
And a delightful Eden round me blooms: 
Fresh radiance clothes the earth, the sea, and 


skies, 


ee eee 


To mark the day that gave thee to mine eyes. 


GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 


GarciLaso DE LA VuGa was born at Toledo, 
in 1500, or, according to others, in 1503, of an 
ancient and noble family. His love of litera- 
ture was kindled by the study of the ancients. 
He lived long in Ttaly, and 
imitated the Italians 
He travelled in Ge 
the Emperor Charles the Fifth. 
early in the career of arms, 
the battle of P 
Saint Jago. 


_— 


in his writings 
, like his friend Boscan. 
rmany, in the service of 


arch his heart with point- 


He engaged - 


and his bravery at. 
avia gained him the cross of 
He afterwards served in the ex- 
pedition against Solyman, and, in 1535, accom- 
panied the forces that laid siege to Tunis. In 
the following year, he held a command in the 
imperialist army that invaded France; and in 
an attempt to take a tower, garrisoned by Moors, 
near Fréjus, received a wound, of which he died 
twenty days afterward, at Nice. 

The gallant and noble character of Garcilaso, 
crowned by a fine poetical genius, has given 
occasion to compare him to Lord Surrey. His 
works are eclogues, epistles, odes, and sonnets. 
His eclogues, of which the first is considered a 
masterpiece, mark an epoch in Spanish poetry, 
and have gained him the title of the Prince of 
Castilian Poets. 


FROM THE FIRST ECLOGUE. 


SALICIO. 


tain, 


Turovucu thee the silence of the shaded glen, 
Through thee the horror of the lone] 


Ple 


y mountain, 


ased me no less than the resort of men : 
The breeze, the summer wood, and lucid foun- 


1 


The purple rose, white lily of the lake, 

Were sweet for thy sweet sake ; 

For thee the fragrant primrose, dropped with dew, 

Was wished when first it blew. 

O, how completely was I in all this 

Myself deceiving! O, the different part 

That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss 

Of seeming love the traitor in thy heart ! 

This my severe misfortune, long ago, 

Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by 

On the black storm, with hoarse, sinister cry, 

Clearly presage! In gentleness of woe, 

Flow forth, my tears!—’t is meet that ye 
should flow ! 


How oft, when slumbering in the forest brown, 
Deeming it Fancy’s mystical deceit, 

Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown ! 
One day, methought that from the noontide heat 
I drove my flocks to drink of Tagus’ flood, 
And, under curtain of its bordering wood, 
Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream, 
I know not by what magic, changed its track, 
And in new channels, by an unused way, 


GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 


Rolled its warped waters back ; 

Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat ex- 
treme, 

Went ever following, in their flight astray, 

The wizard waves! In gentleness of woe, 

Flow forth, my tears!—’t is meet that ye 
should flow ! 


In the charmed ear of what beloved youth 
Sounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest 
thou 
Thy beautiful 
Anchors thy 
Thy laughing lip, and hopes thy 

charms, 
Locked in the embraces of thy two white arms? 
Say thou, — for whom hast thou so rudely left 
My love? or stolen, who triumphs in the theft ? 
I have not yeta bosom so untrue 
To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view 
My darling ivy, torn from me, take root 
Against another wall or prosperous pine, — 
To see my virgin vine 
Around another elm in marriage hang 
Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit, 
Without the torture of a jealous pang, 
Even to the loss of life! In gentle woe, 
Flow forth, my tears!—’t is meet that ye 


should flow ! 


blue eyes? on whose proved truth 
broken faith? who presses now 
heaven of 


i YT 


NEMOROSO. 


Smooth-sliding waters, pure and crystalline ! 
Trees, that reflect your image in their breast! 
Green pastures, 


shades ! 
Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades ! 


Mosses, and reverend ivies serpentine, 


and pine, 
And, climbing, crown their crest ! 


full of fountains and fresh 


That wreath your verdurous arms round beech 


Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed, 

With what delicious ease and pure content 
Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged, 
Enchanted and refreshed where’er I went? 
How many blissful noons I here have spent 

In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers, 
And with my own fond fancies, from a boy, 
Discoursed away the hours, — 

Discovering naught in your delightful bowers, 
But golden dreams, and memories fraught with 


joy! 
where I now 


And in this very valley, 
and languish, have I 


Grow sad, and droop, 
lain 

At ease, with happy heart and placid brow : 

O pleasure fragile, fugitive, and vain ! 

Here, I remember, walking once at noon, 

I saw Eliza standing at my side: 

O cruel fate! O fine-spun web, too soon 

By Death’s sharp scissors clipped ! sweet, suffer- 
ing bride, 

In womanhood’s most interesting prime, 

Cut off, before thy time! 

How much more suited had his surly stroke 

Been to the strong thread of my weary life ! 

Stronger than steel ! — since, in the parting 
strife 

From thee, it has not broke. 


Where are the eloquent, mild eyes that drew 

My heart where’er they wandered ? where the 
hand, 

White, delicate, and pure as melting dew, — 

Filled with the spoils, that, proud of thy com- 
mand, 

My feelings paid in tribute ? the bright hair 

That paled the shining gold, that did contemn 

The glorious opal as a meaner gem ? 

The ‘bosom’s ivory apples, — where, ah, where? 

Where now the neck, to whiteness over- 
wrought, 

That like a column with genteelest scorn 

Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought? 

Gone! ah, forever gone 

To the chill, desolate, and dreary pall! 

And mine the grief, —the wormwood and the 


gall ! 


Who would have said, my love, when late, 
through this 

Romantic valley, we from bower to bower 

Went gathering violets and primroses, 

That I should see the melancholy hour 

So soon arrive that was to end my bliss, 

And of my love destroy both fruit and flower ¢ 

Heaven on my head has laid a heavy hand; 

Sentencing, without hope, without appeal, 

To loneliness and everduring tears 

The joyless remnant of my future years: 

But that which most I feel 

Is, to behold myself obliged to bear 

This condemnation to a life of care ; 

Lone, blind, forsaken, under sorrow’s spell, 

A gloomy captive in a gloomy cell. 


| 670 


Since thou hast left us, fulness, rest, and peace 

Have failed the starveling flocks; the field 
supplies é 

To the toiled hind but pitiful increase ; 

All blessings change to illé; the clinging weed 

Chokes the thin corn, and in its stead arise 

Pernicious darnel and the fruitless reed, 

The enamelled earth, that from her verdant 

i breast 

Lavished spontaneously ambrosial flowers, 

The very sight of which can soothe to rest 

A thousand cares, and charm our sweetest hours, 

That late indulgence of her bounty scorns, 

And in exchange shoots forth but tangled bow- 
ers, 

; | But brambles rough with thorns ; 

‘ Whilst, with the tears that falling steep their 

+ root, 

My swollen eyes increase the bitter fruit, 


concise eeee 
pet erat nem |r -+ 


— 


Reet 
eho 


sae | alaenl 
Ree ee. 


I ee nee oct mae . AON 


As at the set of sun the shades extend, 

And, when its circle sinks, that dark obscure 

Rises to shroud the world, on which attend 

The images that set our hair on end, 

Silence, and shapes mysterious as the grave ; 

Till the broad sun sheds once more from the 
wave 

His lively lustre, beautiful and pure : 

Such shapes were in the night, and such ill 
gloom, 

At thy departure ; still tormenting fear 

Haunts and must haunt me, until Death shall 
doom . 

The so much wished-for sun to reappear 

Of thine angelic face, my soul to cheer, 

Resurgent from the tomb. 


As the sad nightingale, in some green wood 

Closely embowered, the cruel hind arraigns 

Who from their pleasant nest her plumeless 
brood 

Has stolen, whilst she with pains 

Winged the wide forest for their food, and 
now, 

Fluttering with joy, returns to the loved bough, — 

The bough where naught remains; 

Dying with passion and desire, she flings 

A thousand concords from her various bill, 

Till the whole melancholy woodland rings 

bag With gurglings sweet, or with philippics shrill ; 

3 we Throughout the silent night, she not refrains 

Re | Her piercing note and her pathetic ery, 
. But calls, as witness to her wrongs and pains, 

1 he The listening stars and the responding sky : 

be 


‘ee So Tin mournful song pour forth my pain; 

So I lament — lament, alas! in vain — 

The cruelty of Death : untaught to spare, 
‘The ruthless spoiler ravished from my breast 
Each pledge of happiness and joy, that there 
Had its beloved home and nuptial nest. 
‘Swift-seizing Death ! through thy despite I fill 
i . The whole world with my passionate lament, 

Pyeng Importuning the skies and valleys shrill 

My tale of wrongs to echo and resent. 


————_— 


SPANISH POETRY. 


—__—. 


A grief so vast no consolation knows ; 
Ne’er can the agony my brain forsake, 
Till suffering consciousness in frenzy close, 
Or till the shattered chords of being break. 


Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold, 

One treasured ringlet in white silk I keep 

For ever at my heart, which when unrolled, 

Fresh grief and pity o’er my spirit creep ; 

And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold, 

O’er the dear pledge will, like an infant’s, 
weep: 

With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry 

The tears from off it, number one by one 

The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie ; 

Mine eyes, this duty done, 

Give over weeping, and with slight relief 

I taste a short forgetfulness of grief. 


But soon, with all its first-felt horrors fraught, 
That gloomy night returns upon my brain, 
Which ever wrings my spirit with the thought 
Of my deep loss and thine unaided pain: 
Even now, I seem to see thee pale recline 

In thy most trying crisis, and to hear 

The plaintive murmurs of that voice divine, 
Whose tones might touch the ear 

Of blustering winds, and silence their dispute ; 
That gentle voice — now mute — 
Which to the merciless Lucina prayed, 

In utter agony, for aid, —for aid ! 

Alas, for thine appeal! Discourteous power, 
Where wert thou gone in that momentous hour? 


Or wert thou in the gray woods hunting deer? 

Or with thy shepherd-boy entranced? Could 
aught 

Palliate thy rigorous cruelty, to turn 

Away thy scornful, cold, indifferent ear 

From my moist prayers, by no affliction moved, 

And sentence one so beauteous and beloved 

To the funereal urn ? 

O, not to mark the throes 

Thy Nemoroso suffered, whose concern 

It ever was, when pale the morning rose, 

To drive the mountain beasts into his toils, 

And on thy holy altars heap the spoils ; 

And thou, ungrateful, smiling with delight, 

Could’st leave my nymph to die before my sight ! 


Divine Eliza! since the sapphire sky 
Thou measurest now on angel-wings, and feet 
Sandalled with immortality, O, why 

Of me forgetful? Wherefore not entreat 
To hurry on'the time when I shall see 

The veil of mortal being rent in twain, 
And smile that I am free ? 

In the third circle of that happy land, 
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, 
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain, 
Other romantic streams and mountains blue, 


Fresh.flowery vales, and a new shady shore, 


Where I may rest, and ever in my view 


Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
Of being sundered more ? 


ey renner! 2 528! ke) 


nen 


snastrceaninnante ine SARS aa AS Acai ne ee am iN al bl Hm 


ss cawac ha SITS Ait Be A BS NAY Riana nna 


FROM THE THIRD ECLOGUE. 


In a sweet solitude beside the flood 

Is a green grove of willows, trunk-entwined 
With ivies climbing to tle top, whose hood 

Of glossy leaves, with all its boughs combined, 
So interchains and canopies the wood, 

That the hot sunbeams can no access find ; 
The water bathes the mead, the flowers around 
It glads, and charms the ear with its sweet sound. 


The glassy river here so smoothly slid, 
With pace so gentle, on its winding road, 
The eye, in sweet perplexity misled, 
Could scarcely tell which way the current 
flowed. 
Combing her locks of gold, a Nymph her head 
Raised from the water where she made abode, 
And, as the various landscape she surveyed, 
Saw this green meadow, full of flowers and 
shade. 


That wood, the flowery turf, the winds that wide 
Diffused its fragrance, filled her with delight ; 

Birds of all hues in the fresh bowers she spied, 
Retired, and resting from their weary flight. 

It was the hour when hot the sunbeams dried 
Earth’s spirit up, —’t was noontide still as 

night ; 
Alone, at times, as of o’erbrooding bees, 
Mellifluous murmurs sounded from the trees. 


Having a long time lingered to behold 
The shady place, in meditative mood, 
She waved aside her flowing locks of gold, 
Dived to the bottom of the crystal flood, 
And, when to her sweet sisters she had told 
The charming coolness of this vernal wood, 
Prayed and advised them to its green retreat 
To take their tasks, and pass the hours of heat. 


She had not: long to sue ; —the lovely three 
Took up their work, and, looking forth, de- 
scried, 
Peopled with violets, the sequestered lea, 
And toward it hastened: swimming, they 
divide 
The clear glass, wantoning in sportful glee 
Through the smooth wave; till, issuing from 
the tide, 
Their white feet dripping to the sands they yield, 
And touch the border of that verdant field. 


Pressing the elastic moss with graceful tread, 
They wrung the moisture from their shining 
hair, 
Which, shaken loose, entirely overspread 
Their beauteous shoulders and white bosoms 


bare ; ; 
Then, drawing forth rich webs whose spangled 
thread 
Might in fine beauty with themselves com- 
pare, 


They sought the shadiest.covert of the grove, 
And sat them down, conversing as they wove. 


GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 


671 | 


Their woof was of the gold which Tagus brings 

From the proud mountains in his flow di- 
vine, 

Well sifted from the sands wherewith it springs, 
Of all admixture purified and fine ; 

And of the green flax fashioned into strings, 
Subtile and lithe to follow and combine 

With the bright vein of gold, by force of fire 

Already drawn into resplendent wire. 


The subtile yarn their skill before had stained 
With dyes pellucid as the brightest found 
On the smooth shells of the blue sea, ingrained 

By sunbeams in their warm and radiant round: 
Each Nymph, for skill in what her fingers 
feigned, 
Equalled the works of painters most re- 
nowned, — 
Apelles’ Venus, or the famous piece 
Wherein Timanthes veils the grief of Greece. 


With these fair scenes and classic histories 
The webs of the four sisters were inlaid, 
Which, sweetly flushed with variegated dyes, 
In clear obscure of sunshine and of shade, 
Each figured object to observant eyes 
In rich relief so naturally displayed, 
That, like the birds deceived by Zeuxis’ grapes, 
It seemed the hand might grasp their swelling 
shapes. 


But now the setting sun with farewell rays 
Played on the purple mountains of the west, 
And in the darkening skies gave vacant place 
For Dian to display her silver crest ; 
The little fishes in her loving face 
Leaped up, gay lashing with their tails the 
breast 
Of the clear stream, when from their tasks the 
four 
Arose, and arm in arm resought the shore. 


Each in the tempered wave had dipped her foot, 
And toward the water bowed her swanlike 
breast, 
Down to their crystal hermitage to shoot, — 
When suddenly sweet sounds their ears ar- 
rest, 
Mellowed by distance, of the pipe or flute, 
So that to listen they perforce were pressed : 
To the mild sounds wherewith the valleys ring 
Two shepherd youths alternate ditties sing. 


Piping through that green willow wood they 
roam 
Amidst their flocks, which, now that day is 
spent, 
They to the distant folds drive slowly home, 
Across the verdurous meadows dew-besprent, 
Whitening the dun shades, onward as they come: 
Clear and more clear the fingered instrument 
Sounds in accord with the melodious voice, 
And cheers their task, and makes the woods 
rejoice. | 


)} 
¢ 


ome 


f ’ 
Be 
ay 

hee 
we 


CDE TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.* 


Hap I the sweet-resounding lyre 
Whose voice could in a moment chain 
The howling wind’s ungoverned ire, 
And movement of the raging main, 
On savage hills the leopard rein, 
The lion’s fiery soul entrance, 
And lead along with golden tones 
The fascinated trees and stones 
In voluntary dance, — 


Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide, 
It e’er should celebrate the scars, 

Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyed 
Beneath the gonfalon of Mars ; 
Or, borne sublime on festal cars, 

The chiefs who to submission sank 
The rebel German’s soul of soul, 
And forged the chains that now control 

The frenzy of the Frank. 


No, no! its harmonies should ring 

In vaunt of glories all thine own, — 
A discord sometimes from the string 

Struck forth to make thy harshness known; 

The fingered chords should speak alone 
Of Beau‘y’s triumphs, Love’s alarms, 

Ané one who, made by thy disdain 

Pale as a lily clipped in twain, 

Bewails thy fatal charms. 


Of that poor captive, too contemned, 

I speak, — his doom you might deplore, — 
In Venus’ galliot-shell condemned 

To strain for life the heavy oar. 

Through thee, no longer, as of yore, 
Hc tames the unmanageable steed, 

With curb of gold his pride restrains, 

Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins 

Torments*him into speed. 


Not now he wields for thy sweet sake 
The sword in his accomplished hand, 
Nor grapples, like a poisonous snake, 
The wrestler on the yellow sand. 
The old heroic harp his hand 
Consults not now; it can but kiss 
The amorous lute’s dissolving strings,’ 
Which murmur forth a thousand things 
Of banishment from bliss. 


Through thee, my dearest friend and best 
Grows harsh, importunate, and grave ; 
Myself have been his port of rest 
From shipwreck on the yawning wave ; 
Yet now so high his passions rave 
Above lost reason’s conquered laws, 
That not the traveller, ere he slays 
The asp, its sting, as he my face 
So dreads or so abhors. 


? 


In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide, 
Thou wert not cradled, wert not born ; 
eee 
* This ode was addressed to a lady residing in that quar- 
ter of Naples called IZ Seggio di Gnido ; and on this ac- 
count the poet styles her ‘‘ The Flower of Gnido.’? 


——— 


SPANISH POETRY. 


ee EE EE ee 


She who has not a fault beside 
Should ne'er be signalized for scorn ; 
Else, tremble at the fate forlorn 
Of Anaxarete, who spurned 
The weeping Iphis from her gate, — 
Who, scofting long, relenting late, 
Was to a statue turned. 


Whilst yet soft pity she repelled, 
Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride, 
From her friezed window she beheld, 
Aghast, the lifeless suicide: 
Around his lily neck «was tied 
What freed his spirit from her chains, 
“And purchased with a few short sighs 
For her immortal agonies, 
Imperishable pains. 


Then first she felt her bosom bleed 
With love and pity ; vain distress ! 
O, what deep rigors must succeed 
This first, sole touch of tenderness ! 
Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, 
Nailed on his wavering corse ; each bone, 
Hardening in growth, invades her flesh, 
Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh, 
Now stagnates into stone. 


From limb to limb the frosts aspire, 
Her vitals curdle with the cold; 
The blood forgets its crimson fire, 
The veins that e’er its motion rolled ; 
Till now the virgin’s glorious mould 
Was wholly into marble changed, 
On which the Salaminians gazed, 
Less at the prodigy amazed, 
Than of the crime avenged. 


Then tempt not thou Fate’s angry arms 
By cruel frown or icy taunt ; 
But let thy perfect deeds and charms 
To poets’ harps, Divinest, grant 
Themes worthy their immortal vaunt : 
Else must our weeping strings presume 
To celebrate in strains of woe 
The justice of some signal blow 
That strikes thee to the tomb. 


SONNETS. 


As the fond mother, when her suffering child 

Asks some sweet object of desire with tears, 

Grants it, although her fond affection fears 

"T will double all its sufferings ; reconciled 

To more appalling evils by the mild 

Influence of present pity, shuts her ears 

To prudence; for an hour’s repose, prepares 

Long sorrow, grievous pain : I, lost and wild, 

Thus feed my foolish and infected thought 

That asks for dangerous aliment; in vain 

I would withhold it; clamorous, again 

It comes, and weeps, and I ’m subdued, — and 
naught 

Can o’er that childish will a victory gain: 

So have despair and gloom their triump.1s 
wrought! 


FERNANDO DE HERRERA. 


writer as 
| 
i 


HERRERA. 


673 


Lapy, thy face is written in my soul ; 

And whensoe’er I wish to chant thy praise, 
On that illumined manuscript I gaze : 

Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll. 
In this dear study all my days shall roll ; 

And though this book can ne’er the half receive 
Of what in thee is charming, I believe 

In that I see not, and thus see the whole 

With faith’s clear eye. I but received my breath 
To love thee, my ill genius shaped the rest ; 
’T is now that soul’s mechanic act to love thee: 
I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed ; 

I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee ; 
In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death. 


— ~—— 


Frernanpo pE Herrera, surnamed the Di- 
vine, was born at Seville, about 1510. Little 
is known of the circumstances of his life. He 
appears to have been an ecclesiastic, but of 
what rank is not recorded. He is spoken of as 
an excellent scholar in Latin, and as having a 
moderate knowledge of Greek. He read the 
best authors in the modern languages, and stud- 
ied profoundly the Castilian, of which he bhe- 
came a distinguished master. He probably died 
not long after 1590. 

Herrera was a vigorous and elegant prose- 
well as poet. Many of his works, 
however, are lost. His best productions are 
lyrical. The ode on the battle of Lepanto, and 
that on the death of Sebastian of Portugal, are 
of remarkable excellence. He is praised by 
Cervantes, who says, ‘¢ The ivy of his fame will 
cling to the walls of immortality.” 


ODE ON THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO. 


Tue tyrants of the world from hell’s abysm 
Summoned the demons of revenge and pride, 
The countless hosts in whom they did con- 

fide, — 

And gathering round the flag of despotism 
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, — 

All who had bound men’s souls within their 

den, — 

Tore down the loftiest cedar of the height, 
The tree sublime; and, drunk with anger then, 
Threatened in ghastly bands our few astonished 

men. 


The little ones, confounded, trembled then 
At their appalling fury; and their brow 
Against the Lord of Hosts these impious men 


| Uplifting, sought, with Heaven-insulting vow, 
The triumph of thy people’s overthrow, — 
|| Their armed hands extending, and their crest 


Moving omnipotent, because that thou 
Wert as a tower of refuge, to invest 
All whom man’s quenchless hope had prompted 
to resist. 


85 


Thus said those insolent and scornful ones: 

«« Knows not this earth the vengeance of our 
wrath, 

The strength of our illustrious fathers’ thrones ? 
Or did the Roman power avail? or hath 
Rebellious Greece, in her triumphant path, |! 

Scattered the seeds of freedom on your land? 
Italia! Austria! who shall save you both ? 

Is it your God? — Ha, ha! Shall he withstand 

The glory of our might, our conquering right- 

hand ? 


‘¢Our Rome, now tamed and humbled, into tears 
And psalms converts her songs of freedom’s 

rights ; 

And for her sad and conquered children fears 
The carnage of more Canne’s fatal fights. 
Now Asia with her discord disunites ; 

Spain threatens with her horrors to assail 
All who still harbour Moorish proselytes ; 

Each nation’s throne a traitor crew doth veil : 

And, though in concord joined, what could their 

might avail ? 


‘¢ Rarth’s haughtiest nations tremble and obey, 

And to our yoke their necks in peace incline, 
And peace, for their salvation, of us pray, — 

Cry, ‘Peace!’ but that means death, when 

monarchs sign. 

Vain is their hope! their lights obscurely 

shine ! — 
Their valiant gone, — their virgins in our 
powers, — 

Their glory to our sceptres they resign : 
From Nile to Euphrates and Tiber’s towers, 
Whate’er the all-seeing sun looks down on, — 

all is ours.”’ 


Thou, Lord! who wilt not suffer that thy glory 
They should usurp ‘who in their might put 
trust, 
Hearing the vauntings of these anarchs hoary, 
These holy ones beheld, whose horrid lust 
Of triumph did thy sacred altars crust 


With blood; nor wouldst thou longer that the 
base | 
Should be permitted to oppress thy just, 
Then, mocking, cry to Heaven, —* Within what | 
place 
Abides the God of these ? where hideth he his | 
face? <; | 
( 


For the due glory of thy righteous name, 
For the just vengeance of thy race oppressed, | 
Forthe deep woes the wretched loud proclaim, 
In pieces hast thou dashed the dragon's crest, 
And clipped the wings of the destroying pest: 
Back to his cave he draws his poisonous fold, 
And trembling hisses; then in torpid breast 
Buries his fear: for thou, to Babel sold 
Captive, no more on earth thy Zion wilt behold. 


Portentous Egypt, now with discord riven, 
The avenging fire and hostile spear affright ; 
And the smoke, mounting to the light of heaven, | 


O’erclouds her cities in its pall of night : 
35 


674 


In tears and solitude she mourns the sight. 
But thou, O Grecia! the fierce tyrant’s stay, 
The glory of her excellence and might, 
Dost thou lament, old Ocean Queen, thy prey, — 
Nor fearing God, dost seek thine own regen- 
erate day ? 


Wherefore, ingrate, didst thou adorn thy daugh- 
ters 
In foul adultery with an impious race ? 

Why thus confederate in the unholy slaughters 
Of those whose burning hope is thy disgrace ? 
With mournful heart, yet hypocritic face, 

Follow the life abhorred of that vile crew? 
God’s sharpened sword thy beauty shall efface, 

Falling in vengeance on thy neck. O, who, 

Thou lost one his right hand in mercy shall 

subdue ? 


But thou, O pride of ocean ! lofty Tyre! 

Who in thy ships so high and glorious stood, 
O’ershadowing earth’s limits, and whose ire 

With trembling filled this orb’s vast multi- 

tude ; 

How have ye ended, fierce and haughty brood ? 
What power hath marked your sins and slav- 

eries foul, 

Your neck unto this cruel yoke subdued ? 
God, to avenge us, clouds thy sunlike soul, 
And causes on thy wise this blinding storm to 

roll. 


Howl, ships of Tarsus, howl! for, lo! destroyed 
Lies your high hope. Oppressors of the free ! 
Lost is your strength, — your glory is defied. 
Thou tyrant-shielder, who shall pity thee ? 
And thou, O Asia! who didst bow the knee 
To Baal, in vice immerged, who shall atone 
For thine idolatries ? for God doth see 
Thine anvient crimes, whose silent prayers have 
flown 
For vengeance unto Heaven before his judg- 
ment-throne. 


Those who behold thy mighty arms when shat- 
tered, 
And Ocean flowing naked of thy pines, 
Over his weary waves triumphant scattered 
So long, but now wreck-strewn, in awful 
signs, 
Shall say, beholding thy deserted shrines, — 
““Who ’gainst the fearful One hath daring 
striven ? 
The Lord of our Salvation their designs 
O’erturned, and, for the glory of his heaven, 
To man’s devoted race this victory hath given.” 


_—. 


ODE ON THE DEATH OF DON SEBASTIAN. 


Wira sorrowing voice begin the strain, 
With fearful breath and sounds of woe, — 
Sad prelude to the mournful lay 

For Lusitania’s fallen sway, 

Spurned by the faithless foe! 


SPANISH POETRY. 


And let the tale of horror sound 

From Libyan Atlas and the burning plain 
l’en to the Red Sea’s distant bound ; 

And where, beyond that foaming tide, 
The vanquished East, with blushing pride, 
And all her nations fierce and brave, 
Have seen the Christian banners wave. 


O Libya! through thy deserts wide, 

With many a steed, and chariot boldly driven, 

Thou saw’st Sebastian’s warriors sweep the 
shore : 

On rushed they, fierce in martial power, 

Nor raised their thoughts to Heaven ; 

Self-confident, and flushed with pride, — 

Their boastful hearts on plunder bent, — 

Triumphant o’er the hostile land, 

In gorgeous trim the stiff-necked people went. 

But the Lord opened his upholding hand, 

And left them; down the abyss, with strange 
uproar, 

Horseman and horse amain, and crashing char- 
lots, pour. 


Loaded with wrath and terror came 

The day, the cruel day, 

Which gave the widowed realm to shame, 

To solitude, and deep dismay. 

Dark lowered the heavens; in garb of woe, 

The sun, astonished, ceased to glow. 

Jehovah visited the guilty land, 

And passed in anger, with his red right-hand 

Humbling her pride: he made the force 

Of weak barbarians steady in its course ; 

He made their bosoms firm and bold, 

And bade them spurn at baneful gold, 

Their ruthless way through yielding legions 
mow, 

Fulfil his vengeful word, and trample on the foe. 


O’er thy fair limbs, so long by valor saved, 
Sad Lusitania, child of woe ! 

O’er all that rich and gallant show, 

With impious hate the heathen’s fearless arm 
His flaming falchion waved: 

His fury marred thine ancient fame, 

And scattered o’er thy squadrons wild alarm, 
Fell slaughter, and eternal shame. 

A tide of blood o’erflowed the plain; 

Like mountains stood the heaps of slain: 
Alike, on that ill-fated day, 

War’s headlong torrent swept away 


. The trembling voice of fear, the coward breath, 


And the high soul of valor, proud in death. 


Are those the warriors once renowned ; 

For deeds of glory justly crowned; 

Whose thunder shook the world, 

Whene’er their banners were unfurled; 

Who many a barbarous tribe subdued, 

And many an empire stretching wide and far; 
Who sacked each state that proudly stood; 
Whose arms laid waste in savage war 

What realms lie circled by the Indian tide? - 
Where now their ancient pride? 


SS esas 


| 


Where is that courage, once in fight secure ? 
How in one moment is the boast 

Of that heroic valor lost! 

Without the holy rites of sepulture, 

Far from their homes and native land, 
Fallen, O, fallen on the desert sand ! 


Once were they like the cedar fair 

Of mighty Lebanon, whose glorious head 
With leaves and boughs immeasurably spread. 
The rains of heaven bade it grow 

Stately and loftiest on the mountain’s brow ; 
And still its branches rose to view 

In form and beauty ever new. 

High nestled on its head the fowls of air, 
And many a forest beast 

Beneath its ample boughs increased, 

And man found shelter in its goodly shade. 
With beauteous limbs unrivalled did it rise, 
Lord of the mountain, towering to the skies. 


Its verdant head presumptuously grew, 

Trusting to wondrous bulk alone, 

And vain of its excelling height: 

But from the root its trunk the Lord o’erthrew, 

To barbarous despite 

And foreign hate a hopeless prey. 

Now, by the mountain torrent strown, 

Its leafless honors naked lie; 

And far aloof the frighted wanderers fly, 

Whom once it shielded from the burning day: 

In the sad ruin of its branches bare 

Dwell the wild forest beasts and screaming birds 
of air. 


Thou, hateful Libya, on whose arid sand 
Proud Lusitania’s glory fell, 

And all her boast of wide command, — 
Let not thine heart with triumph swell, 
Though to thy timid hand by angry Heaven 
A praiseless victory was given ! 

For when the voice of grief shall call 

| The sons of Spain to venge her fall, 
Torn by the lance, thy vitals shall repay 
i| The fatal outrage of that bitter day, 

And Luco’s flood, impurpled by the slain, 


Its mournful tribute roll affrighted to the main. 


} ———— 
FROM AN ODE TO DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA. 


Wuen from the vaulted sky, 

Struck by the bolt and volleyed fire of Jove, 
Enceladus, who proudly strove 

To rear to heaven his impious head, 

Fell headlong upon Etna’s rocky bed ; 

And she, who long had boldly stood 

Against the powers on high, 

By thousand deaths undaunted, unsubdued, — 
Rebellious Earth, — her fury spent, 

Before the sword of Mars unwilling bent: 


In heaven’s pure serene, 
To his bright lyre, whose strings melodious rung, 
Unshorn Apollo sweetly sung, 


HERRERA. 


{EOE A ana SE EY Se LN SEOORRI ts BS DON meets PON EN O NTOON ANSEnte SPin= OTOP OES SE er aa 


And spread the joyous numbers round, — 

His youthful brows with gold and laurel bound. 
Listening the sweet, immortal strain 

Each heavenly power was seen ; 

And all the lucid spheres, night’s wakeful train, 
That swift pursue their ceaseless way, 

Forgot their course, suspended by his lay. 


Hushed was the stormy sea, — 

At the sweet sound the boisterous waves were 
laid, 

The noise of rushing winds was stayed ; 

And with the gentle breath of pleasure 

The Muses sung, according with his measure. 

In wildest strains of rapture lost, 

He sung the victory, 

The power and glory, of the heavenly host; 

The horrid mien and warlike mood, 

The fatal pride, of the Titanian brood : 


Of Pallas, Attic maid, 

The Gorgon terrors and the fiery spear ; 
Of him, whose voice the billows fear, | 
The valor proved in deadly fight ; | 
Of Hercules the strength and vengeful might. 
But long he praised thy dauntless heart, 

And sweetest prelude made, 

Singing, Bistonian Mars, thy force and art; 
Thine arm victorious, which o’erthrew 
The fiercest of the bold Phlegrean crew ! 


ODE TO SLEEP. 


Sweet Sleep, that through the starry path of 
night, 

With dewy poppies crowned, pursu’st thy flight! 

Stiller of human woes, | 

That shedd’st o’er Nature’s breast a soft sepose ! i 

O, to these distant climates of the West 

Thy slowly wandering pinions turn ; 

And with thy influence blest 

Bathe these love-burdened eyes, that ever burn 

And find no moment's rest, 

While my unceasing grief 

Refuses all relief! 

O, hear my prayer! I ask it by thy love, 

Whom Juno gave thee in the realms above. 


Sweet power, that dost impart 

Gentle oblivion to the suffering: heart, 

Beloved Sleep, thou only canst bestow 

A solace-for my woe! 

Thrice happy be the hour 

My weary limbs shall feel thy sovereign power! 

Why to these eyes alone deny 

The calm thou pour’st on Nature’s boundless 
reign ? 

Why let thy votary all neglected die, 

Nor yield a respite to a lover’s pain? 

And must I ask thy balmy aid in vain ? 

Hear, gentle power, O, hear my humble prayer, |; 

And let my soul thy heavenly banquet share ! 


In this extreme of grief, I own thy might . 
Descend, and shed thy healing dew ; 


Descend, and put to flight 

The intruding Dawn, that with her gairish light 

My soyrows would renew ! 

Thou hear’st my sad lament, and in my face 

My many griefs may’st trace : 

Turn, then, sweet wanderer of the night, and 
spread ~ 

Thy wings around my head! 

Haste, for the unwelcome Morn 

Is now on her return ! 

Let the soft rest the hours of night denied 

Be by thy lenient hand supplied ! 

Fresh from my summer bowers, 

A crown of soothing flowers, 

Such as thou lov’st, the fairest and the best, 

I offer thee ; won by their odors sweet, 

The enamoured air shall greet 

Thy advent: O, then, let thy hand 

Express their essence bland, 

And o’er my eyelids pour delicious rest ! 

Enchanting power, soft as the breath of Spring 

Be the light gale that steers thy dewy wing! 

Come, ere the sun ascends the purple east, — 

Come, end my woes! So, crowned with heaven- 
ly charms, 

May fair Pasithea take thee to her arms! 


—_o——_ 


JUAN FERNANDEZ DE HEREDIA. 


THIS poet belonged to Valencia. He flour- 
ished in the first half of the sixteenth century, 
and died in 1549. 


PARTING. 


To part, to lose thee, was so hard, 
So sad, that all besides is naught; 

The pangs of death itself, compared 
With this, are hardly worth a thought. 


There is a wound that never heals, — 

"T is folly e’en to dream of healing ; 
Inquire not what a spirit feels 

That aye: has lost the sense of feeling. 
My heart is callous now, and bared 

To every pang with sorrow fraught ; 
The pangs of death itself, compared 

To this, are scarcely worth a thought. 


——_ os . 


BALTASAR DEL ALCAZAR. 

BattasaR DEL AvcAzAR was a native of 
Seville. He was born early in the sixteenth 
century, and belonged to a distinguished family. 
He was well esteemed as a poet in-his age ; but 
his works, consisting of epigrams and other short 
pieces, are not much known. Cervantes, how- 
ever, in his “¢ Canto de Caliope,” speaks of him 
as having made the Guadalquivir, upon whose 
banks he resided, equal in glory to the Mincio, 
the Arno, and the Tiber : — 


SPANISH POETRY. 


pet ene at 


‘* Puedes, famoso Betis, dignamente 
Al Mincio, al Arno, al Tibre aventajarte, 
Y alzar contento la sagrada frente, 
Y en nuevos anchos senos dilatarte, 
Pues quiso el cielo, que tu bien consiente, 
Tal gloria, tal honor, tal fama darte, 
Que te la adquiere 4 tus riberas bellas 
Baltasar del Alczar que esta en ellas.’? 
He is also spoken of by his contemporary, 
Francisco Pacheco, the painter of Seville, in his 
*¢ Arte de la Pintura.”’ 


SLEEP, 


SLEEP is no servant of the will, — 
It has caprices of its own: 
When most pursued, ’t is swiftly gone; 
When courted least, it lingers still. 
With its vagaries long perplexed, 
I turned and turned my restless sconce, 
Till, one bright night, I thought at once 
I’d master it; — so hear my text! 


When sleep will tarry, I begin 

My long and my accustomed prayer ; 

And in a twinkling sleep is there, 
Through my bed-curtains peeping in : 
When sleep hangs heavy on my eyes, 

I think of debts I fain would pay ; 

And then, as flies night’s shade from day, 
Sleep from my heavy eyelids flies. 


And thus controlled, the winged one bends 

E’en his fantastic will to me ; 

And, strange yet true, both I and he 
Are friends, —the very best of friends : 
We are a happy, wedded pair, 

And I the lord and he the dame; 

Our bed, our board, our hours,the same ; 
And we ’re united everywhere. 


I'l] tell you where I learned to school 
This wayward sleep: —a whispered word 
From a church-going hag I heard, — 
And tried it, — for I was no fool. 
So from that very hour I knew, 
That having ready prayers to pray, 
And having many debts to pay, 
Will serve for sleep and waking too. 


ee et 


SANTA TERESA DE AVILA. 


Tus singular person was born at Avila, in 
1515. At the age of twelve, accompanied by 
one of her brothers, she fled, in a fit of enthu- 
siasm, from her father’s house, for the purpose 
of seeking the crown of martyrdom among the 
Moors. They were, however, brought back, 
and Teresa took the religious habit, and distin- 
guished herself by her pious zeal, particularly 
in reforming the monastery of Avila. Notwith- 
standing her religious enthusiasm, we are told 
she delighted in reading romances, and even 
wrote one herself. Her death took place in 


anc 


SANTA TERESA.-~-GIL POLO.—SILVESTRE. 


677 


1582. She was canonized by Paul the Fifth, 
in 1615. 
Teresa wrote, besides the romance mentioned 


above, two volumes of letters, and a number of | : 


poems. Her works are marked by energy of 
sentiment and grace of style. 


SONNET. 


Ts not thy terrors, Lord, thy dreadful frown, 
Which keep my step in duty’s narrow path ; 
'T is not the awful threatenings of thy wrath, — 
But that in virtue’s sacred smile alone 

I find or peace or happiness. Thy light, 

In all its prodigality, is shed 

Upon the worthy and the unworthy head: 
And thou dost wrap in misery’s stormy night 
The holy as the thankless. All is well; 

Thy wisdom has to each his portion given ; — 
Why should our hearts by selfishness be riven? 
"Tis vain to murmur, — daring to rebel : 

Lord, I would fear thee, though I feared not hell ; 
And love thee, though I had no hopes of heaven } 


——9— 


GASPAR GIL POLO. 


Turs distinguished Spanish writer was born 
at Valencia, in 1517. He was destined to the 
profession of the law, but was drawn away from 
it by his strong inclination for poetry. His most 
celebrated work is the “Diana Enamorada,”’ a 
pastoral romance, designed as a continuation of 
the “Diana” of Montemayor, and, like that 
work, written partly in prose and partly in 
verse. It is saved from burning, in the scrutiny 
of Don Quixote’s library by the curate and the 
barber. ‘ ‘Here ’s another-Diana,’ quoth the 
barber, ‘the second of that name, by Salman- 
tino (of Salamanca); nay, and a third, too, by 
Gil Polo.’ ‘Pray,’ said the curate, ‘let Sal- 
mantino increase the number of the criminals 
in the yard; but as for that by Gil Polo, pre- 
serve it as charily as if Apollo himself had 
wrote it.’ ”’ 


—eee? 


FROM THE DIANA ENAMORADA. 


LOVE AND HATE. 


Since you have said you loved me not, 
I hate myself; and love can do 

No more than drive from heart and thought 
Whoever is unloved by you. 


If you could veil your radiant brow, 
Or I could look, and fail to love, 
I should not live while dying now, 
Or, living, not thy anger move: 
But now let fear and woe be brought, 
And grief and care their wounds renew ; 
He should be pierced in heart and thought, 
Who, lady, is unloved by you. 


Buried in your forgetfulness, 
And mouldering under death’s dark pall, 
And hated by myself, nor less 
Hated by thee, the world, and all, — 
I ‘Il wed with misery now, and naught 
But your disdain shall meet my view, 
And scathed in heart, and scathed in thought, 
Lady! because unloved by you. 


I CANNOT CEASE TO LOVE. 


Ir it distress thee to be loved, 
Why, —as I cannot cease to love thee, — 
Learn thou to bear the thought unmoved, 
Till death remove me, or remove thee. 


O, let me give the feelings vent, 
The melancholy thoughts’that fill me ! 
Or send thy mandate; be content 
To wound my inner heart, and kill me: 
If love, whose smile would fain caress thee, 
If love offend, yet why reprove? 
I cannot, lady, but distress thee, 
Because I cannot cease to love. 


If I could check the passion glowing 
Within my bosom, —if I could, 
On other maids my love bestowing, 
Give thy soul peace, sweet girl, I would. 
But no! my heart cannot address thee 
In aught but love !—then why reprove? 
I cannot, lady, but distress thee, 
Because I cannot cease to love. 


a ee es 


GREGORIO SILVESTRE. 


Grecorio SitvestRE was a Portuguese by 
nativity. He was the son of the physician of 
the king of Portugal, and was born at Lisbon, 
in 1520. He lived, however, in Spain, and 
was the organist of a church in Granada, where 
he died in 1570. His ‘* Obras Poéticas’”’ were 
published at Lisbon, in 1592, and republished 
at Granada, in 1599. 


es 


TELL ME, LADY! TELL ME!— YES? 


Lapy! if thou deem me true, 
That I love thee, now confess : 
Tell me, lady! tell me! — yes? 


Since I saw thy beauty, naught 

But that beauty fills my mind; 
Every passion, every thought, 

Is in love of thee enshrined ; 

In no other thought I find 
Peace ; —and wilt thou love me less? 
Tell me, lady! tell me! — yes? 


Wilt thou own that thou alone 
Art my heaven, my hope, my bliss? 
Light, without thy smile, is none, — 
Day, without thee, darkness is: 


Dost thou own, beloved one, 
3E* 


673 


Thou my path can cheer and bless? 
Tell me, lady! tell me !— yes? 


Dost thou know, the radiant sky, 
With its comets, suns, and stars, 

All in glorigus course on high, 
Driving their illumined cars, — 

Dost thou know, when thou art nigh, 

They are dark and valueless? 

Tell me, lady! tell me! — yes? 


Dost thou know that God has made 
Gardens, fields, and banks, and bowers, 
Seats of sunshine, and of shade, 
Decked _ with smiles, and gemmed with 
flowers, 
Which repose and peace pervade ? 
Thither, lady, let us press ! 
Tell me, lady! tell me! — yes? 


INES SENT A KISS TO ME. 


Ivzs sent a kiss to me, 

While we danced upon the green ; 
Let that kiss a blessing be, 

And conceal no woes unseen. 


How I dared I know not now; 
While we danced, I gently said, 
Smiling, “ Give me, lovely maid, 
Give me one sweet kiss! ” —.when, lo! 
Gathering blushes robed her brow ; 
And, with love and fear afraid, 
Thus she spoke, — “I ’II send the kiss 
In a calmer day of bliss.” 


Then I cried, —* Dear maid! what day 
Can be half so sweet as this? 
Throw not hopes and joys away ; 
Send, O, send the promised kiss ! 
Can so bright a gift be mine, 
Bought without a pang of pain? 
"T is perchance a ray divine, 
Darker night to bring again. 
° 


** Could I dwell on such a thought, 
I of very joy should die ; 
Naught of earth’s enjoyments, naught, 
Could be like that ecstasy, 
I will pay her interest meet, 
When her lips shall breathe on me ; 
And for every kiss so sweet, 
Give her many more than three.” 


—_@— 


JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR. 


Tue family name of this poet is unknown ; 
he took that of the small town of Montemayor, 
or Montemor, near Coimbra, in Portugal, where 
he was born. In youth, he entered upon the 


military career. He went afterwards to Castile, 
and, having a talent for music, supported him- 
self by singing in the chapel of Philip the Sec- 
ond. He accompanied the king on a journey 


SPANISH POETRY. 


‘Or is it but fantasy ? , 


through Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands, 
and after his return lived in Leon, where he: 
wrote the celebrated pastoral of “Diana Ena- 
morada.”” He received an honorable post at the 
court of Queen Catharine. He is supposed to 
have died a violent death, about the year 1561, 
or 1562. 

Besides the “ Diana,” we have a cancionero, 
or collection of his poems. 


FROM THE DIANA ENAMORADA. 


DIANA’S SONG. 


Bricur eyes! that now the tender glance. no 
more 

Return to him whose mirrors still ye shone, 

To give content, O, say, what sights ye see! 

O green and flowery fields, where oft alone 

Each day for him, my gentle swain, I wore 

The sultry hours away, lament with me; 

For here he first declared so tenderly 

His love! I heard the while, 

With more than serpent guile, — 

Chiding a thousand times his amorous way, 

And sorrowing to delay. 

In tears he stood, — his glance methinks I see! 


Ah! could I hear him now his passion own! 
O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
reno flown? 


And yonder see the stream, the flowery seat, 

The verdant vale, the cool, umbrageous wood, 

Where oft he led his wandering flock to feed, — 

The noisy, babbling fountain where he stood, 

And, ’mid green bowers, hid from the noontide 
heat, 

Under this oak his tender tale would plead ! 

And see the lawny isle, 

Where first he saw me smile, 

And fondly knelt! O, sweet, delightful hour, 

Had not misfortune’s power 

Those days serene o’ercast with 

O tree! O fountain bright! 

All, all are here, — but not the youth I moan. 

O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
reno flown? 


deepest night ! 


Here in my hand his picture I admire, — 

Pleased with the charm, methinks ’t is he; al- 
though 

Deep in my heart his features brighter glow. 

When comes the hour of love and soft desire, 

To yonder fountain in the vale I go, 

My languid limbs beneath the willows throw, 

Sit by his side,—O Love, how. blind thy 
ways! — 

Then in the waters gaze 

On him, and on myself, once more revived, 

Like when with me he lived. 

Awhile this fancy will my cares abstract, 

Then utterly distract. 

My fond heart weeps its foolishness to own. 

O streams and waving woods, whither has  Si- 
reno flown? - 


Sometimes I chide, yet will he not reply ; 

And then I think he pays me scorn for scorn, — 

For oft whilom I would no answer deign. 

But sorrowing then, I say, “ Behold, ’t is qT! 

Sireno, speak! O, leave me not forlorn, 

Since thou art here!” Yet still 

In silence will he keep immovable 

Those bright and sparkling eyes, 

That were like twins o’ th’ skies. 

What love! what folly! with this vain pretence, 

To ask for life or sense, — 

A painted shadow, and this madness own! 

O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
reno flown? 


Ne’er with my flock at sunset can I go 

Into our village, nor depart at morn, 

But see I yonder, with unwilling eyes, 

My shepherd’s hamlet laid in ruins low. 

There for a time, in dreams, I linger yet, 

And sheep and lambs forget, — 

Till shepherd-boys break out 

Into a sudden shout, 

‘Ho, shepherdess! what! are you dreaming 
now? 

While yonder, see, your cow 

Feeds in the corn!” My eyes, alas! proclaim 

From whom proceeds this shame, 

That my starved flock forsake me here alone. 

O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
reno flown? 


Song! go! thou know’st well whither ; — 
Nay, haste, return thou hither; 

For it may be thy fate 

To go where they may say thou art importunate. 


SIRENO'S SONG. 


‘‘Sineno a shepheard, hauing a locke of his 
faire nimph’s haire, wrapt about with greene 
silke, mournes thus in a loue-dittie.”’ 


Wuart chang’s here, O haire, 
I see since I saw you? — 
How ill fits you this greene to weare, 
For hope the colour due ? 
Indeede I well did hope, 
Though hope were mixt with feare, 
No other shepheard should haue scope 
Once to approach this heare. 


Ah haire! how many dayes, 
My Dian made me show, 

With thousand prettie childish playes, 
If J ware you or no? 

Alas, how oft’ with teares, 
Oh teares of guilefull brest :) 

She seemed full of iealous feares, 
Whereat I did but iest? 


Tell me, O haire of gold, 
If I then faultie be? 

That hurt those killing eyes I would, 
Since they did warrant me? 


Haue you not seene her moode, 
‘What streames of teares she spent : 

Till that I sware my faith so stood, 
As her words had it bent? 


Who hath such beautie seene, 
In one that changeth so? 
Or where one loues so constant beene, 

Who euer saw such woe? 
Ah haires, you are not grieu’d, 
To come from whence you be: 
Seeing how once you saw I hiu’d, 
To see me as you see. 


On sandie banke of late, 
I saw this woman sit: 
Where, sooner die than change my state, 
She with her finger writ. 
Thus my beliefe was stay’d, 
Behold ‘Loue’s mighty hand 
On things, were by a woman say’d, 
And written in the sand. 


_—-_¢@— 


CRISTOVAL DE CASTILLEJO. 


Turs poet was born at Ciudad Rodrigo, in the 
first quarter of the sixteenth century. He went 
to Vienna in the service of Charles the Fifth, 
and remained there as secretary of Ferdinand 
the First. He wrote the greater part of his 
poems during his residence in that city. He was 
distinguished as the opponent of the new style 
introduced by Boscan and Garcilaso, and a warm 
adherent of the old Spanish national manner. 
At an advanced age, he became a Cistercian 
monk, and died in the monastery of Val de 
Iglesias, near Toledo, in 1596. 


WOMEN. 


How dreary and lone 
The world would appear, 
If women were none! 

'T would be like a fair, 
With neither fun nor business there. 


Without their smile, 
Life would be tasteless, vain, and vile ; 
A chaos of perplexity ; 
A body without a soul ’t would be; 
A roving spirit, borne 
Upon the winds forlorn ; 
A tree without or flowers or fruit ; 
A reason with no resting-place , 
{A castle with no governor to it 5} 
‘A house without a base. 

What are we, what our race, 
How good for nothing and base, 
Without fair woman to aid us! 
What could we do, where should we go, 
How should we wander in night and woe, 
But for woman to lead us! 


——— 


680 | 


SaUARCEPENTGSCaLinatersueannnmemere a ee 


How could we love, if woman were not: 
Love, —the brightest part of our lot; 
Love, — the only charm of living ; 

Love, — the only gift worth giving ? 


Who would take charge of your house,— say, 


who, — 
Kitchen, and dairy, and money-chest, — 


Who but the women, who guard them best,— 


Guard, and adorn them too? 

Who like them has a constant smile, 
Full of peace, of meekness full, 
When life’s edge is blunt and dull, 
Aud sorrow and sin, in frowning file, 
Stand by the path in which we go 
Down to the grave through wasting woe? 
All that is good is theirs, is theirs, — 
All we give, and all we get; 

And if a beam of glory yet 

Over the gloomy earth appears, 

O, ’t is theirs! O, ’t is theirs! — 
They are the guard, the soul, the seal 
Of human hope ard human weal ; 
They, — they, —none but they ; 


Woman,—sweet woman !— let none say nay! 


—_¢——~ 


LUIS PONCE DE LEON. 


Foremost among the sacred poets of Spain 
| stands the gentle enthusiast, Luis Ponce de 


Leon. 


Though descended from the noble family of the 


up in the study of poetry, and in 
religious contemplations. At the early age of 
sixteen, he made his theological profession in 
the order of St. Augustine, at Salamanca, and 
in his thirty-third year was invested with the 
dignity of Doctor of Theology. In 1561, he 
was appointed Professor in the University. In 
| the retirement of the cloister, his ardent mind 
gave itself up to its favorite pursuits; and his 
poetic imagination was purified and exalted by 
a strong moral sense, and a sincere and elevated 
piety. His devotional poems, which, according 
to his own testimony, were composed in his 
youth, exhibit the amiable enthusiasm of that 
age, and all the beauty of a religious mind, ab- 
stracted from the world, and absorbed in its own 
meditations and devotions. He Seems, howey- 
er, to have been at no period of his life a bigot. 
Indeed, he was himself thrown into the dun- 
geons of the Inquisition for having translated 
into the vulgar tongue the Song of Solomon, at 
a time when all translations of the Holy Serip- 
tures were strictly prohibited. There he re- 
mained for nearly five years; but, even in the 
darkness of his dungeon, enjoying the light of 
his own pure mind,—free, though imprisoned, 


| 
| 
| 
} 
| for him. 


= 


TF ers pants 


SPANISH POETRY. 


‘MPMI ee 


He was born at Granada, in the year 
1527, and died at the mature age of sixty- 
three, while exercising the high functions of 
General and Provincial Vicar of Salamanca. 


Ponces de Leon, the pleasures and honors of 
the great world seem to have had no attractions 
From early youth, his mind was wrapt 
moral and 


sateetntninannninenh easeeetee ee Sort ee e Cee pint . 


— Injured, yet unrepining. In one of his let- 
ters, he says, “Shut out not only from the con- 
versation: and society of men, but from their 
very sight, for nearly five years I was surrounded 
by darkness and a dungeon’s walls. Then I 
enjoyed a tranquillity and satisfaction of mind, 
which I often look for in vain, now that I am 
restored to the light of day and to the grateful 
intercourse of friends.”” On being released from 
prison, he immediately, resumed his professor’s 
chair, as if nothing had happened, and com- 
menced his lecture to a crowded auditory with 
the words, ‘We were saying, yesterday a 

The following sketch of Ponce de Leon’s 
character is from the ‘Edinburgh Review” 
(Yol. XLseapp; 467 — 469), 

*“ While he stands alone among his country- 
men of this period in the character of his inspi- 
ration, the influence of the spirit of the age is 
still visible in the absence of every thing that 
betrays any extensive acquaintance or sympathy 
with actual life. That relief, which other poets 
sought in the scenery of an imaginary Arcadia, 
Luis Ponce de Leon, bred in the silence and 
solitude of the cloister, found in the contempla- 
tion of the divine mysteries, and in the indul- 
gence of those rapturous feelings which it is the 
tendency of Catholicism to create. His mind, 
naturally gentle and composed, avoided the 
shock of polemical warfare, and seems to have 
been in no degree tinctured with that fanaticism 
which characterizes his brethren. Hence, it 
was to the delights, rather than to the terrors 
of religion, that he turned his attention. A pro- || 
found scholar, and deeply versed’in the Grecian || 
philosophy, he had ‘unsphered the spirit of 
Plato,’ and embodied in his poetry the lofty 
views of the Greek philosopher with regard to 
the original derivation of the soul from a higher 
existence, but heightened and rendered more i| 
distinct and more deeply interesting by the 
Christian belief, that such was also to be its 
final destination. Separated from a world, of 
which he knew neither the evil nor the good, 
his thoughts had-wandered so habitually ‘ beyond 
the visible diurnal sphere,’ that to him the reali- 
ties of life had become as visions, the ideal world 
of his own imagination had assumed the consis- 
tency of reality. His whole life looks like a 
religious reverie, a philosophic dream, which | 
was no more disturbed by trials and persecutions | 
from without than the visions of the sleeper are 
influenced by the external world by which he 
is surrounded. 

“The character of Luis de Leon js distin- 
guished by another peculiarity, It might natu- 
rally be expected, that, with this tendency to 
mysticism in his ideas, his works would be 
tinctured with vagueness and obscurity of ex- 
pression. But ne poet ever appears to have 
subjected the creations of an enthusiastic imagi- 
nation more strictly to the ordeal of a severe 
and critical taste, or to have imparted to the 
language of rapture so deep an air of truth and 
reality While he, had thoroughly imbued him- 


Eee 
a aa rma 


self with the lofty idealism of the Platonic phi- 
losophy, he exhibits in his style all the clearness 
and precision of Horace ; and, with the excep- 
tion of Testi among the Italians, is certainly the 
only modern who has caught the true spirit of 
the Epicurean poet. In the sententious gravity 
of his style he resembles him very closely. But 
the moral odes of Luis de Leon ‘have a spell 
beyond’ the lyrics of Horace. That philoso- 
phy of indolence which the Roman professed, 
which looks on life only as a visionary pageant, 
and death as the deeper and sounder sleep that 
succeeds the dream, — which places the idea of 
happiness in passive existence, and parts with 
indifference from love and friendship, from lib- 
erty, from life itself, whenever it costs an effort 
to retain them, is allied to a principle of univer- 
sal mediocrity, which is destructive of all lofty 
views, and, when minutely examined, is even 
inconsistent with those qualified principles of 
morality which it nominally professes and pre- 
scribes. But in the odes of Luis de Leon we 
recognize the influence of a more animating and 
ennobling feeling. He looked upon the world, 
‘Esta lisongera 
Vida, con cuanto teme, y cuanto espera,’ 
with calmness, but not with apathy or selfish- 
ness. The shortness of life, the flight of time, 
the fading of flowers, the silent swiftness of the 
river, the decay of happiness, the mutability of 
fortune, —the ideas and images, which, to the 
Epicurean poet, only afford inducements to de- 
vote the present hour to enjoyment, are those 
which the Spanish moralist holds out as incite- 
ments to the cultivation of that enthusiasm 
which alone appeared to him capable of fully 
exercising the powers of the soul, of disengaging 
it from the influence of worldly feelings, and 
elevating it to that heaven from which it had 
its birth.’’ 


——— 


NOCHE SERENA. 


Wuen yonder glorious sky, 

Lighted with million lamps, I contemplate ; 
And turn my dazzled eye 
To this vain mortal state, 

All dim and visionary, mean and desolate : 


A mingled joy and grief 
Fills all my soul with dark solicitude ; — 
I find a short relief 
In tears, whose torrents rude 
Roll down my cheeks; or thoughts which thus 
intrude : — 


Thou so sublime abode! 
Temple of light, and beauty’s fairest shrine ! 
My soul, a spark of God, 
Aspiring to thy seats divine, — 
Why, why is it condemned in this dull cell to 
pine? 


Why should I ask in vain 
For truth’s pure lamp, and wander here alone, 


Lid. {Dace ae Ne a SAR BR SA elt os 
- a a ele aM 2) | 
PONCE DE LEON. 


a tt I LT 


681 


Seeking, through toil and pain, 
Light from the Eternal One, — 
Following a shadow still, that glimmers and is 
gone? 


Dreams and delusions play 
With man, — he thinks not of his mortal fate : 
Death treads his silent way ; 
The earth turns round; and then, too late, 
Man finds no beam is left of all his fancied state. 


Rise from your sleep, vain men! 
Look round, — and ask if spirits.born of heaven, 
And bound to heaven again, 
Were only lent or given 
To be in this mean round of shades and follies 
driven. 


Turn your unclouded eye 
Up to yon bright, to yon eternal spheres ; 
And spurn the vanity 
Of time’s delusive years, 
And all its flattering hopes, and all its frowning 
fears. 


What is the ground ye tread, 

But a-mere point, compared with that vast space, 
Around, above you spread, — 
Where, in the Almighty’s face, 

The present, future, past, hold an eternal place? 


List to the concert pure 
Of yon harmonious, countless worlds of light! 
See, in his orbit sure, 
Each takes his journey bright, 
Led by an unseen hand through the vast maze 
of night! 


See how the pale Moon rolls 

Her silver wheel; and, scattering beams afar 
On Earth’s benighted souls, 
See Wisdom’s holy star ; 

Or, in his fiery course, the sanguine orb of War; 


Or that benignant ray 
Which Love hath called its own, and made so 
fair ; 
Or that serene display 
Of power supernal there, 
Where Jupiter conducts his chariot through the 
air ! 


And, circling all the rest, 
See Saturn, father of the golden hours: 
While round him, bright and blest, 
The whole empyreum showers 
Its glorious streams of light on this low world 
of ours! 


But who to these can turn, 
And weigh them ’gainst a weeping world like 
this, — 
Nor feel his spirit burn 
To grasp so sweet a bliss, 
And mourn that exile hard which here his por- 
tion is? 


| 
| 
| 
| 


| 


— rrr 


ee ——— 


682 


For there, and there alone, 
Are peace, and joy, and never-dying love, — 
There, on a splendid throne, 
| ‘Midst all those fires above, 
| In glories and delights which never wane nor 
move, 
i 
{ 
| 


eeiinemitiesetenca ee 


O, wondrous blessedness, 
Whose shadowy effluence hope o’er time can 
fling ! 
Day that shall never cease, — 
No night there threatening, — 


No winter there to chill joy’s ever-during spring. 
Ye fields of changeless green, 
Covered with living streams and fadeless flowers! 
Thou paradise serene ! 
Eternal, joyful hours 
My disembodied soul shall welcome in thy 
bowers ! 


Lapy, thou mountest slowly 
O’er the bright cloud, while music sweetly plays! 
Blest who thy mantle holy 
With outstretched hand may seize, 
And rise with thee to the Infinite of Days! 


Around, behind, before thee 
Bright angels wait, that watched thee from thy 
birth : 
A crown of stars is o’er thee, — 
The pale moon of the earth, — 
Thou, supernatural queen, nearest in light and 
worth ! 


1 

{ 

{ 

4 

| 

| 

% 

| 

| VIRGIN BORNE BY ANGELS. 


Turn, turn thy mildened gaze, 
Sweet bird of gentleness, on earth’s dark vale! 
What flowerets it displays 
Amidst time’s twilight pale, 
Where many ason of Eve in toils and darkness 
strays ! 


O, if thy vision see 
The wandering spirits of this earthly sphere, — 
Virgin! to thee, to thee, 
Thy magnet voice will bear 
Their steps, to dwell with bliss through all 
eternity. 


ee 


THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 


Ruaton of life and light! 
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o’er! 
Nor frost nor heat may blight 
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ! 


There, without crook or sling, 
Walks the Good Shepherd ; blossoms white and 
red ; 
Round his meek temples cling ; 
And, to sweet pastures led, 
His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


He guides, and near him they 

Follow delighted; for he makes them go 
Where dwells eternal May, 
And heavenly roses blow, 

Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 


He leads them to the height 

Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 
And fountains of delight ; 
And where his feet have stood, 

Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 


And when, in the mid skies, 

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, 
Reposing as he lies, 
With all his flock around, 

He witches the still air with numerous sound. 


From his sweet lute flow forth 
Immortal harmonies, of power to:still 
All passions born of earth, 

And draw the ardent will 
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 


Might but a little part, 

A wandering breath, of that high melody 
Descend into my heart, 
And change it till it be 

Transformed and swallowed up, O love! in thee: 


Ah! then my soul should know, 
Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day ; 
And from this place of woe 
Released, should take its way 
To mingle with thy flock, and never stray. 


on 


RETIREMENT. 


O, nappy, happy he, who flies 
Far from the noisy world away, — 
Who, with the worthy and the wise, 
Hath chosen the narrow way, — 
The silence of the secret road 
That leads the-soul to virtue and to God ! 


No passions in his breast arise ; 
Calm in his own unaltered state, 
He smiles superior, as he eyes 
The splendor of the great ; 
And his undazzled gaze is proof 
Against the glittering hall and gilded roof. 


| 


He heeds not, though the trump of fame 
Pour forth the loudest of its strains, 
To spread the glory of his name ; 
And his high soul disdains 
That flattery’s voice should varnish o’er 
The deed that truth or virtue would abhor. 


Such lot be mine: what boots to me 
The cumbrous pageantry of power; 
To court the gaze of crowds, and be 
The idol of the hour; 
To chase an empty shape of air, 
That leaves me weak with toil and worn 
with care ? 


rs ae se ae Nt aR oe tA AAAI Da sehen hanna nae naa bm a RAL AS 


PONCE DE LEON.—VILLEGAS. 683 


|: SALA A TR EE AER Re a i 
O streams, and shades, and hills on high, Mine be the peaceful board of old, 
Unto the stillness of your breast From want as from profusion free : 
My wounded spirit longs to fly, — His let the massy cup of gold, 
To fly, and be at rest! And glittering bawbles be, 
Thus from the world’s tempestuous sea, Who builds his baseless hope of gain | 
O gentle Nature, do I turn to thee! Upon a brittle bark and stormy main. | 
Be mine the holy calm of night, While others, thoughtless of the pain | 
Sofi sleep and dreams serenely gay, Of hope delayed and long suspense, | 
The freshness of the morning light, Still struggle on to guard or gain 

The fulness of the day ; A sad preéminence, 

Far from the sternly frowning eye May I, in woody covert laid, 
That pride and riches turn on poverty. Be gayly chanting in the secret shade, — | 
The warbling birds shall bid me wake At ease within the shade reclined, | 

With their untutored melodies ; With laurel and with ivy crowned, 

No fearful dream my sleep shall break, And my attentive ear inclined | 

No wakeful cares arise, To catch the heavenly sound | 
Like the sad shapes that hover still Of harp or lyre, when o’er the strings 
Round him that hangs upon another’s will. Some master-hand its practised finger fitngs: 
Be mine my hopes to Heaven to give, reg TiS 

To taste the bliss that Heaven bestows, 
Alone and for myself to live, ANTONIO DE VILLEGAS. 

And ’scape the many woes : ; | 
That aie hearts nas to bear, — Tats pected 2 Uae of Medina del Cam- i 
The pangs of love, and hate, and hope, and po, in the province of Valladolid. He flourish- |; 

ae ed about the middle of the sixteenth century. | 
He is known by a work entitled “ Inventario de |; 
A garden by the Fionntain-aide Obras en Metro Castellano,” published at Me- , 


; : i at ; ee a Seng oniee |" 
Is mine, whose flowery blossoming dina del Campo in 1565, and again in 1577. 


Shows, even in spring’s luxuriant pride, 


What autumn’s suns shall bring: SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
And from the mountain’s lofty crown 
«A clear and sparkling rill comes trembling | On a rock where the moonlight gleamed, 
down ; The maiden slept, and the maiden dreamed. 
{ 
Then pausing in its downward force The maiden dreamed ; for Love had crept | 
The venerable trees among, Within her thoughtless heart, and seemed 
It gurgles on its winding course ; To picture him of whom she dreamed. 
And, as it glides along, She dreamed, —and did I say she slept? ; 
Gives freshness to the day, and pranks O, no! her brain with visions teemed : i 


With ever changing flowers its mossy banks. | The maiden on the rocky ground 
Sleeps not, if Love’s wild dreams flit round. 


The whisper of the balmy breeze 


Scatters a thousand sweets around, Her heart ’s perplexed by mystery, 
And sweeps in music through the trees, And passing shades, and misty gleams ; 
With an enchanting sound, And if she see not what she dreams, |" 
That laps the soul in calm delight, She dreams of what she fain would see ; 
Where crowns and kingdoms are forgotten And ’t is her woe estranged to be, 
quite. While on the rocky mountain laid, 


From all that cheers a lovesick maid. 
Theirs let the dear-bought treasure be, 


Who in a treacherous bark confide ; And what is Love, but dreams which thought, 
I stand aloof, and changeless see Wild thought, carves out of passion, throwing 

The changes of the tide, Its veil aside, while, winged and growing, 
Nor fear the wail of those that weep, The embryo ’s to existence brought, — 


When angry winds are warring with the deep: | False, joys, fierce cares, with mysteries fraught ? 
As who by day of hunger dies, 


— 


Day turns to night; the timbers rend ; Dreaming of feasts at midnight lies. 
More fierce the ruthless tempest blows; 
Confused the varying cries ascend, LOVE’S EXTREMES. 
As the sad merchant throws 
His hoards, to join the stores that lie Every votary of Love 
In the deep sea’s uncounted treasury. Needs must pain and pleasure prove: 


oF S 


Love’s delights belong to those 
Who have felt Love’s wants and woes, 


Love still bears a double chain, 
All his prisoners to bind; 

Living, — seek they death in vain; 
Dying, — life in death they find. 


When he wounds or kills, he cures, — 
When he heals, he seems to kill i 


So the love-torn heart endures 
All extremes of good and ill. 


—_¢—. 


PEDRO DE PADILLA. 


tury. He was a scholar of various 


raries, 
several modern languages. 


nanan 

a ” 
ae b 

- ae wt 


Madrid. His “ Tesoro de Varias 
peared at Madrid in 1575. 


? 


Poesias 


logical works in prose. 
to the year 1595. 


os 


THE CHAINS OF LOVE, 


O, Lest be he, —O, blest be he, — 
Let him all blessings prove, — 

Who made the chains, the shining chains, 
The holy chains of Love ! 


There ’s many a maiden bright and fair 
Upon our village green ; 

But what bright maiden can compare 
With thee, my Geraldine ? 

O, blest be she! Q, blest be she! 
Let her all blessings prove ! — 

A swain there lives whose every thought 
Is bound by her control ; 

His heart, his soul are hers; and naught 
Can sever soul from soul - 

So sure the chains, the shining chains, 
The holy chains of Love! 


Ie F 
—_ ES eee % 
OO ee = - —_— = ‘ ; CS < se r tie ee 
’ We - + ¢ 5 <3 ie 4 ¥ ra =e " ea 7 _ ; ie: = ~ —. 


— 


THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 


THE mountain towers with haughty brow, 
Its paths deserted be ; 

The streamlets through their currents flow, 
And wash the mallows-tree. 


O mother mine! O mother mine ! 
That youth so tall and fair, 
With lips that smile, and eyes that shine, 
I saw him wandering there : 
I saw him there when morning’s. glow 
Was sparkling on the tree, — 


SPANISH POETRY. 


PepRo pe Papitia was born at Linares, 
some time in the first half of the sixteenth cen. 
erudition, 
and a poet highly esteemed by his contempo- 
He was familiar with the Latin and 
When somewhat 
advanced in life, in the year 1585, he assumed 
the religious habit, and entered a monastery at 
ap- 
He wrote, besides, 
pastoral and sacred eclogues, and various theo- 
He died subsequently 


in 
With my five fingers, from below, 
I beckoned, “ Come to me!” 
The streamlets through their currents flow, 
And wash the mallows-tree. 


—_¢—. 


FRANCISCO DE FIGUEROA. 


Very little is known of this poet. He was 
a native of Aleala de Henares, and followed the 
military career. He lived about the middle of 
the sixteenth century, and passed the greater 
part of his life in Italy and Flanders, Lope 
de Vega calls him “ the divine Figueroa.” A 
few hours before his death, he ordered all his 
poetical works to be burned; but copies of some 
of them remained in the hands of his friends. 


SONNET ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASO, 


O BEAUTEOUs scion from the stateliest tree 

That e’er in fertile mead or forest grew, 

With freshest bloom adorned and vigor new, 

Glorious in form, and first in dignity ! 

The same fell tempest, which by Heaven’s decree 

Around thy parent stock resistless blew, 

And far from Tejo fair its trunk o’erthrew, 

In foreign clime has stripped the teaves from 
thee : 

And the same pitying hand has from the spot 

Of cheerless ruin raised ye to rejoice, 

Where fruit immortal decks the withered stem. 

I will not, like the vulgar, mourn your lot ; 


7 c 3 . é 
But, with pure incense and exulting voice, 
Praise your high worth, and consecrate your 
fame, 
—_o——_. 


ALONSO DE ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA. 


ALonso pr Ercitzta y Zuniga was born at 
Madrid, probably in 1533. His father was a 
lawyer, and a writer of some note in his age, 
and was called “the subtle Spaniard.” Alonso 
was the youngest of three sons. In early youth, 
he was appointed page to the Infant Don Philip, 
and received his education at the palace. At || 
the age of fourteen years, he accompanied the || 
prince on a tour through the principal cities of 
the Netherlands, and a part of Germany and 
of Italy, from which he returned in 1551. 
Two years afterwards, he attended Philip to 
England, when that prince was married to the 
English queen, Mary. While they were in 
London, news arrived, that the Araucanians, an 
Indian nation in South America, on the coast 
of Chili, had revolted against the Spanish 
power. General Alderete was despatched to 
put down the insurrection, and Ercilla, then 
about twenty-one years of age, left the service 
of the prince, and followed the commander to 
that remote scene of military adventure, Al- 


derete died before reaching Arauco, at Taboga, 
and Ercilla went alone to Lima, the capital of 
Peru. The expedition was then intrusted to Don 
Garcias, the son of the viceroy. In the various 
battles with the savages, Ercilla distinguished 
himself by his bravery. In the midst of the 
hardships of war, the thought occurred to him 
of making the achievements of his countrymen 
the subject of an epic poem. He began it imme- 
diately, and devoted the hours of the night to 
recording the deeds of the day, writing some- 
times on small scraps of paper, and sometimes 
on pieces of parchment or leather. In this 
manner were written the first fifteen cantos of 
the poem, to which he gave the name of “ La 
Araucana.” After the war was over, Ercilla 
came near losing his life, in consequence of a 
quarrel with a young Spanish officer in a tour- 
nament which was held at the city of La Im- 
perial, to celebrate the accession of Philip the 
Second to the throne of Spain. A riot ensued, 
and the general, suspecting that the occasion 
was seized to carry into execution some plot 
against his authority, ordered the supposed ring- 
leaders to be imprisoned, and afterwards be- 
headed. Ercilla relates in the poem, that he 
was actually taken to the scaffold, and that his 
neck was already stretched out for the axe, 
when the general, having been convinced that 
the disturbance was accidental, revoked the 
hasty sentence. The poet, however, was oblig- 
ed to undergo a long imprisonment. Deeply 
disgusted with this harsh treatment, Ercilla left 
Chili, and returned to Spain, being now about 
twenty-nine years old. After a short Stay in 
Madrid, he set out again upon his travels, and 
visited France, Italy, Germany, Bohemia, and 
Hungary. Returning to Spain, he married, in 
1570, Maria de Bazan, a noble lady of Madrid, 
whose mother was attached to the service of 
the Spanish queen. This lady is celebrated in 
several passages of his poem. Rudolph Maxi- 
milian the Second, emperor of Germany, gave 
him the office of Chamberlain; but little is 
known of his connection with the imperial 
court, and his fortunes seem not to have been 
at all improved by the appointment. In 1580, 
he was living in seclusion and poverty at Ma- 
drid. The date of his death is uncertain, the last 
years of his life having been passed in want and 
obscurity. He lived, however, beyond 1596. 
Ercilla is known to the literary world by the 
poem of the “Araucana.’’ The first part of 
this work, having been written, as mentioned 
above, during the war, was published in 1577; 
and the whole, extending to thirty-seven cantos, 
appeared in 1590. It was dedicated to King 
Philip, from whom the author experienced cold- 
ness and neglect. Various judgments have 
been passed upon the character of this poem. 
The curate, in the scrutiny of Don Quixote’s 
library, speaking of the “ Araucana,”’ the “ Au- 
striada’’ of Juan Rufo, and the “ Monserrat ”’ 
of Virués, tells the barber, —“‘ These are the 
best heroic poems we have in Spanish, and 


ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA. 


685 


eh nec i a eam a NE a pl ie al SA A i A ae A A SE a SANS NRE cea 


may vie with the most celebrated in Italy ;_ re- 
serve them,” says he, ‘as the most valuable 
performances which Spain has to boast of in 
poetry.” Voltaire, in his ‘ Essay on Epic 
Poetry,” compares the subject of the second 
canto, which is a quarrel between the chiefs 
of the barbarians, to the dispute between Aga- 
memnon and Achilles in the “ Iliad,’’ and places 
the speech of the aged cacique Colocolo, who 
proposes to decide the question by a trial of 
strength, above that of Nestor, in the first book 
of the ** Iliad”; but declares that the rest of the 
work is beneath the least of the poets, and that, 
as a whole, it is as barbarous as the nations of 
which it treats. The English poet Hayley 
draws the poetical character of Ercilla in more 
favorable colors : — 


‘With warmth more temperate, and in notes more clear, 
That with Homeric richness fill the ear, 
The brave Ercilla sounds, with potent breath, 
His epic trumpet in the fields of death: 

In scenes of savage war, when Spain unfurled 
Her bloody banner o’er the western world, | 
With all his country’s virtues in his frame, 
Without the base alloy that stained her name, 
In danger’s camp, this military bard, 

Whom Cynthia saw on his nocturnal guard, | 
Recorded in his bold descriptive lay 

The various fortunes of the finished day ; 
Seizing the pen, while night’s calm hours afford 
A transient slumber to his satiate sword, ! 
With noble justice his warm hand bestows 
The meed of honor on his valiant foes. 
Howe’er precluded, by his generous aim, 
From high pretensions to inventive fame, 

His strongly colored scenes of sanguine strife, 
His softer pictures, caught from Indian life, 
Above the visionary forms of art, 

Fire the awakened mind, and melt the heart.”’ 


Essay on Epic Poetry, Epistle Third, vv. 237-258. 


The work, from its very design, admitted of 
but little poetic invention ; and it is a question 
whether it can properly be called an epic. The 
author has adhered strictly to historical truth, 
with the exception of a few episodes which he 
introduced into the latter portions, to relieve the 
monotony of the narrative. The events are 
related. chronologically. The poet made his- 
torical truth so great a point, that he challenged 
any one to detect a single inaccuracy. ‘To sev- 
eral editions of the ‘* Araucana”’ there is pre- 
fixed a sort of certificate by Captain Juan Go- 
mez, who had resided twenty-seven years in 
Peru, to the effect that he could vouch for the 
historical accuracy of the poem. The style of 
the “ Araucana” is natural and simple. The 
descriptive portions are not deficient in poetical 
coloring. Several of the speeches, also, par- 
ticularly that of Colocolo, have a high degree 
of merit. The episodes of the magician Fiton 
and his garden, of the savage maiden Glaura, 
whose story is told in the style of a Spanish 
romance, and of the death of Dido, are out Of 
keeping with the historical accuracy of the rest 
of the work, and, though written in conformity 
with the supposed laws of the epic, fail to im- 
part to it a poetical character. | 


3F 


i 
t 


ee 
Co ae 


Fi 
a 


af 

* 

ve 
| Sea 
aes 
." 
a 
ee 


~ 
* 
a 


- 


nem 


fh 


SPANISH POETRY. 


FROM THE ARAUCANA. 
A BATTLE WITH THE ARAUCANIANS. 


Wirnovr more argument, his gallant steed 
He spurred, and o’er the border led the way} 
His troops, their limbs by one strong effort freed 
From terror’s chill, followed in close array. 
Onward they press.— The opening hills recede, 
Spain’s chief Araucan fortress to display ; — 
Over the plain, in scattered ruins, lie 
Those walls that seemed destruction to defy ! 


Valdivia, checking his impetuous course, 
Cried, ‘‘ Spaniards ! Constancy’s own favorite 
race ! 
Fallen is the castle, in whose massive force 
My hopes had found their dearest resting- 
place ; 
The foe, whose treachery of this chief resource 
Has robbed us, on the desolated space 
Before us lies; more wherefore should I say? 
Battle alone to safety points the way!” 


Danger and present death’s convulsive rage 
Breed in our soldiers strength of such high 
strain, 
That fear begins the fury to assuage 
Of Araucanian bosoms; from the plain 
With shame they fly, nor longer battle wage, — 
Whilst shouts arise of Victory! Spain! 
Spain!” 
When, checking Spanish joy, stern Destiny 
By wondrous means fulfils her fixed decree ! 


The son of a cacique, whom friendship’s bands 
Allied to Spain, had long in page’s post 
Attended on Valdivia, at his hands 
Receiving kindness ; in the Spanish host 
He came. — Strong passion suddenly expands 
His heart, beholding troops, his country’s boast, 
Forsake the field. With voice and port elate, 
Their valor thus he strives to animate : — 


* Unhappy nation, whom blind terrors guide ! 
O, whither turn ye your bewildered breasts? 
How many centuries’ honor and just pride 
Perish upon this field with all your gests ! 
Forfeiting, what inviolate abide, 
Laws, customs, rights, your ancestors’ be- 
quests, — 
From free-born men, from sovereigns feared by 
all, 
Ye into vassalage and slavery fall. 


“ Ancestors and posterity ye stain, 

Inflicting on the generous stock a wound 
Incurable, an everlasting pain, 

A shame whose perpetuity knows no bound. 
Observe your adversaries’ prowess wane ; 

Mark how their horses, late that spurned the 


ground, 

Now drooping, pant for breath, whilst bathed 
all o’er 

Are their thick heaving flanks with sweat and 
gore. 


‘¢On memory imprint the words I breathe, 
Howe’er by loathsome terror ye ‘re distraught ; 

A deathless story to the world bequeath, — 
Enslaved Arauco’s liberation wrought! 

Return! reject not victory’s offered wreath, 
When Fate propitious calls, and prompts high 

thought ! 
Or in your rapid flight an instant pause 
To see me singly perish in your cause ! ” 


With that the youth a strong and weighty lance 
Against Valdivia brandishes on high ; 

And, yet more from bewildering terror’s trance 
To rouse Arauco, rushes furiously 

Upon the Spaniards’ conquering advance : 
So eagerly the heated stag will fly 

To plunge his body in the coolest stream, 

Attempering thus the sun’s meridian beam. 


One Spaniard his first stroke pierces right 
through ; 
Then at another’s middle rib he aims, — 
And, heavy though the weapon, aims so true, 
The point on the far side his force pro- 
claims. 
He springs at all with fury ever new ; 
A soldier’s thigh with such fierce blow he 
maims, 
The huge spear breaks, — his hand still grasps 
the heft, 
Whilst quivering in the wound one half is left. 


The fragment cast away, he from the ground 
Snatches a ponderous and dreadful mace ; 
He wounds, he slaughters, strikes down all 

around, 
Suddenly clearing the encumbered space : 
In him alone the battle’s rage is found ; 
Turned all ’gainst him, the Spaniards leave 
the chase ; 
But he so lightly moves, now here, now there, 
That in his stead they wound the empty air. 


Of whom was ever such stupendous deed 
Or heard, or read, in ancient history, 
As from the victor’s party to secede, 
Joining the vanquished even as they fly ? 
Or that barbarian boy, at utmost need, 
By his unaided valor’s energy, 
Should from the Christian army rend away 
A victory, guerdon of a hard-fought day ? 


A STORM AT SEA. 


Now bursts with sudden violence the gale : 
Earth sudden rocks convulsively and fast ; | 
Labors our ship, caught under press of sail, 
And menaces to break her solid mast. 
The pilot, when he sees the storm prevail, 
Springs forward, — shouting loud, with looks || 
aghast, 
“Slacken the ropes there! Slack away ! — 
Alack, 
The gale blows heavily !— Slack quickly ! 


Slack ! ”’ 68 oe cng semanas 


aE | 


The roaring of the sea, the boisterous wind, 
The clamor, uproar, vows confused and rash, 
Untimely night, closing in darkness blind 
Of black and sultry clouds, the lightning’s 
flash, 
The thunder’s awful rolling, all combined 
With pilot’s shouts, and many a frightful 
crash, 
Produced a sound, a harmony, so dire, 
It seemed the world itself should now expire. 


e 


Roars the tormented sea, open the skies, 
The haughty wind groans whilst it fiercer 
raves ; 
Sudden the waters in a mountain rise 

Above the clouds, and on the ship that braves 
Their wrath pour thundering down, — sub- 

merged she lies, 

A fearful moment’s space, beneath the waves: 
The crew, amidst their fears, with gasping breath, 
Deemed in salt water’s stead they swallowed 

death. 


But, by the clemency of Providence, — 
As, rising through the sea, some mighty whale 
Masters the angry surges’ violence, 
Spouts them in showers against the vexing 
gale, 
And lifts to sight his back’s broad eminence, 
Whilst in wide circles round the waters 
quail, — 
So from beneath the ocean rose once more 
Our vessel, from whose sides two torrents pour. 


Now, Holus— by chance if it befell, 
Or through compassion for Castilian woes — 
Recalled fierce Boreas, and, lest he rebel, 
Would safely in his prison cave inclose. 
The door he opened: in the selfsame cell 
Lay Zephyr unobserved, who instant rose, 
Marked his advantage as the bolts withdrew, 
And through the opening portal sudden flew. 


Then with unlessening rapidity, 
Seizing on lurid cloud and fleecy rack, 
He bursts on the already troubled sea, 
Spreads o’er the midnight gloom a shade more 
black ; 
The billows, from the northern blast that flee, 
Assaults with irresistible attack, 
Whirls them in boiling eddies from their course, 
And angry ocean stirs with doubled force. 


The vessel, beaten by the sea and gale, 
Now on a mountain-ridge of water rides, — 
With keel exposed, now her top-gallant sail 
Dips in the threatening waves, against her 
sides, 
Over her deck, that break. Of what avail, 
The beating of such storm whilst she abides, 
Is pilot’s skill? Now a yet fiercer squall 
Half opens to the sea her strongest wall. 


ee 


ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA.—ESPINEL. 


LEER A Tce at TRS CA SL SERIE RS  ta sa SH TISIG GON 


The crew and passengers wild clamors raise, 


687 


Deeming inevitable ruin near ; 
Upon the pilot anxiously all gaze, 
Who knows not what to order, stunned by fear. | 
Then, midst the terrors that all bosoms craze, 
Sound opposite commands: — ‘The ship to 
veer!” 
Some shout ;— some, ** Make for land!” —some, 
“Stand to sea!’’ — 
“ Starboard |”? — some, * Port 
helm!’ —some, * Helm a-lee!”’ 


Some, the 


The danger grows; the terror, loud uproar, 
And wild confusion with the danger grow ; 
All rush in frenzy, these the sails to lower, 
Those seek the boat, whilst overboard some 
throw 
Cask, plank, or spar, as other hope were o’er 5 
Here rings the hammer’s, there the hatchet’s 
blow ; 
Whilst dash the surges ’gainst a neighbouring | 
| 
| 


rock, 
Flinging white foam to heaven from every shock. 


—_—-4—— 


VICENTE ESPINEL. 


Vicente Espinev was born at Ronda, a city 
of Granada, in 1544. Being poor, he left his 
native place early to seek his fortune. He en- 
tered the church, and afterwards sought prefer- 
ment at court, but without success. He became 
known as a musician, and perfected the Span- 
ish guitar by adding a fifth string. He died in 
great poverty at Madrid, in the ninetieth year 
of his age. 

Espinel wrote both poetry and prose. His 
poetical pieces belong to the period of his youth. 
They consist of canciones, idyls, and elegies; 
and, though not distinguished by originality, 
are pleasing and melodious, and abound in | 
beautiful images and descriptions. | 


FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY. 


He who is both brave and bold 
Wins the lady that he would ; : 

But the courageless and cold 
Never did, and never could. . 


Modesty, in women’s game, | 
Is a wide and shielding veil: 
They are tutored to conceal 

Passion’s fiercely burning flame. 

He who serves them brave and bold, 
He alone is understood ; 

But the courageless and cold 
Ne’er could win, and never should. 


If you love a lady bright, 
Seek, and you shall find a way 
All that love would say to say, — 

If you watch the occasion right. 


Cupid’s ranks are brave and bold, 
Every soldier firm and good ; 

But the courageless and cold 
Ne’er have conquered, — never could. 


—_@——_ 


MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA. 


Miecurt vr Cervantes SAAVEDRA, the im- 
mortal author of “Don Quixote,” was born at 
Alcala de Henares, in October, 1547. Of his 
early life little is known, except that he mani- 
fested from his most tender years a love of 
poetry and letters. In his boyhood, he was ac- 
customed to attend the representations of the 
player, Lope de Rueda. Ata suitable age, he 
entered the University of Salamanca, where he 
studied two years. After this, he returned to 
Madrid, and studied with a learned theologian, 
Juan Lopez de Hoyos, Professor of Literature. 
His love of poetry was encouraged by his instruct- 
er, and among his first productions were elegies, 
ballads, sonnets, and a pastoral, called * Filena,’’ 
The death of Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip 
the Second, called forth a multitude of elegiac 


tributes; and, among the rest, Lopez de Hoyos 
published a book containing several poems on 
the occasion, one of which was written by his 
“dear and beloved pupil,” Miguel de Cervantes. 
At the age of twenty-two, he left Madrid, and 
entered the service of the Cardinal Giulio Aqua- 
viva, at Rome, who had just visited Madrid as 
the pope’s nuncio, and is supposed to have be- 
come acquainted with Cervantes there. Before 
he had been a year at Rome, he enlisted under 
the command of Marco Antonio Colonna, the 
leader of the Christian forces in the Turkish 
war which broke out in 1570. In the sangui- 
nary battle of Lepanto, fought between the 
combined Venetian, Spanish, and Papal fleets, 
and the Turks, on the 7th of October, 1571, 
Cervantes, demanding the post of danger, though 


suffering from an intermittent fever, boarded, 
with his soldiers, the Captain of Alexandria, 
took the royal standard of Kigypt, and in the 
conflict received three arquebuse wounds, one 
of which shattered his left hand. He often speaks 
of this mutilation with pride, and says that the 
glory of having fought at Lepanto was cheaply 
purchased by the wounds he received there. 
Cervantes was confined to the hospital more 
than six months. He served in the unsuccess- 
ful campaign of the following year, took part in 
the assault on the castle of Navarino, and in the 
next year, after the peace with Selim was sign- 
ed, accompanied the Marques de Santa Cruz in 
his descent upon Tunis. In June, 1575, he 
obtained leave to return to Spain, after an ab- 
sence of seven years; but the galley on board 
which he had embarked was captured, on the 
26th of September, by an Algerine squadron, 
commanded by the Arnaout Mami, and carried 
into port, and Cervantes fell to the share of the 
captain, For five years he remained in slavery. 


“SPANISH POETRY. 


dismal sound its habitation. 
a convenient place, pleasant fields and groves, 
murmuring springs, and a sweet repose of mind, 
are helps that raise the fancy, and impregnate 


The details of his captivity, — his bold, but un- 
successful, attempts to escape, —the unshaken 
firmness with which, rather than betray his 
companions, he braved the perils of death by 
the most cruel tortures, so often inflicted by the 
Algerines upon their prisoners, — the patience 
with which he bore the hardships of his horri- 
ble bondage, — display. the courage, the honor, 
and the magnanimity of Cervantes in the most 
interesting light. These details are supposed 
to be contained in the story of the Captive in 
* Don Quixote,” and in his play of * Life in Al- 
giers.” He was at length, though with much 
difficulty, ransomed by his friends and relations, 
and returned to Spain in 1581. He reéntered 
the military service, embarked in the squadron 
of Don Pedro Valdes, destined to the expedition 
against the Azores, the next year served under 
the Marques de Santa Cruz in the battle which 
he gained over the French fleet, and in 1583 was 
engaged in the assault and taking of Terceira. 
In 1584, Cervantes began his career as an 
author with the pastoral novel of * Galatea he 
soon after the publication of which, he married 
Dona Catilina de Palacios y Salazar, and took 
up his abode at Esquivias, the residence of his 
wife. He now began to write for the stage, the 
condition of which he endeavoured to improve. 
In the course of the next ten years he had fin- 
ished about thirty dramas. In 1588, he received 
the appointment of Commissary from Antonio de 
Guevara, the purveyor at Seville to the Indian 
squadrons, who was at that time employed in 
fitting out the Invincible Armada. Cervantes 
removed to Seville, and remained there in the 
discharge of his official duties several years. 
The offige was at length abolished, and he be- 
came agent to various corporations and wealthy 
individuals. According to one of his biogra- 
phers, Viard6t, he wrote most of his tales during 
this residence at Seville. He seems to have 
lived several years in La Mancha, where he was 
thrown into prison. At this time he began the 
composition of * Don Quixote.” In 1604, he 
returned to court, which was then held at Valla- 
dolid, and the next year published the first part 
of “ Don Quixote,” which at first excited little 
attention, but afterwards acquired a sudden popu- 
larity, and ran through four editions in one year. 
He himself says of it (Part IL., c. 16), “‘ Thirty 
thousand copies of my History have been print- 
ed, and thirty thousand thousand will be, unless 
God forbids.” Of the circumstances under 
which it was written, he says, in the Preface: 
‘Every production must resemble its author ; 
and my barren and unpolished understanding 
can produce nothing but what is very dull, very 
impertinent, and‘ extravagant beyond imagina- 
tion. You may suppose it the child of Disturb- | 
ance, engendered in some dismal prison, where 
Wretchedness keeps its residence, and every 
Rest, and ease, and 


Ff AR GET IRIS MET EMRE DES IE DEDOST TN AL IMO DI ESL DOME OAPI: EE LOL ONTOS ee 


CERVANTES. 


even the most barren Muses with conceptions 
that fill the world with admiration and delight.” 
Montesquieu, in his * Letttes Persanes,” says, 
with amusing exaggeration, ‘ The Spanturds 
have but one good book, that one which has 
made all the others ridiculous.” 

In 1605, the court returned to Madrid. Cer- 
vantes followed it thither, and is supposed to 
have passed the remainder of his life in that 
city. In 1608, he brought out a new and cor- 
rected edition of Don Quixote.” In 1613, he 
published his ‘* Novelas Exemplares,” or Didac- 
tic Tales, consisting of twelve stories; and the 
next year, his ‘“¢Viage al Parnaso,’’ and the 
volume of * Comedias y Entremeses.”” About 
this. time, a writer, under the pseudonym of 
Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda, published a 
continuation of “ Don Quixote,” —»a shameless 
work, which so excited the indignation of Cer- 
vantes, that he hastened to bring out the Second 
Part, on which he had been some time engaged. 
This appeared in 1615, and is the last of his 
works that were printed in his lifetime. The ro- 
mance of *“ Persiles and Sigismunda’’ was fin- 
ished at the time of his death. Speaking of his 
illness, in the Preface to that work, he says :—— 

« It happened, dear reader, that as two friends 
and I were returning from Esquivias, —a_ place 
famous on many accounts, —in the first place, 
for its illustrious families, and, secondly, for its 
excellent wines, — being arrived near Madrid, 
we heard, behind, aman on horseback, who was 
spurring his animal to its speed, and appeared 
to wish to get up to us, of which he gave proof 
soon after, calling out and begging us to stop; 
on which we reined up, and saw arrive a coun- 
try-bred student, mounted on an ass, dressed in 
gray, with gaiters and round shoes, a sword and 
scabbard, and a smooth. ruff, with strings; true 
it is that of these he had but two, so that his 
ruff was always falling on one side, and he was 
at great trouble to put it right. When he 
reached us, he said, —‘ Without doubt, your 
Honors are seeking some office or prebend at 
court, from the archbishop of Toledo or the 
king, neither more nor less, to judge by the 
speed you make; for, truly, my ass has been 
counted the winner of the course more than 
once.’ One of my companions replied, —‘ The 
horse of Senor Miguel de Cervantes is the 
cause, —- he steps out so well.’ Scarcely had 
the student heard the name of Cervantes than 
he threw himself off his ass, so that his bag 
and portmanteau fell to right and left, —for he 
travelled with all this luggage, and rushing 
towards me, and seizing my left arm, exclaimed, 
‘Yes, yes! this is the able hand, the famous 
being, the delightful writer, and, finally, the joy 
of the Muses!’ As for me, hearing him accu- 


mulate praises so rapidly, I thought myself 
obliged in politeness to reply, and, taking him 
round the neck in a manner which caused his 
ruff to fall off altogether, I said, —‘I am, in- 
deed, Cervantes, Sir; but am not the joy of the 


Muses, nor any of the fine things you say: but 
87 


go back to your ass, mount again, and let us 
converse, for the short distance we have before 
us.’ The good student did as I desired; Wwe 
reined ina little, and continued our journey at 
a more moderate pace. Meanwhile, my illness 
was mentioned, and the good student soon gave 
me over, saying,-~—‘ This is a dropsy, which not | 
all the water of the ocean, could you turn it 
fresh and drink it, would cure. Senor Cer- 
vantes, drink moderately, and do not forget to 
eat; for thus you will be cured, without the aid 
of other medicine.’ ‘Many others have told 
me the same thing,’ I replied; ‘but [can no 
more leave off drinking till I am satisfied, than 
if I were born for this end only. My life is 
drawing to its close; and, if I may judge by the 
quickness of my pulse, it will cease to beat by 
next Sunday, and I shall cease to live. You 
have begun your acquaintance with me in an 
evil hour, since I have not time left to show 
my gratitude for the kindness you have dis- 
played.’ At thig moment we arrived at the 
bridge of Toledo, by which I entered the town, 
while he followed the road of the bridge of Se- 
govia, What after that happened to me fame 
will recount: my friends will publish it, and I 
shall be desirous to hear. I embraced him 
again; lhe made me offers of service, and, spur- 
ring his ass, left me as ill as he was well dis- 
pesed to pursue his journey. Nevertheless, he 
gave me an excellent subject for pleasantry but 
all times are not alike. Perhaps the hour may 
come when [can join again this broken thread, 
and shall be able to say what bere I leave out, 
and which I ought to say. Now, farewell, 
pleasure! farewell, joy! farewell, my many 
friends! Iam nbout to die; and I leave you, 
desirous of meeting you soon again, happy, in 
another life.” * Cervantes died April 23d, 1616, | 
at the age of sixty-nine. 

Viardot, in his excellent memoir of Cervan- 
tes, translated and prefixed to Jarvis’s ** Don 
Quixote ’’ (London, 1842), thus sums up the 
events of his life: —= 

«© All has now been stated that could be col- 
lected of this illustrious man, one of those who 
pay by suffering, through a whole life, for the 
tardy honors of posthumous fame. Born of a 
family honorable, but poor; receiving, in the 
first instance, a liberal education, but thrown 
into domestic servitude by calamity 5 page, valet- 
de-chambre, and afterwards soldier ; crippled at 
the battle of Lepanto; distinguished at the cap- 
ture of Tunis; taken by a Barbary corsair ; cap- 
tive for five years in the slave dépdts of Algiers ; 
ransomed by public charity, after every effort to 
effect his liberation by industry and courage had 
been made in vain; again a soldier in Portugal 
and the Azores; struck with a woman noble 
and poor like himself; recalled one moment to 
letters by love, and exiled from them the next 
by distress; recompensed for his services and 


Sees 35885555 (97 


* Lives of the most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men 
of Italy, Spain, and Portugal (3 vols., London, 1837, 16mo.). 
Vol. Ill. pp. 172, 173. 


SPANISH POETRY. | 


a 


Wailing thy wretched agonies. 
But though thou still art held in strife 
With hunger thus incessantly, 
Of hunger still thou shalt not die, 
So long as I retain my life. 
I offer here, from yon high wall, 
To leap o'er ditch and battlement: 
Thy death one instant to prevent, 
I fear not on mine own to fall : 
The bread the Roman eateth now 
a eal I'll snatch away, and bear to thee ; 
For, O, ‘t is worse than death to see, 
Lady, thy dreadful state of woe! 


talents by the magnificent appointment of clerk What bridal rapture dost thou dream 

to a victualling-board ; accused of malversation From one at such a sad extreme ? 

with regard to the public money; thrown into For, trust me, ere an hour be past, | 

prison by the king’s ministers; released after I fear I shall have breathed my last. 

proving his, innocence ; subsequently again im- My brother fainted yesterday, 

prisoned by mutinous peasants; become a poet By wasting hunger overborne ; 

by profession, and a general agent; transacting, And then my mother, all outworn 

to gain a livelihood, negotiations by commission, By hunger, slowly sunk away. 

and writing dramas for the theatre ; discovering, And if my health can struggle yet | 

when more than fifty years of age, the true bent With hunger’s cruel power, in truth 1 

of his genius; ignorant what patron he could It is because my stronger youth | 

induce to accept of the dedication of his work ; Its wasting force hath better met. 

finding the public indifferent to a book, at which But now so many a day hath passed, 

they condescended to laugh, but did not appre- Since aught I’ve had its powers to strength- || 

. ciate and could not comprehend ; finding, also, en, | 

a Jealous rivals, by whom he was ridiculed and It can no more the conflict lengthen, 
7 defamed; pursued by want even to old age ; But it must faint and fail at last. 
ry forgotten by the many, unknown to all, and wontaaee | 
tt dying at last in solitude and poverty ; — such, Lira, dry thy weeping St: , 
! 4 during his life and at his death, was Miguel de But, ah! Tet mine, my love, the more 
H Cervantes Saavedra. ne was not till afier the ‘Their ovetlowine siven pour, 
es lapse of two centuries, that his admirers thought ‘i 


|| of seeking for his cradle and his tomb; that 
they adorned with a medallion in marble the 
last house in which he lived; that they raised 
dl a statue to his memory in the public square; 

and that, effacing the cognomen of some obscure 

but more fortunate individual, his countrymen 

inscribed, at the corner of a little street in Ma- 
|| drid, that great name, the celebrity of which re- 
|! souzds through the civilized world.’’ 


by 


P FROM THE TRAGEDY OF NUMANCTA. 


MORANDRO, 

Wuy so swiftly art thou flying ? 
Go not, Lira, —]et me still 

Taste what may my spirit fill 


LIRA, 
Thou speakest like a lover: — still, 
Morandro, surely, ’t were not good 
; pee: 
With glad life, even while I’m dvine That I should find a) joy im food (ame 
q Ps He aa ant f hil ying: For which thy life-blood thou may’st spill. 
; ) y erbe) ai HANES | But little will that suceour be, | 
y Gaze upon thy loveliness ; a ae 3 : 
Sines hso'desnaey rene Whate’er of booty thou canst make ; | 
‘ s str : 
TI 2 Id eek y | cp While thou a surer way dost take 
O kent hte. Hi hails get Nie To lose thyself, than win for me 
sweete 4y dg sts : ie xs 
aa) eee Up cae oes Enjoy thou still thy youthful prime, 


For ever in my phantasy . 
Ww; 2 nee In fresh and blooming years elate : 
ith such delicious harmony 


It turns to glory all my woe ! ol el ae es ea ea Stats a 
What now? What stand'st thou mutely ne, every thing at such a time. 
rf - 1s J Its noblest bulwark thou canst be 
thinking ? . ; 
Thou of my thought the only treasure ! Against the fierce and crafty foe : 
) tere 5 : What can the feeble prowess do 
LIRA. Of such a wretched maid as me ? 
I ’m thinking how thy dream of pleasure, . . . . . 
b And mine, so fast away is sinking : MORANDRO, 
; It will not fall beneath the hand Vainly thou laborest for my stay ! 
Of him who wastes our native land ; Lira, in vain thou hold’st me still! 
faite For long, or e’er the war be o’er, Thither, like some glad sign, my will 
i My hapless life will be no more. Invites and hurries me away. 
Peat But thou the while with earnest prayer 
era ae: ‘ Beseech the gods to send me home 
(rae Joy of my soul, what hast thou said ? With spoil, that may delay thy doom | 
ye v4 ae | Of misery, and my despair. : 
y That I am worn with hunger so, LIRA; | 
ty a That quickly will the o’erpowering woe My dearest friend, thou shalt not go! | | 
; "a } . | For ever break my vital thread. Morandro, —lo! even now before : 
, A 


—— 


Sa a eat Sia LEED ED 


Mine eyes, ensanguined with thy gore, 

I see the falchion of the foe. 

Seek not this desperate deed of war! 
Joy of my life, Morandro, stay ! 

If peril waits thy onward way, 

Return will be more perilous far. 

Thy rashness could I but repress, 

I call the Heavens to witness here 
That for the loss of thee I fear, — 

I reck not of mine own distress. 

But if, dear friend, it still must be, 
Thou still wilt run thy fatal race, 
Take as a pledge this fond embrace, 

And feel that I am still with thee. 


MORANDRO. 
Be Heaven thy close companion still, 
Lira !—— Behold Leoncio near! 


LIRA. 
Without the dreadful loss I fear, 
May’st thou thy frantic wish fulfil | 
[Exit. 
LEONCIO, 
A fearful offer hast thou made, Morandro, — 
And clearly hast thou shown, the enamoured 
heart 
Knows not of cawardice. Though of thy virtue 
And most rare valor there might well be hope, 
I fear the unhappy Fates will still be jealous. 
Attentively I heard the sad extremity 
To which thy Lira said she was reduced, — 
Unworthy, truly, of her lofty worth !— 
And heard thy noble promise to deliver her 
From her o’erpowering grief, and cast thyself 
With bold assault upon the Roman army ; 
And I, good friend, would bear thee company, 
In thy so noble and perilous exploit, 
With all my feeble powers to succour thee. 


MORANDRO. 
O my soul’s half! O most adventurous friend- 


ship, 
Still undivided even in toil and danger, 
As in most glad prosperity ! — Leoncio, 


Do thou eujoy thy precious life, — remain 
Within the city, — for I will not be 

The murderer of thy green and tender years. 
Alone I ’m fixed to go, — alone I hope 

Here to return, with spoil well merited 

By my inviolate faith and love sincere. 


LEONCIO. 
Since thou hast known, Morandro, all my wishes 
Blended with thine in good or evil fortune, 
Thou know’st that fear of death will ne’er di- 
vide us, — 

Nor aught, if aught there be, more terrible. 
With thee I’m fixed to go,—and home with thee 
Shall I return, if Heaven hath not ordained 
That I remain and perish, rescuing thee. 


MORANDRO. 
O, stay, my friend, and I will bless the hour! 
For should I lose my life in this adventure 
Of darkest peril, then wilt thou be able 


CERVANTES. 


Sa Pa a a DR i 


To be a comfort to my woful mother, 
And to my spouse, so fervently beloved. 


LEONCIO. 
In truth, my friend, thou art most bountiful, 
To think, when thou art dead, of my remaining 
In such calm quiet and tranquillity, 
That I should fill the place of comforter 
To thy sad mother and most wretched wife ! 
Since that thy death most surely will be mine, 
I ’m fixed to follow thee at this dark time 
Of doubt and peril, — thus it must be, friend! 
Morandro, speak no word of my remaining. 


MORANDRO 

Then, since I cannot shake thy steadfast purpose 
Of sallying with me, —at the dead dark night 
We ’Il issue. 


—— 


POEMS FROM DON QUIXOTE. 
CARDENIO’S SONG. 


Wnuat causes all my grief and pain? 
Cruel disdain. 

What aggravates my misery ? 
Accursed jealousy. 

How has my soul its patience lost ? 
By tedious absence crossed. 

Alas! no balsam can be found 

To heal the grief of such a wound, 

When absence, jealousy, and scorn 

Have left me hopeless and forlorn. 


What in my breast this grief could move ? 
Neglected Love. 

What doth my fond desires withstand ? 
Fate’s cruel hand. 

And what confirms my misery ? 
Heaven’s fixed decree. 

Ah me! my boding fears portend 

This strange disease my life will end ; 

For die I must, when three such foes, 

Heaven, Fate, and Love, my bliss oppose. 


My peace of mind what can restore ? 
Death’s welcome hour. 

What gains Love's joys most readily ? 
Fickle inconstancy. 

Its pains what medicine can assuage ? 
Wild frenzy’s rage. 

’'T is, therefore, little wisdom, sure, 

For such a grief to seek a cure, 

As knows no better remedy 

Than frenzy, death, inconstancy. 


—_ 


SONG. 


Ir woman ’s glass, why should we try 
Whether she can be broke, or no? 

Great hazards in the trial lie, 
Because perchance she may be so. 


Who that is wise such brittle ware 
Would careless dash upon the floor, 

Which, broken, nothing can repair, 
Nor solder to its form restore ? 


— ret 


nif Papa Lets; duasterste 


A 6 A 


ple Pe amne 


J 


EOE ER as ans aaattnsaintetinacennisnansininnanaunhsniscascemnineeaeet create rare Dm a 


692 . 
In this opinion all are found, 
And reason votiches what I say, 
Wherever Danaés abound, 
There golden showers will make their way. 


SONNET, 


Iy the dead silence of the peaceful night, 
When others’ cares are hushed in soft repose, 
The sad account of my neglected woes 

To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite. 
And when the sun, with his returning light, 
Forth from the east his radiant journey goes, 
With accents such as sorrow only knows, 

My griefs to tell, is all my poor delight. 

And when bright Phebus, from his starry throne, 
Sends rays direct upon the patched soil, 

Still in the mournful tale I persevere. 
Returning night renews my sorrow’s toil. 

And though from morn to night I weep and moan, 
Nor Heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear. 


= 


SONG. 


A mariner I am of Love, 
And in his seas profound, 

Tossed betwixt doubts and fears, I rove, 
And see no port around. 


At distance I behold a star, 
Whose beams my sezises draw, 

Brighter and more resplendent far 
Than Palinure e’er saw. 


Yet still, uncertain of my way, 
I stem a dangerous tide, 

No compass but that doubtful ray 
My wearied bark to guide. 


For when its light I most would see, 
Benighted most I gail : 

Like clouds, reserve and modesty 
Its shrouded lustre veil. 


O lovely star, by whose bright ray 
My love and faith I try, 

If thou withdraw’st thy cheering day, 
In night of death I lie ! 


++ 


LOPEZ MALDONADO. 

Tuts poet lived in the latter half of the six: 
teenth century, being a contemporary of Cer: 
vantes. “Here ’s a book of songs by Lopez 
Maldonado,’ cried the barber (in the review of 
Don Quixote’s libraty). ‘He ’s also my pars 
ticular friend,’ said the curate; ‘his verses are 
very well liked, when he reads them himself; 
and his voice is so excellent, that they charm 
us, whenever he sings them.’ ”’ 

A collection of his poems, entitled “ Cancio- 
nero, 6 Coleccion de Varias Poesias,’’ was pub- 
lished at Madrid, in 1586. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


SONG. 


An, Love! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 
Enemy 

Of all that mankind may not rue! 
Most untrue ; 

To hit who keeps most faith with thee |! 
Woe is me! 

The falcon has the eyes of the dove! 
Ah, Love ! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love! 
Thy deceits 

Give us clearly to comprehend 
Whither tend 

All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 
They are cheats, — 

Thorns below, and flowers above! 
Ah, Love ! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 


Pe 


JUAN DE TIMONEDA, 


THis author was by birth a Valencian, and 
by trade a printer. He flourished during the 
latter half of the sixteenth century, and, in itni- 
tation of his friend, Lope de Rueda, was a writ- 
er of comedies. His principal work is his 
“¢ Patranuelo,’’ or Story-teller, a collection of 
twenty pairanas, or stories, imitated frem Boe- 
caccio and others. 


NAY, SHEPHERD! NAY! 


“Nay, shepherd! nay !—thou art unwary ; 
Thy flocks are wandering far away.” 

‘© Alas! I know it well; —’t is Mary 
Who leads my troubled thoughts astray.’ 


** Look, shepherd! look, how far they tove! 
Why so forgetful ? — call them yet.” 

“‘O, he who is forgot by Love 
Will soon, too soon, all else forget !”” 

‘** Come, leave those thoughts so dark and dreary 
And with your browsing flocks be gay.”’ 

“Ah, no! ’t is vain, ’t is vain, — for Mary 
Leads all my troubled thoughts astray.” 


’ 


“Tis Love, then, shepherd! 0, depatt, 
And drive away the cheating boy !” 

“ Alas! he ’s seated in my heart, 
And rules it with tumultuous joy.” 

‘Nay, shepherd ! wake thee, dare not tarry, — 
For thou art in a thorny way.” 

“Ah, no! tis vain, ’t is vain, — for Mary 
Leads all my troubled thoughts astray.” 


“Throw off this yoke, young shepherd! be 


~ 


Joyous and mirthsome as before.” 
‘©O, what are mirth and joy to me? 

They on my woes no balm can pour.” 
‘Thou didst refuse to dance, — didst tarr , 
When laughing maidens were at play.” 

“T know I did; —alas! ’t is Mary 
That leads my troubled thoughts astray.” 


“Then tell thy love, — perchance ’t is hid, — 
And send a missive scribbled o’er.” 

“© Alas! my friend, I did, I did, — 
Which, ere the maid had read, she tore.” 

«© Then hang the maid ! —the foul fiend carry 
A pestilence through all her flocks!” 

“QO, no! forbear !— nor threaten Mary 
With sorrow’s frowns, nor misery’s shocks!” 


—_@— 


ALONSO DE LEDESMA. 


Turs elegant poet was born at Segovia, about 
the year 1551. He wrote chiefly on sacred 
subjects. His ‘¢ Conceptos Espirituales,” divid- 
ed into, three parts, were published respectively 
at Madrid, in 1600, 1606, and 1616. Among 
his works were ‘Juegos de Noche Buena,”’ 
and “El Monstro Imaginado.”’ He died in 
1622, at the age of seventy-one. 


SLEEP. 

O GENTLE Sleep! my welcoming breath 
Shall hail thee ’midst our mortal strife, 
Who art the very thief of life, 

The very portraiture of death! 

'T is sweet to feel thy downy wing 
Light hovering o’er our wonted bed ; 
But who has heard thy lightsome tread, 

Thou blind, and deaf, .and silent thing? 

Thou dost a secret pathway keep, 

Where all is darkest mystery. 
For me, to sleep is but to die, — 
For thee, thy very life is sleep. 


— 


LUIS DE GONGORA Y ARGOTE. 


Tus poet, famous for having introduced into 
Spain the whimsical and euphuistic manner, 
called the estilo culto, or cultivated style, was 
born at Cérdova, July 11th, 1561. At the age 
of fifteen, he was sent to the University of Sa- 
lamanca; but, instead of studying the law, for 
which he was destined, occupied himself entire- 
ly with literature and poetry. After a short 
residence at the University, he returned to his 
native city. He wrote, while yet a youth, 
many amatory and satirical poems; and was 
well known, and highly esteemed, as a man of 
letters and a poet, in Cérdova. At the age of 
forty-five, he entered the church, having been 
disappointed in his hopes of official employ- 
ments. oon after this, he went to Madrid, to 
improve his fortunes; but, though he received 
many promises of promotion, and was held in 
great regard, in the capital, he attained no high- 
er place than that of honorary chaplain to the 
king, Philip the Third. As he advanced in 


life, he changed the simple elegance of his 
early style for one full of contortions, fantastic 
turns, enigmatic expressions, and far-fetched 
allusions. 


He was followed by numerous imi- 


TIMONEDA.—LEDESMA.—GONGORA. 


a ci aaa tha ans acl gl Pc LN ce tg a teen re atearet cece meee Se a 


tators, who adhered with bigoted zeal to these 
elaborate absurdities. He has been called the 
Marino of Spain. Gongora was suddenly taken 
ill, while accompanying the king to Valencia. 
He returned to Cérdova, during an interval of 
convalescence, and died May 24th, 1627. 

Lope de Vega writes as follows of Gongora 
and his system :— 

‘“¢T have known this gentleman for eight-and- 
twenty years, and I hold him to be possessed 
of the rarest and most excellent talent of any in 
Cérdova; so that he need not yield even to Sen- 
eca or Lucan, who were natives of the same 
town. Pedro Linan de Riaza, his contempora- 
ry at Salamanca, told me much of his proficien- 
cy in study, so that I cultivated his acquaint- 
ance, and improved it by the intercourse we 
had when I visited Andalusia; and it always 
appeared as if he liked and esteemed me more 
than my poor merits deserve. Many other dis- 
tinguished men of letters at that time competed 
with him, — Herrera, Vicente Espinel, the two 
Argensolas, and others; among whom this gen- 
tleman held such place, that Fame said the same 
of him as the Delphic oracle did of Socrates. 

«He wrote in all styles with elegance, and 
in gay and festive compositions his wit was not 
less celebrated than Martial’s, while it was far 
more decent. We have several of his works 
composed in a pure style, which he continued 
for the greater part of his life. But, not con- 
tent with having reached-the highest step of 
fame in sweetness and softness, he sought —I 
have always believed, with good and sincere in- 
tentions, and not with presumption, as his ene- 
mies have asserted — to enrich the art, and even 
language, with such ornaments and figures as 
were never before imagined nor seen. In my 
opinion, he fulfilled his aim, if this was his in- 
tent; the difficulty rests in receiving his sys- 
tem: and so many obstacles have arisen, that 
I doubt they will never cease, except with 
their cause; for I think the obscurity and am- 
biguity of his expressions must be disagreeable 
to many. By some he is said to have raised 
this new style into a peculiar class of poetry ; 
and they are not mistaken : for, as in the old 
manner of writing it took a life to become a 
poet, in this new one it requires but a day: for, 
with these transpositions, four rules, and six 
Latin words or emphatic phrases, they rise so 
high, that they do not know — far less under- 
stand—themselves. Lipsius wrote anew Latin, 
which those who are learned in such things say 
Cicero and Quintilian laugh at in the other 
world; and those who have imitated him are so 
wise, that they lose themselves. And I know 
others who have invented a language and style 
so different from Lipsius, that they require a 
new dictionary. And thus those who imitate 
this gentleman produce monstrous births, — and 
fancy, that, by imitating his style, they inherit 
his genius. Would to God they imitated him 
in that part which is worthy of adoption! for 
every one must be aware that there is much 


2 


a LC A I TE Oe ~ 
: - San a AN 


— 


694 


that is deserving of admiration; while the rest 
is wrapt in the darkness of such ambiguity, as I 
have found the cleverest men at fault, when 
they tried to understand it. The foundation of 
this edifice is transposition, rendered the more 
harsh by the disjoining of substantives from ad- 
Jectives, where no parenthesis is possible, so 
that even to pronounce it is difficult: tropes 
and figures are the ornaments, — so little to the 
purpose, that it is as if a woman, when painting 
herself, instead of putting the rouge on her 
cheeks, should apply it to her nose, forehead, 
and ears. Transposition’ may be allowed, and 
there are common examples; but they must be 
appropriate. Boscan, Garcilaso, and Herrera 
use them. Look at the elegance, softness, and 
beauty of the divine Herrera, worthy of imita- 
tion and admiration! for it is not to enrich a 
language to reject its natural idiom, and adopt 
instead phrases borrowed from a foreign tongue ; 
but, now, they write in the style of the curate 
who asked his servant for the ‘anserine reed,’ 
telling her that ‘the Ethiopian licour was want- 
ing in the Cornelian vase.’ These people do 
not attend to clearness or dignity of style, but 
to the novelty of these exquisite modes of ex- 
pression, in which there is neither truth nor 
propriety, nor enlargement of the powers of 
language ; but an odious invention that renders 
it barbarous, imitated from one who might have 
been an object of just admiration to us all.” * 

The following piéces are in Géngora’s earlier 
and simpler manner. 


THE SONG OF CATHARINE OF ARAGON. 


O, TAKE a lesson, flowers, from me, 
How in a dawn all charms decay, — 

Less than my shadow doomed to be, 
Who was a wonder yesterday ! 


I, with the early twilight born, 

Found, ere the evening shades, a bier; 
And I should die in darkness lorn, 

But that the moon is shining here : 

So must ye die, — though ye appear 
So fair, — and night your curtain be. 
O, take a lesson, flowers, from me! 


My fleeting being was consoled, 
When the carnation met my view ; 
One hurrying day my doom has told, — 
Heaven gave that lovely flower but two: 
Ephemeral monarch of the wold, — 
I clad in gloom, — in scarlet he. 
O, take a lesson, flowers, from me! 


The jasmine, sweetest flower of flowers, 
The soonest is its radiance fled; 

It scarce perfumes as many hours 
As there are star-beams round its head: 
If living amber fragrance shed, 


* Discurso sobre la Nueva Poesia, por Lope de Vega. — 
Lives of the most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of 
Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Vol. III., pp. 248-250. 


SPANISH POETRY. 
fl teas alanis te a Sl ka Oo ee 


' Tuey are not all sweet nightingales, 


The jasmine, sure, its shrine must be. 
O, take a lesson, flowers, from me! 


The bloody-warrior fragrance gives ; 
It towers unblushing, proud, and gay ; 

More days than other flowers it lives, — 
It blooms through all the days of May : 
I ’d rather liké a shade decay, 

Than such a gaudy being be. 

O, take ‘a lesson, flowers! from me. 


COME, WANDERING SHEEP! O, COME! 


Come, wandering sheep! O, come! 
I ’ll bind thee to my breast, 

I ’ll bear thee to thy home, 
And lay thee down to rest. 


I saw thee stray forlorn, 
And heard thee faintly cry, 
And on the tree of scorn, 
For thee, I deigned to die- 
What greater proof could I 
Give, than to seek the tomb ? 
* Come, wandering sheep! O, come 


I shield thee from alarms, 
And wilt thou not be blest ? 
I bear thee in my arms, — 
Thou bear me in thy breast! 
O, this is love! — Come, rest! 
This is a blissful doom. 
Come, wandering sheep! O, come! 


NOT ALL SWEET NIGHTINGALES. 


That fill with songs the flowery vales; 

But they are little silver bells, 

Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
Magic bells of gold in the grove, 

Forming a chorus for her I love. 


Think not the voices in the air 
Are from the winged Sirens fair, 
Playing among the dewy trees, 
Chanting their morning mysteries : 
O, if you listen, delighted there, 
To their music scattered o’er the dales, 
They are not all sweet nightingales, 
That fill with songs the flowery vales! 
But they are little silver bells, 
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
Magic bells of gold in the grove, 
Forming a chorus for her I love. 


O, ’t was a lovely song, — of art 
To charm, — of nature to touch the heart ! 
Sure ’t was some shepherd’s pipe, which, 
played 
By passion, fills the forest shade. — 
No! ’t is music’s diviner part 
Which o’er the yielding spirit prevails. 


They are not all sweet nightingales, 
That fill with songs the flowery vales; | 


LAR er 


But they are little silver bells, 

Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
Magic bells of gold in the grove, 

Forming a chorus for her I love. 


In the eye of love, which all things sees, 
The fragrance-breathing jasmine-trees, 
And the golden flowers, and the sloping 
hill, 
And the ever melancholy rill, 
Are full of holiest sympathies, 
And tell of love a thousand tales. 
They are not all sweet nightingales, 
That fill with songs the cheerful vales ; 
But they are little silver bells, 
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
Bells of gold in the secret grove, 
Making music for her I love. 


— 


LET ME GO WARM. 


Let-me go warm and merry still ; 
And let the world laugh, an’ it will. 


Let others muse on earthly things, — 
The fall of thrones, the fate of kings, 
And those whose fame the world doth fill ; 
Whilst muffins sit enthroned in trays, 
And orange-punch in winter sways 
The merry sceptre of my days ; — 
And let the world laugh, an’ it will. 


He that the royal purple wears 

From golden plate a thousand cares 
Doth swallow as a gilded pill: 

On feasts like these I turn my back, 

Whilst puddings in my roasting-jack 

Beside the chimney hiss and crack ;— 
And Jet the world laugh, an’ it will. 


And when the wintry tempest blows, 
And January’s sleets and snows 
Are spread o’er every vale and hill, 
With one to tell a merry tale 
O’er roasted nuts and humming ale, 
I sit, and care not for the gale ; — 
And let the world laugh, an’ it will. 


Let merchants traverse seas and lands, 

For silver mines and golden sands ; 
Whilst I beside some shadowy rill, 

Just where its bubbling fountain swells, 

Do sit and gather stones and shells, 

And hear the tale the blackbird tells; — 
And let the world laugh, an’ it will. 


For Hero’s sake the Grecian lover 
The stormy Hellespont swam over: 
I cross, without the fear of ill, 
The wooden bridge that slow bestrides 
The Madrigal’s enchanting sides, 
Or barefoot wade through Yepes’ tides ; — 
And let the world Jaugh, an’ it will. 


GONGORA.—CONTRERAS.—OCANA. 


But since the Fates so cruel prove, 

That Pyramus should die of love, 
And love should gentle Thisbe kill ; 

My Thisbe be an apple-tart, 

The sword I plunge into her heart 

The tooth that bites the crust apart ; — 
And let the world laugh, an’ it will. 


—_@— 


HIERONIMO DE CONTRERAS. 


Hrer6nimo pr Contreras lived in the last 
half of the sixteenth century. He belonged to 
Saragossa. 


—>>— 


SIGHS. 


Wuen hearts are sad, the remedy 
That ’s sweetest is to sigh. 


No torment e’er oppressed the heart, 
Which was not softened by the dew 
Of melancholy thought, — whose smart 
Is light and salutary too: 
A breathed *“* Alas!’ will oft renew 
A broken link of sympathy. 
O, ’t is most sweet to sigh! 


When deepest in the pensive breast 
Some sacred, secret sorrow lies, 
The spirit drags it from its rest 
By the strong alchemy of sighs, 
And tears, their natural allies: 
There ’s magic in a tearful eye. 
O, ’t is most sweet to sigh! 


But when the wound has pierced so deep 
That hope can neither cure nor cheer, 

"T were better far in death to sleep 
Than to live on despairing here: 
But if he will live on, a tear 

Or sigh some comfort may supply. 

O, ’t is most sweet to sigh! 


There are insufferable woes 
Which must be suffered, — man must bear 
Terrors, and terror-waking throes, 
Which language dares not, nor could dare, 
To compass. Let his heart beware: 
He may not speak, — but he may die. 
O, ’t is most sweet to sigh! 


——o—— 


FRANCISCO DE OCANA. 


Tris poet lived about the end of the six- 
teenth century. He wrote on sacred subjects. 
The Cancionero containing his pieces was pub- 
lished at Alcala, in 1603. 


ee 


OPEN THE DOOR! 


O porTER, ope the door to me ! 
I ’m shivering in the cold and rain: — 


Take pity on the strangers’ pain ! 


“= 
earns 


696 


I and this poor old man have come 
Tired wanderers from a foreign shore, 
And here we stray without a home. 
His weariness o’erwhelms me more 
Than my own woe. O, ope your door 
To shelter us from cold and rain ! — 
Take pity on the strangers’ pain ! 
The night is dark, and dull, and cold ; 
No inn is open on the road; 
The dreary midnight bell hath tolled, 
And not a straggler walks abroad : 
We naught but solitude behold, 
Pelted by driving hail and rain : — 
Take pity on the strangers’ pain! 


Be kind, be generous, friend ! thy door 
, Throw open, for the love of Heaven! 
We are but two, — but two, — no more, — 
I, and my poor old husband, driven 
For refuge here; and we implore 
A shelter. Shall we ask in vain? — 
Take pity on the strangers’ pain! 


Here give us welcome : — thou wilt be 
Rewarded by God’s grace, which can 

Shower unexpected joys; though he 
May be an old, defenceless man, 

Yet God has recompense for thee; 

Thou may’st a noble guerdon gain: — 

Take pity on the strangers’ pain ! 


Let us not tarry longer, — ope! 
We ’re chilled with cold, — so ope, I pray! 
Ope to the wanderers now, and hope 
They well thy kindness may repay : 
Time and eternity give scope 
For recompense, The wind and rain 
Beat on: — relieve the strangers’ pain ! 


=o 


LOPE FELIX DE VEGA CARPIO. 


Tus wonderful man, who has been some- 
times called the Prodigy of Nature, the Phenix 
of Spain, and the Potosi of Rhymes, was born 
November 25, 1562, at Madrid. He inherited 
from his father, Felix de Vega, an inclination 
for poetry. His biographers assert, that, at two 
years old, his genius was shown by the vivacity 
of his eyes; that he knew his letters before he 
could speak, and repeated his lessons by signs. 
He is said to have composed verses when he 
was only five years old, and before he knew 
how to write; and before the age of twelve, he 
had produced several theatrical pieces, and had 
become a master of grammar, rhetoric, and Latin 
composition. Such are the marvels of his boy- 
hood. He was early left an orphan. At the 
age of fourteen, he ran away from school with 
a friend, in order to see the world. They 
reached Segovia on foot, where they bought a 
mule, and then proceeded to Astorga. Not 
being quite satisfied with the specimens of the 


SPANISH POETRY. 


world they had thus far seen, they made up 
their minds to go back again. When they had 
got as far as Segovia, they ‘stopped at a silver- 
smith’s, one to sell a chain, and the other to 
get change for a doubloon. The silversmith 
was suspicious, and called in a judge, who 
honestly sent them back to Madrid. 

Lope was enabled to prosecute his studies by 
the kindness of the grand inquisitor, Gerénimo 
Manrique, bishop of Avila, whom he commem- 
orates in one of his earliest productions, entitled, 
‘‘La Pastoral de Jacinto.” At the age of sev- 
enteen or eighteen, Lope entered the University 
of Alcala de Henares, where he remained four 
years, and is said to have made immense pro- 
gress in the studies of the place. He then re- 
turned to his native city, and immediately en- 
tered the service of the duke of Alba, at whose 
request he wrote the “ Arcadia,” a work com- 
posed in the pastoral style of the “Diana” of 
Montemayor, and the “ Galatea’ of Cervantes. 
In this work he is supposed by some to have 
shadowed forth the history of the duke of 
Alba’s early life. The duke died soon after, 
and, about the same time, Lope married Dona 
Isabella de Urbino; but his domestic felicity 
was soon interrupted by a quarrel with a gentle- 
man, which ended in a duel, Lope had the 
misfortune to inflict a severe wound upon his 
antagonist. He was obliged to flee from Ma- 
drid, and took refuge in Valencia, where he 
passed two weary years, separated from his 
wife. At the end of this period, he was allowed 
to return to Madrid; but the death of his wife, 
which happened almost immediately thereupon, 
reduced him to despair. To dissipate his sor- 
row, he determined to become a soldier. Philip 
the Second was then making formidable prepa- 
rations for the invasion of England, and Lope 
obtained permission to accompany the duke of 
Medina Sidonia in the Invincible Armada. 
The fate of this expedition is well known. 
Lope endured every possible hardship, but 
found time to compose a poem, in twenty can- 
tos, entitled, ‘La Hermosura de Angélica,”’ 
being a continuation of the adventures of An- 
gelica, from the point where Ariosto had left her. 

In 1588, Lope, now twenty-six years old, re- 
turned to Madrid, and again devoted himself to 
poetry. He became secretary to the Marques 
de Malpica, and afterwards entered the service 
of the Conde de Lemos, the viceroy of Naples. 
About this time he married again. The name 
of his second wife was Dofia Juana de Guardio. 
He had the misfortune to lose her also, in a few 
years. This second bereavement induced him 
to take the vows and be ordained as a priest, 
and he entered the order of St. Francis. He 
was soon named head chaplain, and became a 
familiar of the Inquisition, and is said to have 
taken part in an auto-da-fé, when a Lutheran 
was burned alive. In 1598, he gained a prize 
by some verses written for the canonization of 
San Jsidro, a native of Madrid. He had al- 
ready become famous as a dramatic poet. In- 


she 


LOPE DE VEGA. 


deed, the most brilliant period of his life began and in one ef his eclogues, he decJares, 
after he had become a Franciscan. Pope Urban 
_ the Eighth made him Doctor of Theology, and 
appointed him Fiscal of the Apostolical Cham- 
ber, Lope having dedicated to his Holiness the 
tragedy of “Mary Stuart.’”” The number of 
works he produced at this time almost surpasses 
belief, and the popularity he acquired was unri- 
valled. His health continued good until within 
a short time of his death, which took place Au- 
gust 26, 1635. 
Lope de Vega was, perhaps, the most prolific 
author who ever lived. He poured out, with 


‘“‘The printed part, though far too large, is less 
Than that which yet unprinted waits the press.” 
It is difficult to find a complete set of the twen- 
ty-five volumes of plays. Lord Holland gives a 
list of “plays still extant,” amounting to four 
hundred and ninety-seven. 


——— 


FROM THE ESTRELLA DE SEVILLA. 


THE KING AND SANCHO ORTIZ. 


inexhaustible profusion, works in every depart- SANCHO. 
ment of poetical composition, and his influence I xiss thy feet. 
over the literary taste of his countrymen was KING. 


unbounded. Persons of the highest distinction 
were proud to number themselves among his 
worshippers. His friend and biographer, Mont- 
alvan, calls him “the portent of the world ; 
the glory of the land; the light of his country ; 
the oracle of language; the centre of fame ; the 
object of envy; the darling of fortune ; the 
phenix of ages; prince of poetry; Orpheus 
of sciences; Apollo of the Muses; Horace of 
poets; Virgil of epics; Homer of heroics; Pin- 
dar of lyrics; the Sophocles of tragedy, and the 
Terence of comedy; single among the excel- 
lent, and excellent among the great; great in 
every way and in every manner.” Whenever 
he made his appearance in public, he was re- 
ceived with signal marks of respect. His name 
became a proverbial expression for whatever was 
| most excellent. A brilliant diamond was called 

a Lope diamond; a fine day, a Lope day; a beau- 
I) tiful woman, a Lope woman; and when he 
died, his splendid obsequies were attended by 
the principal grandees and nobles of the Span- 
{| ish court, the windows and balconies on the 
streets through which the procession passed were 
densely thronged with spectators, and a woman 
in the crowd was heard to exclaim, “ This is a 
Lope funeral,” not knowing that it was the fu- 
neral of the great poet himself. 

The best life of Lope de Vega is that by Lord 
Holland, entitled, ‘“‘ Some Account of the Lives 
and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio 
and Guillen de Castro” (London, 1817, 2 vols.). 
His miscellaneous works were collected, and 
published with the title, “ Coleecion de las 
Obras Sueltas de D. Frey Lope Felix de Car- 
pio” (Madrid, 1776 —79, 21 vols., 8vo.). Be- 
sides these, his dramatic works, printed at Ma- 
‘drid, according to N. Antonio, who gives a list 
of them, filled twenty-five volumes, and amount- 
ed to three hundred. These, however, are but 
a small part of what he actually produced ; for 
|| when he died, he had written eighteen hundred 
dramas and four hundred autos. As a proof 
of his extraordinary facility in composition, it 
|| is said that more than one hundred of these 
were each written in a single day. In one of 
|| his poems, written in 1609, he says that he has 
| already written four hundred and eighty-three, 


“ And all, save six, against the rules of wit’’; 
88 


Rise, Sancho! rise,-and know 
I wrong thee much to let thee stoop so low. 


SANCHO. 
My liege, confounded with thy grace I stand; 
Unskilled in speech, no words can I command 


To tell the thanks I feel. 


KING. . 
Why, what in me 


To daunt thy noble spirit canst thou see ? 


SANCHO. 
Courage and majesty that strikes with awe ; 
My sovereign lord ; the fountain of the law; 
In fine, God’s image, which I come to obey, 
Never so honored as I feel to-day. 


KING. 

Much I applaud thy wisdom, much thy zeal ; 
And now, to try thy courage, will reveal 
That which you covet so to learn, — the cause 
That thus my soldier to the presence draws. 
Much it imports the safety of my reign 
A man should die, — in secret should be slain ; 
This must some friend perform ; search Seville 

through, f 
None can I find to trust so fit as you. 


SANCHO. 
Guilty he needs must be. 


KING. 


He is. 


SANCHO, 


Then why, 
My sovereign liege, in secret should he die? 
If public law demands the culprit’s head, 
In public let the culprit’s blood be shed. 
Shall Justice’s sword, which strikes in face of 
day, 
Stoop to dark deeds, — a man in secret slay ? 
The world will think, who kills by means un- 
known 
No guilt avenges, but implies his own. 
If slight his fault, I dare for mercy pray. 


KING. 
Sancho, attend ; — you came not here to-day 
An advocate to plead a traitor’s cause, 


But to perform my will, to execute my laws, 
oG 


RAINE RS ae TU ea ETOH Ac Oe URC AUS SIO RS AE Be 


—— 


To slay a man;-——and why the culprit bleed 
Matters not thee, it is thy monarch’s deed; 

If base, thy monarch the dishonor bears. 

But say, — to draw against my life who dares, 
Deserves he death? 


SANCHO. 
O, yes! a thousand times. 


KING. 
Then strike without remorse: these are the 
wretch’s crimes. 


SANCHO. 
So let him die; for sentence Ortiz pleads: 
Were he my brother, by this arm he bleeds, 


KING, 


Give me thy hand. 


SANCHO. 


With that my heart I pledge. 


KING. 
So, while he heeds not, shall thy rapier’s edge 
Reach his proud heart. 


SANCHO. 
My liege! my sovereign Jord! 
Sancho ’s my name, I wear a soldier’s sword. 
Would you with treacherous acts, and deeds of 
shame, 
Taint such a calling, tarnish such a name? 
Shall I, —shall I, to shrink from open strife, 
Like some base coward, point the assassin’s 
knife ? 
No, — face to face his foe must Ortiz meet, 
Or in the crowded mart, or public street, — 
Defy and combat him in open light. 
Curse the mean wretch who slays, but does not 
fight 
Naught can excuse the vile assassin’s blow ; 
hh Happy, compared with him, his murdered foe, — 
+f With him who, living, lives but to proclaim, 
: To all he meets, his cowardice and shame. 


KING. 
FE en as thou wilt; but in this paper read, 
Signed by the king, the warrant of the deed. 


[Sancho reads the paper aloud, which promises the king’s 
protection, if he is brought into any jeopardy in conse- 
quence of killing the person alluded to, and is signed, 
Yo el Rey, I the king. 


KING, 
Act as you may, my name shall set you free. 


: SANCHO. 
Does, then, my liege so meanly deem of me? 

| I know his power, which can the earth control, — 
“de Know his unshaken faith, and steadfast soul. 
Shall seals, shall parchments, then, to me afford 
A surer warrant than my sovereign’s word ? 
To guard my actions, as to guide my hand, 
I ask no surety but my king’s command. 
Perish such deeds! [Tears the paper] — they serve 

but to record 

Some doubt, some’ question, of a monarch’s word. 


it ie 
5 eae, pe 


t 


SPANISH POETRY. 


What need of bonds? By honor bound are we; 
I to avenge thy-wrongs, and thou to rescue me. 
One price I ask, the maid I name for bride. 


” 


KING, 
Were she the richest and the best allied 
In Spain, I grant her. 


SANCHO, 
So throughout the world, 
May oceans view thy conquering flag unfurled ! 


KING. 
Nor shall thy actions pass without a meed. 
This note informs thee, Ortiz, who must bleed. 
But, reading, be not startled at a name; 
Great is his prowess; Seville speaks his fame. 


SANCHO. 
I'll put that prowess to the proof ere long. 


KING. 
None know but I that you avenge my wrong ; 
So force must guide your arm, but prudence 
check your tongue. [Exit. 


— 


BUSTOS TABERA AND SANCHO ORTIZ. 


BUSTOS. 
In meeting thus, my fortune do I greet. 


SANCHO (aside). 
Alas! I curse the chance that makes us meet. 
You come to make a friend, a brother, blest, — 
And I, to plunge a dagger in thy breast. 


BUSTOS. 
Brother, the hour of long-sought bliss is come. 


SANCHO (aside). 
My hour of grief, of all my woes the doom! 
O God! did man e’er bear such weight of ill? 
Him whom I love next heaven my sword must 
kill: 
And with the very blow that stabs my friend, 
My love is lost, and all my visions end. 


BUSTOS, 
The deeds are drawn; to tell the news I came ; 
They only wait for Sancho Ortiz’ name. 


SANCHO (aloud), 
Once, it is true, by fickle fancy led, 
Tabera’s sister Ortiz fain would wed; 
But now, though drawn the strict agreements 
stand, 
I scorn the offer, and reject her hand. 


BUSTOS. 
Know’st thou to whom, or what thou speak’st ? 
SANCHO, 


I know 
To whom I speak, and therefore speak I so. 


BUSTOS, 


How, knowing me, can words of insult dwell 
On Ortiz’ tongue? 


SANCHO, 
Because he knows thee well. 


LOPE DE VEGA. 


ESLER RS SS i RE ee en nase acc MEEATUGIRRRADEA REGAN RTT SLES 


BUSTOS. 
And knows he aughtbut generous pride of blood, 
And honor such as prompts the brave and good? 
Virtue and genuine honor are the same: 
Pride, uninspired by her, usurps the name. 
But yet, though slow of anger to a friend, 
Thy words my virtue as my pride offend. 


SANCHO. 
Not more offended can thy virtue be, 
Than I so long to talk with one like thee. 


BUSTOS. 
Is ’t come to this? and dost thou brand my fame 
With aught that bears not honor’s sacred name ? 
Prove, then, this sword, which dares thy rage 

defy, — 
My foe a villain, and his charge a Jie. 
[Draw, and fight. 

SANCHO. 
What can the swords of traitorous villains prove ? 
Pardon me, sacred friendship! pardon, love! 
My king impels; I madden as I fight, 
And frenzy lends my arm resistless might. 


BUSTOS. 5 
Enough, nor further press thy blow, — I bleed, — 


My hour is come! 
[Bustos falls. 
SANCHO. 


Then am I mad, indeed! 
Yes, when I struck thy death, my sense was 
gone ; 
Restored, I from thy arm implore my own. 
Sheathe in this breast, — for pity, sheathe thy 
sword, 
And to my troubled soul an instant flight afford. 


BUSTOS. 
My motives Fate denies the time to tell ; — 


Wed thou my sister, Ortiz, and farewell ! 
[ Dies. 


SANCHO. 
Come, then, destructive, unrelenting blade, 
Despatch the life thy work has wretched made! 
Come, while Tabera’s gore is reeking yet, 
With a fresh wound to close the bloody debt ! 
[Enter Farfan and Pedro, Alcaldes mayores. 


PEDRO. 
Wretch! stay that weapon, raised thyself to kill! 


SANCHO. 
T was raised against a life yet dearer still. 
[Enter Arias. 
ARIAS, 


What ’s this disorder ? 


SANCHO. 
The disorder ’s plain: 

I ’ve killed a brother, like another Cain, — 
Ruthless and fierce, a guiltless Abel slain. 
Here, here he lies,—survey each mangled limb ; 
And as he died for me, so let me die for him. 

ARIAS. 
Why, what is this? 

SANCHO. 

What is it, do you ask? 
*T is a kept promise, an accomplished task ; 


’T is honor in a fiery trial proved, — 

Honor, that slew the man he dearly loved. 
Yes, tell the king, that, for our plighted words, 
We sons of Seville bear them on our swords ; 
Tell him for them we do our stars } defy; 

For them our laws expire, our brothers die. 


PEDRO, 


He ’s killed Tabera. 


ARIAS. 
Rash, flagitious deed ! 


SANCHO. 
Then seize me, —bind me, — let his murderer 
bleed! 
Where are we? Do not law and reason say, 
Ruffians shall die, and blood shall blood repay ¢ 
But marked you how the mighty crime was 
done? 
No hate was here; ’t was love, and love alone ; 
And love, that did the crime, shall for the crime 
atone. 
Bustos I slew: I now for Bustos plead, 
And beg of justice — that his murderer bleed. 
Thy friend that tribute to thy memory pays! 


ARIAS. 
The man is mad, and knows not what he says. 


PEDRO. 
Then to Triana’s tower the culprit lead, — 
Lest, at the noise of such a lawless deed, 
Seville should rise, and some new tumult breed. 


SANCHO. 

Yet I would raise my brother from the ground, 

Clasp his cold limbs, and kiss the sacred wound, 

And wash the noble blood that streams his 
corpse around. 

So I’ll his Atlas be; nor would repine, 

The life I ’ve taken to redeem with mine. 


PEDRO, 
’T is madness, this. 


SANCHO. } 

When I from friendship swerved, 
Against my pleasure I the laws observed ; | 
That ’s a king’s part, —in that I’m king alone ; 
But in this act, alas! I am not one: 
The riddle ’s easy, when the clew is found ; 
But ’t is not mine the riddle to expound. 
'T is true I slew him, —I not that deny ; 
I own I slew him, — but I say not why: 
That why —let others, if they like it, plead ; 


Enough for me that I confess the dead. 
[Exit guarded. 


ESTRELLA AND THEODORA. 


ESTRELLA. 
So quick my toilet was, I scarce can guess 
How set my garments and how looks my dress. 
Give me the glass. 


THEODORA. 
All glass is needless here ; 
Look on thyself, — no mirror is so clear ; 


Die ee 
1 This, in the original, is a quibble on the name Estrella, 
which in the Spanish signifies @ star. 


~ 


A Ro 


7 
Pwo * 4 . —_ 
SS 2 : 
. -- : 3 Pe > 
“ = en ¥ > >, - es 
r - wee 
" 


wee 
— 


700 SPANIS 


ane SE 


Nor can in mimic forms reflected shine 


Such matchless charms, and beauty bright as 
thine. [Holds the looking-glass. 


ESTRELLA. 


Whence can such crimson colors fire my cheek? 
' 


THEODORA, 
Thy joy, and yet thy modesty, they speak. 
Yes, to thy face contending passions rush, 
Thy bliss betraying with a maiden blush. 


ESTRELLA. 


’'T is true he comes; the youth my heart ap- 


proves 


Comes fraught with joy, and led by smiling 


Loves. 
He claims my hand; I hear his soft caress, 


See his soul’s bliss come beaming from his 


eye. 
O partial stars! unlooked-for happiness ! 
Can it be true? —is this my destiny ? 2 


THEODORA. 


Hark ! some one rings !— but, lo! with envy smit, 


One mirror into thousand mirrors split ! 


ESTRELLA. 
Is ’t broken? 


THEODORA. 


Yes. 


ESTRELLA. 

And sure with reason too ; 
Since soon, without its aid, I hope to view 
Another self: with him before my eyes, 
I need no glass, and can its use despise. 


[Enter Clarindo. 


CLARINDO. 
All, lady, all is merriment and cheer, 


And the plumed hats announce the wedding 


near. 
I gave the letter, and received a ring. 


ESTRELLA. 


Take, too, this diamond for the news you bring. 


CLARINDO, 
Alas! the precious gem is split in two! — 
Is it for grief? 
ESTRELLA. 
O, no, Clarindo! no! 
It burst for joy, —the very gems have caught 
My heart’s content, my gayety of thought, 


Thrice happy day, and kind, indulgent sky ! 
Can it be true ? — is this my destiny ? 5 


THEODORA, 


Hark! steps below! 


CLARINDO, 
And now the noise draws near. 


ESTRELLA, 
My joy o’ercomes me ! — 
[Enter Alcaldes with the dead body of Bustos, 
Gracious God! what ’s here? 


? Here, again, the word Estredia is used for the sake of a 
pun. I have been obliged to render it by the word destiny. 
3 See note 2. 


H POETRY. 


PEDRO, 
Grief, naught but grief, was made for man below: 
Life is itself one troubled sea of woe. 
Lady, Tabera ’s slain ! 


ESTRELLA. 
O sad, O cruel blow! 
PEDRO. 


One comfort, still, — in chains his murderer lies: 
To-morrow, judged by law, the guilty Ortiz dies. 


ESTRELLA, 
Hence, fiends! I’’ll hear no more, — your tidings 
bear 
The blasts of hell, the warrant of despair ! 
My brother’s slain! by Sancho’s arm he fell! 
What! are there tongues the dismal tale to tell ? 
Can I, too, know it, and the blow survive ? 
O, I am stone, to hear that sound and live ! 
If ever pity dwelt in human breast, — 
Kill, murder, stab me! 


PEDRO. 


With such grief oppressed 


? 


Well may she rave. 


ESTRELLA. 
O sentence fraught with pain! 

My brother dead! by Sancho Ortiz slain ! 
[Going. 
That cruel stroke has rent three hearts in one ; 
Then leave a wretch who ’s hopeless and un- 
done. 


PEDRO, 


Ah! who can wonder at her wild despair ? — 
Follow her steps. 


FARFAN. 


Alas! ill-fated fair ! 


CLARINDO, 


Lady, one instant 


ESTRELLA, 

Would you have me stay 
For him, the wretch, that did my brother slay? 
My love, my hopes, my all for ever gone, — 
Perish life, too, — for life is hateful grown ! 
Inhuman stars ! unheard-of misery ! 
Can it be so? —is this my destiny ? 4 


—— 


SONNETS. 


THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 


SHEPHERD, that with thine amorous sylvan 
song 

Hast broken the slumber which encompassed 
me, — . 

That mad’st thy crook from the accursed tree, 

On which thy powerful arms were stretched so 
long! 

Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fountains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and guidé shalt 
be; 

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 

Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 


4 See note 2, 


ER SAE AI OE OE hl ASL Y IELTS OI LENG NI 


Hear, Shepherd !— thou who for thy flock art 
dying, 

|| O, wash away these scarlet sins! for thou 

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s vow. 

O, wait! ——to thee my weary soul is crying, — 

Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see, 

With feet nailed to the cross, thou ’rt waiting 
still for me? 


TO-MORROW. 


Lorp, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 

Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait, 

Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 

O, strange delusion, that I did not greet 

Thy blest approach ! and, O, to heaven how lost, 

If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet! 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

« Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt 
see 

How he persists to knock and wait for thee !”’ 

And, O, how often to that voice of sorrow, 

“© To-morrow we will open,” I replied! 

And when the morrow came, I answered still, 
«¢ To-morrow.” 


ee 


COUNTRY LIFE. 
Let the vain courtier waste his days, 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 
The couch of down, the board of costly fare ; 
Be his to kiss the ungrateful hand 
That waves the sceptre of command, 
And rear full many a palace in the air: 
| Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, 
| The glowing sun, the genial wind, 
H 


a 


And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned 5 
And prize far more, in peace and health, 
Contented indigence, than joyless wealth. 
Not mine in Fortune’s face to bend, 
At Grandeur’s altar to attend, 
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown 5 
Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 
A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless 
crown ! 
Nectareous draughts and viands’ pure 
Luxuriant nature will insure ; 
These the clear fount and fertile field 
Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 
And when repose and visions reign, 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the 
swain 


won 


LUPERCIO LEONARDO ARGENSOLA. 

Tis poet, and his brother Bartolomé, be- 
longed to a noble family, which originated from 
Ravenna. Lupercio was born at Barbastro, in 
1565. 


Huesca, and afterwards in Salamanca. 


SSE TH EISTS 


ti lL. AND SB: tL, 


He studied first at the University of 
Having 


ARGENSOLA. 701 


completed his studies, he went to Madrid, where 
he became chamberlain to the archbishop of 
Toledo, and secretary to Maria of Austria, the 
widow of the Emperor Maximilian the Second. 
He was afterwards appointed by the court 
Historiographer of Aragon, The Count de Le- 
mos, when named Viceroy of Naples, took Ar- 
gensola with him in the capacity of Secretary 
of State and of War. He died at Naples, in 
1613. He wrote sonnets, canciones, and sat- 
ires, which were published after his death. 
While in Naples, he founded the Accademia 
degli Oxiosi, which afterwards became famous. 


eee 


MARY MAGDALEN. 


Biessep, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 
The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, 
In wonder and in scorn! 
Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 
Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to 
move 


The Lord to pity and love. 


The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 
Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
On that pale cheek of thine. 
Thou didst kneel down to Him who came from 
heaven, 
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
Holy, and pure, and wise. 


It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 
The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir 
Distil Arabian myrrh 5 
Nor that, upon the wintry desert’s bosom, 
The harvest should rise plenteous, and the 
swain 
Bear home the abundant grain. 


But come and see the bleak and barren moun- 
tains 
Thick to their tops with roses; come and see 
Leaves on the dry, dead tree: 
The perished plant, set out by living fountains, 
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise 
For ever towards the skies. 


——9— 


BARTOLOME LEONARDO ARGEN- 
SOLA. 


Bartotomé Leonarpo ARGENSOLA was born 
at Barbastro, in 1566. On the completion of 
his studies, he became almoner of the Empress 
Maria, and then accompanied his brother Lu- 
percio to Naples. After the death of the latter, 
Bartolomé was made Historiographer of Aragon, 
and returned to Saragossa in 1616, where he 
wrote a historical work from the materials which 
had been collected by his brother. He was ap- 
pointed canon of the cathedral in Saragossa, by 


Paul the Third. He died in 1633. 


3G* 


702 


Saavedra calls him “the glory of Aragon, 
and oracle of Apollo; whose eloquence, erudi- 
tion, and gravity, — whose pure and sublime 
spirit, excellent choice of words, and judgment 
in the arrangement of sentences, will be for ever 
admired of all, and imitated by few.” 

The poetical works of the two Argensolas 
were not published until afier their death. 


—_—_— 


SONNET, 


‘Parent of good! since all thy laws are just, 

Say, why permits thy judging providence 

Oppression’s hand to bow meek innocence, 

And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust? 

1a Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, 
fh That proudly wars against Omnipotence ? 

a Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence 
Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust? 

mS Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, 

AN 0 While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head 
With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls.” 
Thus I;—when radiant ’fore my wondering eyes 
A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said: 

*‘ Blind moralist! is Earth the sphere of souls? ”’ 


» 
* * 
—. ea pew 
Tis 


——)— 


JUAN DE RIBERA. 


— 


Tuts poet lived about the end of the sixteenth 


century. His “* Nueve Romances” were pub- 
lished in 1605. 


—_— 
. 


THE GOOD OLD COUNT IN SADNESS STRAYED. 


THE good old count in sadness strayed 
Backwards, forwards, pensively ; 

He bent his head, — he said his prayers 
Upon his beads of ebony ; 

And dark and gloomy were his thoughts, 
And all his words of misery : 

**O daughter fair, to woman grown, 
Say, who shall come to marry thee? 

‘For I am poor, — though thou art fair, 
No dower of riches thine shall be.” 

‘“‘ Be silent, father mine, I pray ; 
For what avails a dower to me? 

A virtuous child is more than wealth; 
O, fear not, — fear not poverty ! 

There are whose children ban their bliss, 
Who call on death to set them free, — 

And they defame their lineage, 
Which shall not be defamed by me; 

For if no husband should be mine, 
I ’ll seek a convent’s purity.” 


= en ee 
LE ~~ - - 


— 


ROMANCE, 


‘“Kwieut, that comest from afar, 
Tarry here, and here recline ; 

Couch thy lance upon the floor, 

Stop that weary steed of thine: 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Francisco pE VELASco was a religious poet, 
and belonged to the last part of the sixteenth, 
and the beginning of the seventeenth, century, 
His “ Coplas del Nacimiento,” &c., were print- 
ed at Burgos, in 1604. 


I would fain inquire of thee 
News of wandering husband mine.” 
“‘ Lady, thou must first describe 
Him, thy husband, sign by sign.” 
** Knight, my husband ’s young and fair, — 
In him grace and beauty shine ; 
At the tablets dexterous he, 
And at chess; the honored line 
Of a marquis on his sword, 
Well engraved, you might divine ° 
All his garments of brocade, 
Felted crimson, fair and fine ; 
At his lance’s point he bears 
Flag from Tagus’ banks, where shine 
Victories that he won of old 
From a valiant Gaul.” « That sign 
Tells me, lady, he is dead: 
Murdered is that lord of thine. 
In Valencia was he killed, 

Where there lived a Genovine. 
Playing at the tablets, he 
There was murdered. 
Many a noble lady wept, 
Many a knight of valiant line : 

One mourned more than all the rest, — 
Daughter of the Genovine; 
For they said, and that was true, 
She was his. So, lady mine, 
Give me now thy heart, I pray, 
For my heart is only thine.” 
‘Nay, Sir Knight, it cannot be; 
Nay, I must not thus incline: 
To a convent first I ’Il go, 
Vow me to that life divine.” 
‘* No, that cannot, cannot be ! 
Check that hasty vow of thine; 
For I am thy husband dear, — 
Thou the unstained wife of mine.” 


At his shrine 


—_¢@—. 


FRANCISCO DE VELASCO. 


—_—. 


THE WORLD AND ITS FLOWERS. 


TRUST not, man, earth’s flowers, —but keep 
Busy watch; they fade, they bow: 

Watch, I say, — for thou may’st weep 
O’er the things thou smil’st on now. 


Man! thou art a foolish child, 
Playing with a flying ball, — 
Trifling sports, and fancies wild: 
But the earth-worm swallows all. 
Wherefore in a senseless sleep, 
Careless dreaming, thoughtless vow, 
Waste existence ?— thou wilt weep 
O’er the days thou smil’st on now. 


Set i lk I NS a RT eh EES ATI TIEN 


soicte SAUL ate eae el NR A UE 


VELASCO.—BONILLA 


Earth, that passes like a shade, 
Vain as lightest shade can be; 
Soon, in dust and darkness laid, 
Crumbles in obscurity : 
Insects of destruction creep 
O’er its fairest, greenest bough. 
Watch, I say, or thou shalt weep 
O’er the flowers thou smil’st on now. 


Watch, I say; the dying worm, 
That lifts up its voice to thee, 
Dreads the over-threatening storm, 
Fain in sheltered port would be. 
Laugh not, scorn not, tempt not,—keep 
Smiling folly from thy brow ; 
Lest in misery thou shouldst weep 
O’er the thoughts thou smil’st on now. 


eee 


I TOLD THEE SO! 


I rotp thee, soul, that joy and woe 
Were but a gust, a passing dew: 

I told thee so, —~I told thee so, 
And, O my soul, the tale was true ! 


This mortal life, —a fleeting thing, — 
When most we love it, swiftest flies ; 
It passes like a shade and dies: 

And while it flaps its busy wing, 
It scatters every mist that lies 

Round human hopes, — all air and dew. 
I told thee so,—I told thee so, — 

And, O my soul, the tale was true! 


Like the dry leaf that autumn’s breath 
Sweeps from the tree, the mourning tree, — 
So swiftly and so certainly 

Our days are blown about by death: 
For life is built on vanity ; 

Renewing days but death renew. 

I told thee so, —I told thee so, — 

And, O my soul, the tale was true! 


O, let us seize on what is stable, 

And not on what is shifting! All 

Rushes down life’s vast waterfall, . 
On to that sea interminable 

Which has no shore. Earth’s pleasures pall; 
But heaven is safe, and sacred too. 

I told thee so, —I told thee so, — 
And, O my soul, the tale was true! 


——$ 


ALONSO DE BONILLA. 


Tus poet was a native of Baeza, in Andalu- 
sia. He lived in the last part of the sixteenth, 
and the first part of the seventeenth, century. 
His poems are on sacred subjects. His ‘¢ Jardin 
de Flores Divinas”’ was published in 1617. 


LET ’S HOLD SWEET CONVERSE. 


«Let ’s hold sweet converse, ere we part, 
Beloved fair!” ‘’Tis sweet to be 


.—H 


ha lt tmensmn e AS 


INOJOSA Y CARBAJAL. 703 
é } 

With thee, the husband of my heart!” | 

“‘T Il in the garden wait for thee.” 
“©When?” ‘At the sacred vesper-bell.”’ 
‘¢ That is the hour in which I dwell 
Within the souls I love, and there 
Fill the pure shrine with praise and prayer.” 
‘“‘ But if, when dawns the vesper hour, 

I should be absent———”’  * Nay, my soul ! 
Lose not the holy, hallowing power 

Of evening’s serene control !”’ 
‘sT Il come ; —- that hour shall not depart 
Without thy smile who hold’st my heart 
“T’ll in the garden wait for thee.” 

‘¢When?” ‘At the sacred vesper-bell.” 
“© Yes, come! O, come !—my breast shall be 
A garden of fair flowers for thee, 

Where thou the fairest flowers shalt cull.” 
«© And wilt thou give a flower to me?” 

“© Yes! flowers more bright, more beautiful, 
Than ever in earth’s gardens grew, 
If thou wilt trust and love me too.” 

“© Yes! I will trust and love thee well!” 
“‘T’Il in the garden wait for thee.” 

“© When?” ‘At the sacred vesper-bell.” 


a ae ee 


1 9? 


ALVARO DE HINOJOSA: Y CARBAJAL. 


1s | 


Tus poet was a native of Piacenza. He 
lived at the beginning of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, and belonged to the order of Saint Bene- 
dict. His ‘Vida y Milagros de Santa Ines, y 
otras Obras de Poesia,’ was published at Braga, 


in 1611. 


ae 


THE VIRGIN. AND HER BABE. 


Virain, that like Morn appears, 
With her babe, —~a floweret too, 
Sprinkled with the sparkling dew 

Of his pure and holy tears. 


When across the mountain’s height 
Lovely Daybreak flings her robe, 
And with smiles of love and light 
Decorates the awakening globe ; 
Joy and gladness fill the heaven, | 
When Night’s curtains are withdrawn: 
Virgin! thou those smiles hast given, — 
Thou, earth’s brightest, fairest dawn ! 


All the rainbow’s tints are spread 
Over clouds, and fields, and bowers: 
Lo, the proud carnation red ! 


Fragrant as ‘t is glorious, — sweet 
As ’t is stately, — ever true 

To the dawn ; —an emblem meet 
Of this babe, — a floweret too ' 


Yes! that heavenly floweret fell 

From its father’s breast, — concealed 
In its mother’s breast to dwell; 

In a mortal vestment veiled, — 


| 
Lo, that royal king of flowers! 
| 
| 
| 
| 


——— = See == ra 


: 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Heavenly image, — earthly mould, — My Sylvia! field, nor stream, nor sky 


Beautiful as bright to view : b’er smiled, but when thy smile was nigh. 
O, what charms its leaves unfold, 


Drenched with suffering’s sparkling dew! 


Tyrants there are : — but when they slay, 
They smile not. O, my Sylvia! thou ; 
Art far more cruel, far, than they. 
The Aurora, on the mountain’s brow, 
When it destroys the dying Night, 
Mourns o’er its tomb in tears of light. 


In the valley see it sleep ! — 
On its brow the death-sweats lie; 
O’er its wreck the tempeésts sweep, 
And the herds pass careless by. 
Know, that, though its darkened orb 
Dimmed in earth’s low valley lies, 
Every tear earth’s clods absorb 
In a dew of paradise. 


But thou canst smile, and yet destroy ; | 
And oft within thy eyes I see 
A radiant throne of love and joy, 
Which is — but cruel mockery : 
That smile, which such fair dimples wears, 
Is for my thoughts a fount of tears. 


+ o——. 


FRANCISCO DE BORJA Y ESQUI- 
LACHE. 


EPITAPH. 


Tuts poet was a native of Madrid, and was 
born about the year 1580. He bore the title 
of Esquilache, which he received from his wife, 
who was heiress of the principality of Es- 
quilache, or rather Squillace, in the kingdom 
of Naples. The greater part of his life was 
passed in the discharge of high official duties; 
but he found time to cultivate poetry, to which 
he was passionately attached. He wrote a 
heroic poem, entitled, “Napoles Recuperada 
por el Rey Don Alonso,”’ which was published 
after his death. His other poetical works, 
which were printed at Madrid, under the title 
of “Las Obras en Verso de Don Francisco 
de Borja, Principe de Esquilache,”’ are better 
known; and some of them, particularly the 
eclogues, are of distinguished excellence. He 
died at Madrid, September 26, 1658. 


SLUMBERING on earth’s cold breast, serene be- 
neath, 
Youth (all its fire and glory dim) reposes : 
And this pale, peaceful monument discloses 
Life’s weakness, and the omnipotence of Death! 


Love sits with tearful eye upon the tomb, 
And speeds his erring shafts ;—his thoughtful 
care, 
In memory of his sorrow and his gloom,, 
Hath raised this dear, this sad memorial 
here. 


He scarce had passed life’s portals on the wing 
Of youthful joy, — while hope expectant hung 
Upon his talents and his silver tongue, — 

Ere Fate’s dark mandate, fierce and threatening, 

Tore him away, — and, reckless, with him tore 

All that had taught us to bear woe before. 


SYLVIA’S SMILE. 


Be ets 
Wuen bright and gay the waters roll 
In crystal rivers to the sea, 
‘Midst shining pearls, they take, my soul, 
Their sweetest, loveliest smile from thee ; 
And when their dimpling currents flow, 
They imitate thy laughing brow. 


FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO Y VILLE- 
GAS. 


Don Francisco pE Qurvrpo belonged to 
4 noble family attached to the court of Spain., 
He was born at Madrid, in September, 1580. 
He studied at Alcala de Henares, comprehend- 
ing in his course not only the ancient langua- 
ges, but a wide range of the sciences. On leav- 
ing the University, he went to Italy, where he 
acquired the friendship of the duke of Osuna, 
the viceroy of Naples, who employed him con- 
fidentially in several important negotiations. 
He afterwards travelled in France and Germany, 
and, returning to Spain, was made a knight of 
the order of Santiago, on the recommendation 
of the duke. When his patron fell into dis- 
grace, Quevedo, as his confidential friend, shar- 
ed his downfall, and was imprisoned three 
years. His health having suffered from this 
imprisonment, he made journeys through Spain, 
and then lived in retirement at Madrid. The 
reputation he enjoyed induced Philip the Fourth 
to offer him a secretariship. In 1634, he mar- 


When Morning from his dusky bed 
Awakes with cold and slumbering eye, 
Ere yet he wears his tints of red, 
He looks to see if thou art nigh, — 
To offer thee a diadem 
Of every ruby, every gem. 


When Spring leads on the joyous sun, 
He brightens on thy eyes, and takes 
A nobler lustre: when the dun 
And darksome April first awakes, 
And gives his better smiles to May, 
He keeps for thee his fairest day. 


There are some idle bards who dream 

That they have seen, with raptured eyes, 
The smiling field, the dimpled stream, 

And (strange deceit !) the laughing skies : 


ee 


QUEVEDO. 


RS 


ried Dona Esperanza de Aragon y la Cabra, 
but she died soon after. In 1641, he was im- 
prisoned on suspicion of having written a satire 
upon the government, and did not regain his 
liberty until two years afterwards. But his 
health being broken down by the extraordinary 
cruelty with which he was treated in prison, 
he retired to his estate of La Torre, and again, 
in a short time, was compelled tu remove to 
Villa Nueva de los Infantes, where he died, 
September 8, 1645. 

His writings are various, both in prose and 
poetry; but his fame rests chiefly upon his 
humorous and satirical works, the principal of 
which are *“* Vida del Gran Tacano,”’ ‘¢ Cartas 
del Cavallero de la Tenaza,” and his six ‘+ Sue- 
ios,” or Visions. His poetical works were 
published under the names of the Muses. The 
following excellent summary of his character 
as a writer is from Bouterwek.* 

«© A man, who, like Quevedo, reaped the bit- 
terest fruits from political justice, cannot be 
very heavily reproached for seizing in his sat- 
ires every opportunity of more severely chas- 
tising and ridiculing the ministers of that jus- 
tice, than any other enemies of truth and equi- 

_ ty. But Quevedo was not a mere satirist. He 
may, without hesitation, be pronounced the 
most ingenious of all Spanish writers, next to 
Cervantes; and his mind was, moreover, en- 
dowed with a degree of practical judgment, 
which is seldom found combined with that ver- 
satility for which he was distinguished. Could 
Quevedo have ruled the taste and genius of his 
nation and his age in the same degree in which 
that taste and genius influenced him, his versa- 
tility, joined to his talent for composing verses 
with no less rapidity than Lope de Vega, might 
have rendered him, if not a poet of the first 
rank in the loftier region of art, at least a classic 
writer of almost unrivalled merit. But this 
scholar and man of the world was too early 
wedded to conventional forms of every kind. 
It may, indeed, be said, that he was steeped in 
all the colors of his age. A true feeling of the 
independence of genius never animated him, 
lofty as his spirit in other respects was. His 
taste imbibed some portion of all the conflicting 
tastes, which, at that veriod, existed in Spain. 
His style never acquired originality, and his 
mind was onlv half cultivated. 

‘“ Quevedo’s writings, taken altogether, in 
versé and in prose, resemble a massy ornament 
of jewelry, in which the setting of some parts is 
exquisitely skilful, — of others, extremely rude ; 
and in which the number of false stones and 
of gems of inestimable value are nearly equal. 
His most numerous, and unquestionably his 
best productions, are those of the satirical and 
comic kind. Though Quevedo did not strike 
into a totally new course, yet, by a union, pe- 
culiar to himself, of sports of fancy with the 
TER SO eae 


* History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, by 
Freperick BourerweEx. Translated by THomasina Ross 
(2 vols., London, 1823, 8vo.). 

89 


Vol. I., pp. 464 - 467. 


wy 


maxims of reason and morality, he evidently 
enlarged the sphere of satirical and comic poe- 
try in Spanish literature. He occasionally ap- 
proached, though he never equalled, the delica- 
cy and correctness of Cervantes. His wit is 
sufficiently caustic ; but it is accompanied by a 
coarseness which would be surprising, consider- 
ing his situation in life, were it not that Que- 
vedo, as an author, sought to indemnify himself 
for the constraint, to which, as a man of the. 
world, he was compelled to submit. For this 
reason, perhaps, he bestowed but little pains on 
the correction of his satires. His ideas are 
striking; and are thrown together sometimes 
with absolute carelessness, sometimes with re- 
fined precision ; but, for the most part, in a dis- 
torted and mannered strain of language. This 
mixed character of cultivation and rudeness 
peculiarly characterizes his satirical and comic 
works in verse, in which, as he himself says, 
he has exhibited ‘truth in her smock, but not 
quite naked’: 
‘ Verdades diré en camisa, 
Poco menos que desnudas.’ 

He appears as the rival of Gongora tm numer- 
ous comic canciones and romances in the old 
national style. In these compositions he hu- 
morously parodied the extravagant images of 
the Marinists, and the affected singularity of the 
Gongorists.”’ 


SONNETS. 


ROME. 


Amipsr these scenes, O pilgrim, seek’st thou 
Rome ? 

Vain is thy search ; — the pomp of Rome is fled ; 

Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb; 

Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 

That hill, where Cesars dwelt in other days, 

Forsaken, mourns, where once it towered sub- 
lime ; 

Each mouldering medal now far less displays 

The triumphs won by Latium, than by Time. 

Tiber alone survives ; the passing wave, 

That bathed her towers, now murmurs by her 
grave, 

Wailing, with plaintive sounds, her fallen fanes. 

Rome! of thine \ancient grandeur all is past, 

That seemed for years eternal framed to last ; — 

Naught but the wave, a fugitive, remains. 


RUTHLESS TIME. 
Zrpuyr returns, and sheds with liberal hand 
Foliage and buds around, and odorous flowers ; 
Nurses the purple rose with dewy showers, 
Gilds the bright sky, and clothes the verdant 
land : 
The stream flows clear, by temperate breezes 
fanned ; 
And sweetly sing the birds in shady bowers, — 
Cheerless and mute, while angry winter lowers,—- 
Now blithely ringing with the feathered band. 
Never, O ruthless Time, implored in vain, 
Beams forth thy spring to my unaltered fate, 


706 


Nor decks my withered hopes with bloom again ! 

Some fondly dread the changes of thy state, 

Who hold the treasure which they strove to 
gain: 

I mourn thy steadfast, unrelenting hate. 


MY FORTUNE. 


Since, then, my planet has looked on 
With such a dark and scowling eye, 

My fortune, if my ink were gone, 
Might lend my pen as black a dye. 


No lucky or unlucky turn 
Did fortune ever seem to play, 
But, ere I ’d time to laugh or mourn, 
"T was sure to turn the other way. 


Ye childless great, who want an heir, 
Leave all your vast domains to me, 
And Heaven will bless you with a fair, 

Alas! and numerous progeny. 


They bear my effigy about 
The village, as a charm of power ; 
If clothed, to bring the sunshine out, — 
If naked, to call down the shower. 


When friends request my company, 

No feasts and banquets meet my eye; 
To holy mass they carry me, 

And ask me alms, and bid good-bye. 


Should bravos chance to lie perdu, 
To break some happy lover’s head, 

I am their man, while he in view 
His beauty serenades in bed. 


A loosened tile is sure to fall 
In contact with my head below, 
Just as I doff my hat; — "mong all 
The crowd, a stone still lays me low. 


The doctor’s remedies alone 
Ne’er reach the cause for which they ’re 
given. 
And if I ask my friends a loan, 
They wish the poet’s soul in heaven: 


So far from granting aught, ’t is I 

Who lend my patience to their spleen, 
Mine is each fool’s loquacity, 

Each ancient dame will be my queen. 


The poor man’s eye, amidst the crowd, 
Still turns its asking looks on mine ; 
Jostled by all the rich and proud, 
No path is clear, whate’er my line. 


Where’er I go, I miss my way ; 

I lose, still lose, at every game; 
No friend I ever had would stay, 

No foe but still remained the same. 


I get no water out at sea, 
Nothing but water at my inn; 

My pleasures, like my wine, must be 
Stull mixed with what should not be in. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


a 


ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS., 


THIS most agreeable and graceful poet was 
born at Naxera, in 1595. The ease and liveli- 
ness of his poetical style gave him the name of 
the Anacreon of Spain. His family was noble. 
After having spent his boyish years at Madrid, 
he entered the University of Salamanca, and 
studied the law. But his taste for polite litera- 
ture was strong, and he gave much of his time 
to poetical composition. He acquired the Latin 
and Greek, and translated from Anacreon with 
exquisite beauty. On his father’s death, he re- 
turned to Naxera, and lived with his mother, 
dedicating himself to letters and poetry. In 
1626, he married, and, finding his means too 
straitened for the support of his increasing fami- 
ly, endeavoured to obtain some public employ- 
ment. He received one of but little value, and 
finally retired to his estate, where he died poor, 
in 1669. 

Villegas was one of the best lyric poets of 
Spain. His style is harmonious and finished. 
His works were published under the title of 
* Hroticas de Don Estévan Manuel de Villegas.”’ 
They contain odes, and imitations of Anacreon 
and Horace ;, translations from Anacreon and 
Horace ; elegies, idyls, sonnets, epigrams; and 
a series of poems, called “ Latinas,” in which 
he attempted to reproduce the ancient classical 
metres. 


ODE. 


"T rs sweet, in the green spring, 

To gaze upon the wakening fields around ; 
Birds in the thicket sing, 

Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground ; 
A thousand odors rise, 

Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. 


Shadowy, and close, and cool, 

The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook ; 
For ever fresh and full, 

Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook ; 
And the soft herbage seems 

Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 


Thou, who alone art fair, 

And whom alone I love, art far away : 
Unless thy smile be there, 

It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; 
I care not if the train 

Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 


I HAVE seen a nightingale, 

On a sprig of thyme, bewail, 
Seeing the déar nest, which was 
Hers alone, borne off, alas! 

By a laborer. I heard, 

For this outrage, the poor bird 
Say a thousand mournful things 
To the wind, which, on its wings, 
From her to the guardian sky, 
Bore her melancholy cry, 


Serer 


a ee cree naa nav erer sae 


_——<——<——$——— 


Bore her tender tears. She spake 
As if her fond heart would break: 
One while, in a sad, sweet note, 
Gurgled from her straining throat, 
She enforced her piteous tale, 
Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail ; 
One while, with the shrill dispute 
Quite outwearied, she was mute ; 
Then afresh for her dear brood 
Her harmonious shrieks renewed. 
Now she winged it round and round ; 
Now she skimmed along the ground, 
Now, from bough to bough, in haste, 
The delighted robber chased, 

And, alighting in his path, 

Seemed to say, ’twixt grief and wrath, 
«« Give me back, fierce rustic rude, — 
Give me back my pretty brood!” 
And I saw the rustic still 

Answered, “ That I never will !”’ 


6 


TO THE ZEPHYR. 


Sweet neighbour of the green, leaf-shaking 
grove, 
Eternal guest of April, frolic child 
Of a sad sire, life-breath of Mother Love, 
Favonius, zephyr mild! 


If thou hast learned like me to love, — away ! 
Thou who hast borne the murmurs of my cry ; 
Hence !—no demur ! —and to my Flora say, 
Say that “I die! 


‘¢ Flora once knew what bitter tears I shed; 
Flora once wept to see my sorrows flow ; 
Flora once loved me; — but I dread, I dread 
Her anger now.” 


So may the gods, so may the calm blue sky, 
For the fair time that thou, in gentle mirth, 
Sport’st in the air, with love benign deny 
Snows to the earth! 


So never may the gray cloud’s cumbrous sail, 
When from on high the rosy daybreak springs, 
Beat on thy shoulders, nor its evil hail 
Wound thy fine wings! 


—_@— 


FRANCISCO DE RIOJA. 


Francisco DE Riosa was born at Seville, 
about the year 1600. He studied the law, but 
having gained the favor and patronage of the 
count-duke de Olivares, the prime minister of 
Philip the Fourth, he passed rapidly through a 
succession of offices, until he became Inquisitor- 
General. He was involved in the fall of his 
protector. According to Antonio, he was re- 
stored, afew years before his death, to the favor 
of Philip, who appointed him Royal Librarian. 
He died at Madrid, in 1659. 

Rioja was not only a poet, but a scholar of 
varied attainments. He wrote works on theol- 
ogy and politics. 


pA nt eS Asn A RA SEATON ARS Sta I NA ASSEN IAA AIS OE IS | 
a 


MANUEL DE VILLEGAS.—RIOJA. 


Fe Ok eerie cine 


707 


EPISTLE TO FABIO. 


Fazio! the courtier’s hopes are chains that 

wind 

With fatal strength around the ambitious mind ; 

And he who breaks or files them not away, 

Till life ebbs from him, or his locks turn gray, 

Nor feels, methinks, a freeman’s generous fires, 

Nor wins the honor that bis soul desires. 

Rather than fall, the timid may remain 

In base suspense, and still caress the chain ; 

But noble hearts their fate will sooner face, 

And, ere they stoop to bondage, hail disgrace. 

Such storms roar round us with the earliest sigh 

Heaved from our cradles, — leave them to pass 
by, 

Like the proud Betis, whose impetuous wave, 

Spread from the mountains, soon forgets to rave. 

Not he who gains, but who deserves the prize, 

Is classed with heroes by the great and wise ; 

But there, where state from flattery takes the 
word, 

On skilful favorites see all place conferred ; — 

Gold, crime, intrigue, their path obliquely wind 

Through the thick crowd, and leave the good 
behind. 

Who trusts for power to virtue? virtue still 

Yields to the strong supremacy of ill. 

Come, then, — once more to the maternal seat 

Of ancient Seville guide thy weary feet ; 

This clime, these skies, shall every care serene, 

And make thy future what the past has been ; — 

Here, where, at least, if dust falls on us, nigh 

Kind lips will whisper, “ Lightly may it lie!”’ 

Here, where my friend no angry look shall cast, 

Nor rise unsated from the noon’s repast, 

Though no rare peacock on my board be seen, 

Nor spicy turtle grace the gold tureen. 

Come, seek soft quiet, as at dead of night 

The Ajgean pilot hails his watchtower’s light ; 

Then, if some old court-friend, as wit requires, 

Smile at thy modest home and curbed desires, 

Thou, smiling too, shalt say, “I live possessed 

Of all I sought for, and despise the rest! fs 

Safe in her simple nest of moss to brood, 

And talk to Echo in her wildest wood, 

More charms the nightingale, than, caged, to 
cheer 

With flattering songs a monarch’s curious ear, 

Trellised in gold. Cease, then, thine anxious care 

And thirst for office, —shun the insidious snare ; 

The idol of thy daily sacrifice 

Accepts the incense, but the grant denies, 

Smiling in secret at thy dreams ; but bound 

Thy restless hopes to life’s restricted round, 

And thou shalt pine no more from day to day, 

Nor fret thy manhood unimproved away. 

For what is life? at best, a brief delight ; 

A sun scarce brightening, ere it sets in night ; 

A flower, —at morning fresh, at noon decayed ; 

A still, swift river, gliding into shade. 

Shall it be said, that, with true peace at strife, 

I, even whilst living, lose the zest of life? 

Ask of the past its fruits, — the past is dumb ; 

And have I surety for the good to come? 


-_ . —_ 
ye + SGC eo eer ES a. ea * j ag - a 
q e bad w : es M - . : 
: a : a - - ss * 
OS Sg on aT eS ee . F ’ ‘- = : 
= & P hpi TE his ot oS sen eo pi 2 5 a ae 
‘ . ( 


Apes 


WER il rer 


2 te | 5 


y 


— = “4 


Ba ee 


Hi 
(a). 


708 SPANISH POETRY. 


No! seeing, then, how fast our years consume, 

Ere age comes on and tints us for the tomb, 

In 'the calm shade let sober thoughts supply 

Their moral charm, and teach us how to die. 

Passed is the vernal leaf, the summer rose, 

Autumn’s sweet grapes, and winter’s fleecy 
snows ; 

All fades, all fleets, whilst we still live at ease 

On idle hopes and airy reveries. 


With me ’t is o’er! me Reason calls away, 
And warms my bosom with her sacred ray ; 
I go, my friend, —I follow where she calls, — 
I leave the illusion which thy soul inthralls, 
Content to walk with those who nobly claim 
To live at ease, and die without a name. 
The Eastern tyrant, who so proudly shines, 
And hoards in towers the wealth of various mines, 
Has scarce enough for crimes that quickly pall ; 
Virtue costs less, — within the reach of all. 
Poor is the man that roves o’er lands and seas 
In chase of treasures that soon cease to please ; 
Me smaller things suffice, —a simple seat 
‘Midst my loved Lares in some green retreat; — 
A book, —a friend, — and slumbers that declare 
A tranquil bliss and vacancy from care. 
In dress the people’s choice would I obey, — 
In manners only more refined than they, — 
Free from the brilliant hues, the glittering lace, 
That gives the stage-musician all his grace. 
Modest my style of life, — nor mean, nor high, 
To fix the notice of the passer-by ; 
And if no myrrhine cup nor porcelain vase 
Shine on my board to draw the guests’ applause, 
The Etruscan jug, or maple bowl, at worst, — 
Can hold the wine that soothes my summer 
thirst. 
Not that in writing thus I would pretend 
To practise all the good I recommend ; — 
This would I do, and Heaven its aid supplies 
Still to press on, and scorn the shows of vice. 
But not at once its fruit the vine receives } 
First spring the flowers, the tendrils, and the 
leaves ; 
Then the young grape, — austere, till mellow- 
ing noons 
To perfect nectar turn the tinged festoons: 
As gradual grows each habit that survives 
To rule, compose, and charm our little lives. 
But Heaven forbid I e’er should ape the airs 
Of the grim stoics that disturb our squares, 
Truth’s tragic mountebanks, content to live 
On the poor praise a mob consents to give: 
No! as through canes and reeds the breezes roar, 
But mildly whisper on the thymy more, 
Sweet-breathing as they pass, — Pride’s vacant 
throng 
Bluster where Virtue meekly steals along. 
Thus would I live; and silent thus may Death 
Sound the mild call that steals away my breath, — 
Not with the thunder that salutes the great; —= 
No burnished metals grace my lowly gate! 


"T is thus I seem to have obtained, in sooth, 
The very essence and the zest of truth. 


Smile not, my friend, nor think that I confide 

In painted words, the eloquence of pride, — 

That brooding study the grave strain inspires, 

That fancy only fills me with her fires. 

Is Virtue’s less than Error’s force ? declare ; 

Her smile Jess winning, and her face less fair? 

And I, whilst Anger on the tented plain, 

Pride in the court, and Avarice on the main, 

Each hour face death, — shall I not tempt the 
wings 

Of nobler motives, fraught with brighter things? 


Yes! surely, yes! Thou, too, escape, and join 
Thy thoughts, thy manners, and thy life with 
mine : ' 
Freed from thy chains, come, follow, and acquire 
That perfect good to which our souls aspire ; 
Ere with us Wisdom lose her tranquil charms, 
And Time, late cherished, die within our arms. 


en 


PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 


ScaRcELy less a prodigy of nature than 
Lope de Vega was the second great dramatist 
of Spain, Pedro Calderon de la Barca. With 
Spanish pomp and circumstance, his eulogist and 
biographer, Don Juan de Vera Tasis y Villar- 
roel, says, in swelling phrase, — “ Not easily can 
be circumscribed in the brief sphere of my lip 
he who so generously occupies all the tongues of 
fame; and not easily can be limited by so short 
an epilogue he who is too great for the dilated 
space of centuries: for he who sets a limit to 
the light rather insults than flatters its clear- 
ness. Yet, trusting in my affection, which shall 
supply the capacity of its theme, I hurry my 
pen forward to describe, in an abbreviated sigh, 
a permanent sob, which shall be raised in the 
vast temple of memory, by all who, in after 
times, record his name.” 

According to this biographer, Calderon was a 
most remarkable child; for, “‘even before he 
trod the pleasant threshold of life, it seems that 
with sad echoes he announced that glorious noise 
which he was to make in the distant periods of 
the world: for, before opening the oriental gates, 
he cried in the maternal bosom; and thus en- 
tered the world with a shade of sadness he, 
who, like a new sun, was to fill it with im- 
mense joys. Dorotea Calderon de la Barca, 
his sister, a most exemplary nun in the royal 
convent of Santa Clara de Toledo, used to de- 
clare, that she had heard her parents say many 
times, that three times he had cried before he 
was born.” 

To descend from this hyperbolical style of 
the biographer to matters of fact. Pedro Cal- 
deron de Ja Barea, sprung from an ancient and 
noble family, was born at Madrid, the first day 
of the year 1601. He received his earliest 
instruction in the Jesuits’ College, and at the 
age of fourteen entered the University of Sala- 


manca, where he remained five years, and made 
great progress in literature and the sciences. 
He left the University at the age of nineteen. 
Soon after this, he became known as a poet, and 
his merits were acknowledged by persons of 
distinction. Ten years of his life were spent in 
the military service, and he gained much reputae 
tion in the wars of Milan and the Low Countries. 
He wag recalled to court in 1637, by an order 
of his sovereign, Philip the Fourth, a monarch 
devoted to pleasure, and himself the author of 
pieces for the stage. Lope de Vega had just 
died, and Calderon succeeded him as the favor- 
ite of the theatre. The year,after his return to 
the court, the king conferred on him the order 
of Santiago. When, in 1640, all the orders 
were required to take the field in the campaign 
to Catalonia, Calderon served under the colors 
of the count-duke of Olivares. At the peace, 
he returned to court, and received from the 
king a pension of thirty crowns a month. In 
1650, he was required to superintend the fes- 
tivities, and to plan the splendid triumphal 
arches, with which the Austrian princess, Maria 
Ana, was received, on her marriage with the 
king. In the mean time, he wrote indefatigably 
for the stage. In 1651, he left the military or- 
der to which he belonged, was ordained a priest, 
and, in 1654, was made chaplain in the chapel 
de los Senores Reyes Nuevos, :at Toledo; but 
the king, desirous of having him near at hand 
to assist at the royal festivals, gave him a chap- 
laincy at court, and recalled him to Madrid. 
Other preferments were from time to time 
granted him, and his income was increased by 
a pension taken out of the revenues from Sicily, 
and by the growing profits of his labors. He 
died May 29, 1687, at the advanced age of 
eighty-six. 

Calderon is second only to Lope de Vega in 
the amount of his works; and not second, even 
to him, in the affluence of his genius. He is 
said to have written one hundred and twenty 
three-act dramas; two hundred loas, or dra- 
matic prologues; a hundred entremeses, or 1n- 
terludes; and a hundred autos sacramentales, 
or sacramental acts. He also wrote lyrical and 
other poems. The most complete edition of his 
works is that of 1760, in seventeen volumes, 
quarto ; containing seventy-three autos, seventy- 
four loas, and one hundred and seven three-act 
dramas. 

Calderon is a great favorite with the able 
critic, Augustus William Schlegel. The fol- 
lowing is-part of the brilliant, but too highly 
colored, portrait which he has drawn in his 
«Lectures on Dramatic Literature.” * 

«His mind is most distinctly expressed in 
the religious subjects which he handled. He 
paints love with general features merely ; he 
speaks her technical poetical language. Re- 
ligion is his peculiar love, the heart of his 
i nan nS, an snc 


* A Course of Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature, 
by Auveustus WILLIAM ScutecEL. Translated by Joun 
Brack (Philadelphia, 1833, 8vo.). pp. 418, 419. 


CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 


709 


heart. For religion alone he excites the most 
overpowering emotions, which penetrate into 
the inmost recesses of the soul. It would rath- 
er appear that he did not wish to enter with the 
same fervor into worldly events. However 
turbid they may be in themselves, from the re- 
ligious medium through which he views them, 
they appear to him perfectly bright. This for- 
tunate man escaped from the wild labyrinths of 
doubt into the citadel of belief, from whence he 
viewed and portrayed the storms of the world 
with undisturbed tranquillity of soul; human 
life was to him no longer a dark riddle. Even 
his tears reflect the image of heaven, like dew- 
drops on a flower in the sun. His poetry, what- 
ever its object may apparently be, is an inces- 
sant hymn of joy on the majesty of the creation : 
he celebrates the productions of nature and 
human art with an astonishment always joyful 
and always new, as if he saw them for the first 
time in an unworn festal splendor. It is the 
first waking of Adam, coupled with an eloquence 
and skill of expression, with a thorough ac- 
quaintance with the most mysterious relations 
of nature, such as high mental cultivation and 
mature contemplation can alone give. When 
he compares the most remote, the greatest and 
the smallest, stars and flowers, the sense of all 
his metaphors is the mutual attraction of created 
things to one another, on account of their com- 
mon origin; and this delightful harmony and 
unity of the world is again with him merely a 
refulgence of the eternal love which embraces 
the universe. 

‘Calderon still flourished at a time when a 
strong inclination began to manifest itself in the 
other countries of Europe to that mannerism of 
taste in the arts, and those prosaic views in lite- 
rature, which in the eighteenth century obtained 
such universal dominion. He is consequently 
to be considered as the last summit of the ro- 
mantic poetry. All its magnificence is lavished 
in his works; as, in fireworks, the most gaudy 
colors, the most dazzling cascades and circles, 
are usually reserved for the last explosion.” 

For a more temperate estimate of Calderon, 
see ‘ Blackwood’s Magazine’? for December, 
1839, and January, 1840. 

The state of the Spanish theatre in the time 
of Lope and Calderon is well described by. a 
writer in the ‘“ American Quarterly Review ts 
(Vol. IV., pp. 347, 348). 

“The theatre did not depend in Spain so 
much on the full-length dramas, as it did in 
other countries. There were, besides the loas, 
or long dramatic prologues, the entremeses be- 
tween the acts; the saynetes, or farces, at the 
end; the zdcaras, which were a sort of old bal- 
lads, sung where they were needed; and lyrical 
dances, or dances with song, like the zaraban- 
das, which were put in for the same general 
purpose of increasing the zest of the entertain- 
ment. They were all, however, in one tone 
and spirit, and constitute the dramatic literature 


of the public popular theatres in Spain during 
3H 


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| 710 


the seventeenth century. The genuine and 
exclusive nationality of this literature is its most 
| prominent characteristic. It was a more popu- 
Jar amusement, it belonged more to all classes 
of the nation, than any, theatre since the Greek. 
Its actors were almost always strolling compa- 
nies, with a person at their head, called El Au- 
tor, because, from the time of Lope de Rueda, 
the manager often wrote the pieces he caused 
to be represented; and this author, as he was 
called, when he came to a place where he in- 
tended to act, went round in person and posted 
his bills announcing the entertainment. When 
dramatic representations were not so common 
as they afterwards became, such occasions were 
eagerly seized, and pieces performed both morn- 
ing and afternoon. Even later, when they 
grew common, they were still always given in 
the day-time, beginning, in the winter, at two 
o'clock, and in the summer at three, so that 
every body might return home unmolested be- 
fore dark. The place of representation was 
almost uniformly an open court-yard,* at one 
end of which was a covered and sheltered stage, 
and, on its sides, rows of seats, as in an amphi- 


theatre ; but the best places were the rooms and 
windows of the houses that opened into the 
area; and such was the passion for scenic repre- 
sentation, that the right to particular seats was 
often preserved and transmitted, as an inherit- 
ance, from generation to generation. When 
the audience was collected, the author came 
forward, and, according to the technical phrase, 


threw out the loa (echo la loa), in which he, . 


perhaps, complimented some of. the persons 
present, or, perhaps, boasted how strong his 
company was, and how many ‘new plays they 
had ready for representation. Then followed a 


dance, or a ballad; afterwards, the first act of 


the play, with its entremes; then the second, 
and the second entremes ; and finally, the last; 
after which another farce was given (the say- 
nete); and the whole concluded with dancing, 
which was often interspersed in other parts of the 
entertainment, and accompanied with singing. 
The costume of the actors was always purely 
and richly Spanish, though they might repre- 
sent Greek or Roman characters. The women 
Sat separate from the men, and were veiled ; 
and officers of justice had seats on the stage to 
preserve order, — one of whom was once so de- 
luded by the representation of one of Calderon’s 
most extravagant pieces, that he interfered, 
sword in hand, to prevent what he believed an 
outrage, and drove the actors from -the boards. 
The audiences, when Lope began to write, 
seem to have been very quiet and orderly; but 
soon after 1600, they began to decide on the 
merits of the plays, and the acting, with little 
ceremony ; and before 1615, they took the 
character, which, in Madrid at least, they main- 
tained to the end of the century, of being the 
most violent and rude audiences in Europe.” 
Pai oe thes LEARM TSAI OW. TARDE LL 
* The two theatres in Madrid are still called corrales. 


re ee 


SPANISH POETRY, 


FROM EL MAGICO PRODIGIOSO. 


SCENE FIRST. 
[Cyprian as a student 3 Clarin and Moscon as poor scholars, 
with books. ] 
CYPRIAN. 
In the sweet solitude of this calm place, 
This intricate wild wilderness of trees 
And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, 
Leave me; the books you brought out of the 
house 
To me are ever best society. 
And whilst with glorious festival and song 
Antioch now celebrates the consecration 
Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, 
And bears his image in loud jubilee 
To its new shrine, I would consume what still 
Lives of the dying day in* studious thought, 
Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my 
friends, 
Go and enjoy the festival; it will 
Be worth the labor ; and return for me 
When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, 
Which among dim gray clouds on the horizon 
Dance like white plumes upon a hearse ; — and 
here 
I shall expect you. 


MOSCON. 
I cannot bring my mind, 
Great as my haste to see the festival 
Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without 
Just saying some three or four hundred words. 
How is it possible, that, on a day 
Of such festivity, you can bring your mind 
To come forth to a solitary country 
With three or four old books, and turn your back 
On all this mirth ? 


CLARIN, 
My master ’s in the right ; 
There is not any thing more tiresome 
Than a procession-day, with troops of men 
And dances, and all that. 


MOSCON. 
From first to last, 


Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer ; 
You praise not what you feel, but what he does ; — 
Toad-eater ! 
CLARIN. 
You lie — under a mistake, — 
For this is the most civil sort of lie 
That can be given to a man’s face. I now 
Say what I think. 


CYPRIAN. 
Enough, you foolish fellows ! ; 
Puffed up with your own doting ignorance, 
You always take the two sides of one question. 
Now go, and, as I said, return for me 
When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide 
This glorious fabric of the universe. 


MOSCON. 
How happens it, although you can maintain 
The folly of enjoying festivals, 
That yet you go there ? 


CLARIN. 


Nay, the consequence 
Is clear ; — who ever did what he advises 
Others to do? 


MOSCON. 
Would that my feet were wings! 


So would I fly to Livia. 


[ Exit. 
CLARIN. 


To speak truth, 
Livia is she who has surprised my heart ; 


But he is more than half-way there. — Soho! 
Livia, I come! good sport, Livia! soho! 
. [Exit. 
CYPRIAN. 


Now, since I am alone, let me examine 

The question which has long disturbed my mind 

With doubt, since first I read in Plinius 

The words of mystic import and deep sense 

In which he defines God. My intellect 

Can find no God with whom these marks and 

signs 

Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth, 

Which I must fathom. [Reads. 
[Enter the Devil, as a fine gentleman. 


DEMON. 
Search even as thou wilt, 
But thou shalt never find what I can hide. 


CYPRIAN. 
What noise is that among the boughs? Who 
moves? 
What art thou? 
DEMON. 


'T is a foreign gentleman. 

Even from this morning, I have lost my way 
In this wild place; and my poor horse, at last 
Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon 
The enamelled tapestry of this mossy mountain, 
And feeds and rests at the same time. I was 
Upon my way to Antioch, upon business 

Of some importance; but, wrapt up in cares, 
(Who is exempt from this inheritance ?) 

I parted from my company, and lost 

My way, and lost my servants and my comrades. 


CYPRIAN. 
’'T is singular, that, even within the sight 
Of the high towers of Antioch, you could lose 
Your way. Of all the avenues and green paths 
Of this wild wood, there is not one but leads, 
As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch ; 
Take which you will, you cannot miss your road. 


DEMON. 

And such is ignorance! Even in the sight 
Of knowledge, it can draw no profit from it. 
But as it still is early, and as I 

Have no acquaintances in Antioch, 

Being a stranger there, I will even wait 
The few surviving hours of the day, 

Until the night shall conquer it. I see, 
Both by your dress and by the books in which 
You find delight and company, that you 
Are a great student ; — for my part, I feel 
Much sympathy with such pursuits. 


CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 


——— 


CYPRIAN. 
Have you 
Studied much ? 


DEMON. 
No, —and yet I know enough * 48) 
Not to be wholly ignorant. 


‘ CYPRIAN. 
Pray, Sir, 


What science may you know ? 


DAMON. 


Many. 

CYPRIAN. 
Alas ! 
Much pains must we expend on one alone, 
And even then attain it not ; — but you 
Have the presumption to assert that you 
Know many without study. 


DEMON. 
And with truth ; 


For in the country whence I come, sciences 
Require no learning, —they are known. 


CYPRIAN. 


O, would 

I were of that bright country ! for in this, 
The more we study, we the more discover 
Our ignorance. 


DEMON. 

It is so true, that I 

Had so much arrogance as to oppose 

The chair of the most high professorship, 

And obtained many votes ; and though I lost, 
The attempt was still more glorious than the 
failure 

Could be dishonorable: if you believe not, 
Let us refer it to dispute respecting 

That which you know best; and although I 
Know not the opinion you maintain, and though 
It be the true one, I will take the contrary. 


The offer gives me pleasure. TI am now 
Debating with myself upon a passage 

Of Plinius, and my mind is racked with doubt 
To understand and know who is the God 

Of whom he speaks. 


CYPRIAN. | 


DEMON. 
It is a passage, if 
I recollect it right, couched in these words : 
“God is one supreme goodness, one pure es 


sence, 
One substance, and one sense, all sight, all 
hands.” 
CYPRIAN. 
'T is true. 
DZEMON. 


What difficulty find you here? 


CYPRIAN. 
I do not recognize among the Gods 
The God defined by Plinius: if he must 
Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter 
Is not supremely good; because we see 


712 


His deeds are evil, and his attributes 

Tainted with mortal weakness: in what manner 
Can supreme goodness be consistent with 

The passions of humanity ? 


DEMON, 


The wisdom 

Of the old world masked with the names of Gods 
The attributes of Nature and of Man: 

A sort of popular philosophy. 


CYPRIAN. 

This reply will not satisfy me; for 
Such awe is due to the high name of God, 
That ill should never be imputed. Then, 
Examining the question with more care, 
It follows that the Gods should always will 
That which is best, were they supremely good. 
How, then, does one will one thing, — one, 

another ? 
And you may not say that I allege 
Poetical or philosophic learning : 
Consider the ambiguous responses 
Of their oracular statues; from two shrines 
Two armies shall obtain the assurance of 
One victory. Is it not indisputable 
That two contending wills can never lead 
To the same end? and being opposite, 
If one be good, is not the other evil ? 
Evil in God is inconceivable ; 
But supreme goodness fails among the Gods, 
Without their union. 


SSS 


DEMON. 
ih I deny your major. 


i" ba These responses are means towards some end 

Be RY oy Unfathomed by our intellectual beam; 

They are the work of Providence; and more 

Ch The battle’s loss may profit those who lose, 
ie Than victory advantagé those who win. 


CYPRIAN, 
. That I admit, and yet that God should not 
7 (Falsehood is incompatible with deity) 
a) j Assure the victory ; it would be enough 
th To have permitted the defeat: if God 
net, Be all sight, — God, who beheld the truth, 
Would not have given assurance of an end 
ei, Never to be accomplished. Thus, although 
oh The Deity may, according to his attributes, 
Be well distinguished into persons, yet, 
Even in the minutest circumstance, 
His essence must be one. 


a 


DEMON. 


me 3 To attain the end, 
BS: The affections of the actors in the scene 
ete Must have been thus influenced by his voice. 


CYPRIAN. 
But for a purpose thus subordinate 
He might have employed genii, good or evil, — 
A sort of spirits called so by the learned, 
Who roam about inspiring good or evil, 
And from whose influence and existence we 
May well infer our immortality : — 
Thus God might easily, without descending 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Sovereign power, one solitary essence, 
One cause of all cause. 


CYPRIAN. 
Go in peace ! 
DEMON. 
Remain in peace ! — Since thus it profits him 


To study, I will wrap his senses up 

In sweet oblivion of all thought, but of 
A piece of excellent beauty ; and as I 
Have power given me to wage enmity 
Against Justina’s soul, I will extract 
From one effect two vengeances. 


To a gross falsehood in his proper person, 
Have moved the affections by this mediation 
To the just point. 


DEMON. 
These trifling contradictions 
Do not suffice to impugn the unity 
Of the high Gods; in things of great importance 
They still appear unanimous: consider 
That glorious fabric, man, — his workmanship 
Is stamped with one conception. 


CYPRIAN. 
Who made man 


Must have, methinks, the advantage of the 
others. 

If they are equal, might they not have risen 

In opposition to the work; and being 

All hands, according to our author here, 

Have still destroyed even as the other made? 

If equal in their power, and only unequal 

In opportunity, which of the two 

Will remain conqueror ? 


DEMON. 
On impossible 


And false hypothesis there can be built 


No argument. Say, what do you infer 
From this? 


CYPRIAN. 
That there must be a mighty God 
Of supreme goodness and of highest grace, 
All sight, all hands, all truth, infallible, 
Without an equal and without a rival ; 
The cause of all things, and the effect of nothing ; 
One power, one will, one substance, and one 

essence ; 


And in whatever persons, one or two, 


His attributes may be distinguished, one 
[They rise. 


DEMON, 


How can I impugn 
So clear a consequence ? ' 


CYPRIAN. 


Do you regret 
My victory ? 


DEMON. 


Who but regrets a check 

In rivalry of wit? I could reply 

And urge new difficulties, but will now 
Depart; for I hear steps of men approaching, 
And it is time that I should now pursue 

My journey to the city. 


CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 


CYPRIAN, 
I never 


Met a more learned person. Let me now 
Revolve this doubt again with careful mind. 
{He reads. 
[Enter Lelio and Floro. 
' LELI0, 
Here stop. These toppling rocks and tangled 
boughs, 
Impenetrable by the noonday beam, 
Shall be sole witnesses of what we —— 
FLORO, 
Draw! 
If there were words, here is the place for deeds. 


LELI0. 

Thou needest not instruct me: well I know 
That in the field the silent tongue of steel 
Speaks thus. (They fight. 


CYPRIAN. 
Ha! what is this? Lelio, Fioro, 
Be it enough that Cyprian stands between you, 
Although unarmed. 


LELIO. 
Whence comest thou, to stand 
Between me and my vengeance? 


i 


BLORO. 
From what rocks 
And desert cells ? 
{Enter Moscon and Clarin. 
MOSCON. 
Run, run! for where we left my master, 
We hear the clash of swords. 


CLARIN» 
J never 
Run to approach things of this sort, but only 
To avoid them. Sir! Cyprian! Sir! 


CYPRIAN. 

Be silent, fellows! What! two friends, who are 

In blood and fame the eyes and hope of Anti- 
och, — 

One, of the noble men of the Colatti, 

The other, son of the governor, — adventure 

And cast away, on some slight cause, no doubt, 

Two lives, the honor of their country ? 


LBLIO. 

Cyprian, 

Although my high respect towards your person 
Holds now my sword suspended, thou canst not 
Restore it to the slumber of its scabbard. 

Thou knowest more of science than the duel: 
For when two men of honor take the field, 
No counsel nor respect can make them friends ; 
But one must die in the pursuit. 


FLORO. 

I pray 

That you depart hence with your people, and 
Leave us to finish what we have begun 
Without advantage. 


CYPRIAN. 
Though you may imagine 
That 1 know little of the laws of duel, 


Which vanity and valor instituted, 
90 


You are in error. By my birth I am 

Held no less than yourselves to know the limits 

Of honor and of infamy, nor has study 

Quenched the free spirit which first ordered | 
them 3 

And thus to me, as one well experienced 

In the false quicksands of the sea of honor, 

You may refer the merits of the case 3! 

And if [ should perceive in your relation 

That either has the right to satisfaction 

From the other, I give you my word of honor 

To leave you. 


LELIO. 

Under this condition, then, 

I will relate the cause, and you will cede 
And must confess the impossibility 

Of compromise; for the same lady is 
Beloved by Floro and myself. 


FLORQ. 


It seems 

Much to me that the light of day should look 
Upon that idol of my heart ;—- but he~—— 
Leave us to fight, according to thy word. 


CYPRIAN. 
Permit one question further: is the lady 
Impossible to hope, or not? 


LELIO, 
She is 
So excellent, that, if the light of day 
Should excite Floro’s jealousy, it were 
Without just cause ; for even the light of day 
Trembles to gaze on her. 


CYPRIAN. 
Would you, for your 
Part, marry her? 
FLORO, 
Such is my confidence. 


CYPRIAN. 


And you? 


LELIO. 

O, would that I could lift my hope 
So high! for, though she is extremely poor, 
Her virtue is her dowry. 


CYPRIAN, 

And if you both 

Would marry her, is it not weak and vain, 
Culpable and unworthy, thus beforehand 

To slur her honor? What would the world say, 
If one should slay the other, and if she 
Should afterwards espouse the murderer ? 

[The rivals agree to refer their quarrel to Cyprian ; who, 
in consequence, visits Justina, and becomes enamoured of 
her: she disdains him, and he retires to a solitary sea- 
shore. 


o— 


SCENE SECOND. 


CYPRIAN. 
O memory ! permit it not 
That the tyrant of my thought 
Be another soul that still 


Holds dominion o’er the will, — 
3H* 


714 SPANIS 


That would refuse, but can no more, 
To bend, to tremble, and adore, 
Vain idolatry ! — [| saw, 
And, gazing, became blind with error ; 
Weak ambition, which the awe 
Of her presence bound to terror! 
So beautiful she was, — and I, 
Between my love and jealousy, 
Am so convulsed with hope and fear, 
Unworthy as it may appear, — 
So bitter is the life I live, 
That, hear me, Hell! I now would give 
To thy most detested spirit 
My soul, for ever to inherit, 
To suffer punishment and pine, 
So this woman may be mine, 
Hear’st thou, Hell? dost thou reject it? 
My soul is offered! 


aecamintnatn ten at Soe 


ede 


"kaa 


DEMON (unseen), 
I accept it. 
[Tempest, with thunaer and lightning. 


CYPRIAN, 
What is this? ye heavens for ever pure, 
At once intensely radiant and obscure ! 
Athwart the ethereal halls 
The lightning’s arrow and the thunder-balls 
The day affright, 
As from the horizon round 
Burst with earthquake sound 
In mighty torrents the electric fountains — 
Clouds quench the sun, and thunder-smoke 
Strangles the air, and fire eclipses heaven. 
Philosophy, thou canst not even 
Compel their causes underneath thy yoke: 
From yonder clouds, even to the waves below, 
The fragments of a single ruin choke 
Imagination’s flight ; 
For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light 
The ashes of the desolation cast 
Upon the gloomy blast 
Tell of the footsteps of the storm. 
And nearer see the melancholy form 
Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea, 
Drives miserably ! 
And it must fly the pity of the port, 
Or perish, — and its last and sole resort 
Is its own raging enemy. 
The terror of the thrilling ery 
Was a fatal prophecy 
Of coming death, who hovers now 
Upon that shattered prow, 
That they who die not may be dying still. 
And not alone the insane elements 
Are populous with wild portents : 
But that sad ship is as a miracle 
Of sudden ruin; for it drives so fast, 
It seems as if it had arrayed its form 
With the headlong storm. 
It strikes ! — I almost feel the shock !—_ 
It stumbles on a jagged rock ! — 
Sparkles of blood on the white foam are cast ! 


[A tempest. —- All exclaim within, 


? 


We are all lost! 


| ate ee nee WEES) 
H POETRY, 


a ae OT RSF gOS SRC SESSREEE rors eee - 


DZMON (within). 
Now from this plank will I 
Pass to the land, and thus fulfil my scheme. 


CYPRIAN. 
As in contempt of the elemental rage, 
A man comes forth in safety, while the ship’s 
Great form is in a watery eclipse 
Obliterated from the Ocean’s page, 
And round its wreck the huge sea-monsters sit, 
A horrid conclave, and the whistling wave 
Are heaped over its carcass like a grave. 


ss, 
[The Demon enters, as escaped from the sea. 


DEMON (aside). 

It was essential to my purposes 
To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean, 
That in this unknown form [| might at length 

ipe out the blot of the discomfiture 
Sustained upon the mountain, and assail 
With a new war the soul of Cyprian, 
Forging the instruments of his destruction 
Even from his love and from his wisdom, —O 
Beloved earth! dear mother! in thy bosom 
1 seek a refuge from the monster who 
Precipitates itself upon me. 

CYPRIAN, 


Friend, 


Collect thyself ; and be the memory 

Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sorrow, 
But as a shadow of the past, — for nothing 
Beneath the circle of the moon, but flows 
And changes and can never know repose. 


DEMON, 


And who art thou, before whose feet my fate 
Has prostrated me ? 


CYPRIAN. 
One who, moved with pity, 
Would soothe its stings, 


DAMON, 
O, that can never be ! 


No solace can my lasting sorrows find. 


CYPRIAN, 
Wherefore ? 
DEMON, 
Because my happiness is lost. 
Yet I lament what has long ceased to be 
The object of desire or memory, 
And my life is not life. 


CYPRIAN. 
Now, since the fury 


Of this earthquaking hurricane is still, 
And the crystalline heaven has reassumed 
Its windless calm so quickly, that it seems 
As if its heavy wrath had been awakened 
Only to overwhelm that vessel, — speak ! 
Who art thou, and whence eomest thou? 
DEMON, 
Far more 
My coming hither cost, than thou hast seen 
Or I can tell. Among my misadventures, 
This shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou hear ? 


tie! 


— 


peau ee apse a TADS SpE tego ee ee 


en, ZRBC IU ASE" PRD Ve Sw sae 


CYPRIAN. 
Speak. 
DAMON. 
Since thou desirest, I will, then, unveil 
Myself to thee ; for in myself I am 
A world of happiness and misery : 
This I have lost, and that I must lament 
For ever. In my attributes I stood 
So high and so heroically great, 
In lineage so supreme, and with a genius 
Which penetrated with a glance the world 
Beneath my feet, that, won by my high merit, 
A king — whom [ may call the King of Kings, 
Because all others tremble in their pride 
Before the terrors of his countenance, 
In his high palace, roofed with brightest gems 
Of living light —call them the stars of heaven — 
Named me his counsellor. But the high praise 
Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose 
In mighty competition, to ascend 
His seat and place my foot triumphantly 
Upon his subject thrones. Chastised, | know 
The depth to which ambition falls. ‘Too mad 
Was the attempt, and yet more mad were now 
Repentance of the irrevocable deed : 
Therefore I chose this ruin, with the glory 
Of not to be subdued, before the shame 
Of reconciling me with him who reigns 
By coward cession. Nor was J alone, 
Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone ; 
And there was hope, and there may still be hope ; 
For many suffrages among his vassals 
Hailed me their lord and king, and many still 
Are mine, and many more, perchance, shall be. 
Thus vanquished, though in fact victorious, 
I left his seat of empire, from mine eye 
Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while my 
words 

With inauspicious thunderings shook heaven, 
Proclaiming vengeance, public as my wrong, 
And imprecating on his prostrate slaves 
Rapine, and death, and outrage. Then I sailed 
Over the mighty fabric of the world, 
A. pirate ambushed in its pathless sands, 
A lynx crouched watchfully among its caves 
And craggy shores ; and | have wandered over 
The expanse of these wide wildernesses 
In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved 
In the light breathings of the invisible wind, 
And which the sea has made a dustless ruin, — 
Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests 
I seek a man, whom I must now compel 
To keep his word with me. I came arrayed 
In tempest; and although my power could well 
Bridle the forest winds in their career, 
For other causes I forbore to soothe 
Their fury to favonian gentleness ; 
I could and would not. (Thus I wake in him 

[ Aside. 
A love of magic art.) Let not this tempest, 
Nor the succeeding calm, excite thy wonder ; 
For by my art the sun would turn as pale 
As his weak sister, with unwonted fear. 
And in my wisdom are the orbs of heaven 
Written as in a record; I have pierced 


CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 715 


: ; a“ a te | 


The flaming circles of their wondrous spheres, 
And know them as thou knowest every corner 
Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee 
That I boast vainly : wouldst thou that I work 
A charm over this waste and savage wood, 
This Babylon of crags and aged trees, 

Filling its leafy coverts with a horror 

Thrilling and strange? I am the friendless guest 
Of these wild oaks and pines, ~and as from thee 
I have received the hospitality 

Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit 

Of years of toil in recompense 3 whate’er 

Thy wildest dream presented to thy thought 
As object of desire, that shall be thine. 

And thenceforth shall so firm an amity 

‘Twixt thou and me be, that neither Fortune, 
The monstrous phantom which pursues success, 
That careful miser, that free prodigal, 

Who ever alternates, with changeful hand, 
Evil and good, reproach and fame ; nor Time, 
That loadstar of the ages, to whose beam 

The winged years speed o’er the intervals 

Of their unequal revolutions; nor 

Heaven itself, whose beautifia! bright stars 
Rule and adorn the world, can ever make 

The least division between thee and me, 
Since now I find a refuge in thy favor. 


— 


SCENE THIRD. 


[The Demon tempts Justina, who is a Christian. ] 


DEMON. 
Azyss of Hell! I call on thee, 
Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy ! 
From thy prison-house set free 
The spirits of voluptuous death, 
That with their mighty breath 
They may destroy a world of virgin thoughts. 
Let her chaste mind with fancies thick as motes 
Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, 
Till her guiltless phantasy 
Full to overflowing be ; 
And with sweetest harmony, 
Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all 
things move 
To love, — only to love. 
Let nothing meet her eyes 
But signs of Love’s soft victories} 
Let nothing meet her ear 
But sounds of Love’s sweet sorrow : 
So that from faith no succour may she borrow, 
But, guided by my spirit blind, 
And in a magic snare entwined, 
She may now seek Cyprian. 
Begin, — while I in silence bind 
My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast be- 
gun. 
A VOICE WITHIN. 
What isthe glory far above 
All else in human life ? 


ALL. 
Love! love! 


a Ae ee RUE 


SD SS ere 


Sa 


Me 


a 
AS 


Who seekest most when least pursuing, 
To the trunk thou interlacest 


[While these words are sung, the Demon goes out at oné 
door, and Justina entérs at another. 


THE FIRST VOICR. 
There is no form in which the fire 


Of love its traces has impressed not. 


Man lives far more in love’s désire 


Than by life’s breath, soon possessed not. 


If all that lives must love or die, 
All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, 
With one consent, to Heaven cry 
That the glory far above 

All else in life is 


ALL, 
Love! Q, love! 
JUSTINA. 

Thou melancholy thought, which art 
So fluttering and so sweet, to thee 
When did I give the liberty 

Thus to afflict my heart ? 

What is the cause of this new power 


Which doth my fevered being move, 


Momently raging more and more? 
What subtle pain is kindled now, 
Which from my heart doth overhow 


Into my senses ? 


ire 
Love! Q, love! 
JUSTINA. 
T is that enamoured nightingale 
Who gives me the reply ; 


He ever tells the same soft tale 


Of passion and of constancy 
To his mate, — who rapt and fond 
Listening sits, a bough beyond. 


Be silent, Nightingale | — no more 
9 roo} Ss 


Make me think, in hearing thee 


Thus tenderly thy love deplore, 


If a bird can feel his sO, 
What a man would feel for me. 
And, voluptuous Vine! O thou 


Art the verdure which embracest, 
And the weight which is its ruin, — 
No more, with green embraces, Vine, 
Make me think on what thou lovest } — 
For, whilst thou thus thy boughs entwine, 
I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist, 
How arms might be entangled too, 
Light-enchanted Sunflower! thou 
Who gazest ever true and tender 
On the sun’s revolving splendor, — 


Follow not his. faithless glance 
With thy faded countenance, 


Nor teach my beating heart to fear, 

If leaves can mourn without a tear, 
How eyes must weep. — O Nightingale, 
Cease from thy enamoured tale ! 


Leafy Vine, unwreathe thy bower! 


Restless Sunflower, cease to move ! — 


Or tell me, all, what poisonous power 


Ye use against me! 


ALL, 
Love! love! love! 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Thought is not in my power, but action is: 


JUSTINA. 

It cannot be! —- Whom have I ever loved ? 
Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, 
Floro and Lelio did I not reject? 
And Cyprian ? — 

[She becomes troubled at the name of Cyprian. 
Did I not requite him 
With such severity, that he has fled 
Where none has ever heard of him again ? — 
Alas! I now begin to fear that this 
May be the occasion whence desire grows bold, 
As if there were no danger. From the mo- 

ment 

That I pronounced to my own listening heart, 
‘Cyprian is absent,’”’ O miserable me ! 
I know not what I feel ! — 
It must be pity, [More calmly. 
To think that such a man, Whom all the world 
Admired, should be forgot by all the world, 
And I the cause.— 


(She again becomes troubled. 
And yet if it were pity, 
Floro and Lelio might have equal share ; 
For they are both imprisoned for my sake, — 


[Calmly. 
Alas! what reasonings are these? It is 
Enough I pity him, and that in vain, 
Without this ceremonious subtlety. 
And, woe is me! I know not where to find bim || 
now, 


Even should I seek him through this wide world. 


| 
} 
| 


[Enter Damon. 
DAEMON. 
Follow, and I will lead thee where he is. 


JUSTINA. 

And who art thou who hast found entrance 
hither, 

Into my chamber, through the doors and locks? 


Art thou a monstrous shadow which my madness 
Has formed in the idle air? 


DEMON. 
No. Jam one 
Called by the thought which tyrannizes thee 


From his eternal dwelling; who this day 


Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. 


JUSTINA. 
So shall thy promise fail. This agony 
Of passion which afflicts my heart and soul 
May sweep imagination in its storm ; 
The will is firm. 


DEMON. 


Already half is done 

In the imagination of an act. 

The sin incurred, the pleasure then remains: 
Let not the will stop half-way on the road. 


JUSTINA. 
I will not be discouraged, nor despair, 
Although [ thought it, and although ’t is true 
That thought is but a prelude to the deed ; 


I will not move my foot to follow thee. 


CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 717 


DEMON. 
But a far mightier wisdom than thine own 
Exerts itself within thee, with such power 


LYSANDER. 
O my daughter! what? 


: Seger xed LIVIA. 
Compelling thee to that which it inclines, What ? 

That it shall force thy step : how wilt thou then sUSTINA, 
Resist, Justina ? Saw you 


JUSTINA. A man go forth from my apartment now Pieake 
By my free will. I scarce sustain myself! 
T DEMON. LYSANDER. 
; A man here! 
Must force thy will. 
JUSTINA. 
JUSTINA. 


‘yb eae, Have you not seen him? 
It is invincible: J 


E i LIVIA. 
It were not free, if thou hadst power upon It. No, lady. 
[He draws, but cannot move her. 
" JUSTINA. 
PAO I saw him. 
Come, where a pleasure waits thee. LYSANDER. 
JUSTINA. ’'T is impossible ; the doors 
It were bought Which led to this apartment were all locked. 
Too dear. f 
Livia (aside). 
DEMON. 


I dare say it was Moscon whom she saw ; 


T’ will soothe thy heart to softest peace. For he was locked up in my room. 


JUSTINA. 


e 5) de LYSANDER. 
'T is dread captivity. 


Tt must 


oe 4 DEMON. Have been some image of thy phantasy 
Tis joy, tis glory. Such melancholy as thou feedest is 
JUSTINA. Skilful in forming such in the vain air 


'T is shame, ’t is torment, ’t is despair. Out of the motes and atoms of the day. 


LIVIA. 
My master ’s in the right. 


DEMON. 
But how 
Canst thou defend thyself from that or me, 


JUSTINA. 
If my power drags thee onward? 


O, would it were 

Delusion ! but I fear some greater ill. 

I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom 

My heart was torn in fragments. Ay, 

Some mortal spell is wrought against my frame : 

So potent was the charm, that, had not God 

Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, 

I should have sought my sorrow and my shame 

With willing steps. — Livia, quick bring my }; 
cloak ; \ 

For I must seek refuge from these extremes ) 

Even in the temple of the highest God, 

Which secretly the faithful worship. 


JUSTINA. 


My defence 
Consists in God. 
[He vainly endeavours to force her, and at last releases her. 


DEMON. 
Woman, thou hast subdued me, 
Only by not owning thyself subdued. 
But since thou thus findest defence in God, 
I will assume a feigned form, and thus 
Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. 
For I will mask a spirit in thy form, 
Who will betray thy name to infamy, 
And doubly shall I triumph in thy loss : 
First by dishonoring thee, and then by turning 
False pleasure to true ignominy. [Exit. 


LIVIA. 
Here. 


JUSTINA (putting on her cloak). 

In this, as in a shroud of snow, may I 
Quench the consuming fire in which I burn, 
Wasting away! 


JUSTINA. 


Appeal to Heaven against thee ; so that Heaven 


SS aS ee rr 


‘ delusions, and the blot ay ty leo 
vies scatter thy de usions, and the Andeliwill a6 Laat Cabent 
pon my fame vanish in idle thought, 
LIVIA. 


Even as flame dies in the envious alr, 

And as the floweret wanes at morning frost, 

And thou shouldst never But, alas! to 
whom 

Do I still speak ? — Did not a man but now 


Stand here before me? No, I am alone ; 


When I once see them safe out of the house, 
I shall breathe freely. 


JUSTINA. 


So do I confide 
In thy just favor, Heaven } 


And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly ? ‘LYSANDER. 
Or can the heated mind engender shapes Let us go. 
From its own fear? Some terrible and strange JUSTINA. 


Thine is the cause, great God! turn, for my sake, 
And for thine own, mercifully to me! 


Peril is near. Lysander! father ! lord ! 
Livia! — [Enter Lysander and Livia. 


a A © Se 


— 


: 
7 ‘ 


- - pte: S: 4a ee ae 
im cs cage eee me HE, = — = 


= ee 


| PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA. 


|| him, except that he wrote a work, entitled 
i| ‘* Auroras de Diana,” 


a 


THE RIVULET. 


Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave 

The lovely vale that lies around thee ! 
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, 

When but a fount the morning found thee ? 


Born when the skies began to glow, 
Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters, 


IGNACIO DE LUZAN. 


Ienacto pe Luzan. was born at Saragossa, 


March 28, 1702. The death of his parents, 


him to be placed with a relative at Barcelona, 
where he remained until 1715. .His uncle, 
Don José Luzan, then took him to Genoa and 
Milan, and afterwards to Sicily, where he pur- ° 
sued his studies, and took his degree in 1727. 
His favorite occupations were literature and 
poetry. He made himself master of the Latin, 
Greek, Italian, French, and German. His 
uncle dying in 1729, he went to Naples, and 
Joined his brother, the Count de Luzan, who 
was governor of the castle of Sant Elmo. Four 
years afterwards, he was sent to Spain, to attend 
to his brother’s affairs. He went to Madrid, and,. 
in 1741, was elected into the Royal Spanish 
Academy. His learning, abilities, and agreea- 
ble manners gained him the appointment of 
Secretary of Legation at Paris, in 1747, and of 
Chargé d’A ffaires, the year following. In 1750, 
he returned to Madrid, and established himself 
there with his family. He continued to fill va- 
rious public offices of high importance until his 
death, which took place March 19, 1754. 
Luzan is more distinguished as a critic than 
as an original writer, his principal work being 
his “ Poética.”’ He enjoys the questionable glory 
of being the Corypheus of French taste in Spain. 


FROM THE ADDRESS TO LA ACADEMIA DE LAS 
NOBLES ARTES, 


VIRTUE. 


Irs ever-varying sway 
Inconstant Fate exerts o’er all. 
Born subject to successive fall 


718 SPANISH POETRY. 


Tuts poet lived in the first half of the seven- N I b Tear 
teenth century. Nothing further is known of ow on thy stream the noonbeams loo ? 


THIRD PERIOD.—FROM 1700 TO 1844, 


and the disturbed state of the country, caused | And treasured fondly s 


No blossom bowed its stalk to show 
Where stole thy still and scanty waters, 


Usurping, as thou downward driftest, 
Its crystal from the clearest brook, 
Its rushing current from the swiftest. 


Ah, what wild haste !—and all to be 
A river and expire in ocean ! 
Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee 
To that vast grave with quicker motion, 


Far better ’t were to linger still 

In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, 
And die in peace, an aged rill, 

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. 


Each earthly state! — Fleeting the ancient 
glor 


Of early Greece and Rome’s immortal name: 
Ruins whose grandeur yet survives in story, 
ull by long-recording 


Fame. 
Even at the touch of years that pass away, 
Cities and empires crumble to decay ! —~ 

Virtue sole remains, — 
Fair daughter of the Mighty, in whose mind 
Perfection of all goodness rests enshrined, — 


And, changeless still, her steadfastness main- 
tains. 


How vainly Chance 
With desperate wrath that peaceful reign 
would mar! 
So ’gainst the rock, ’midst raging ocean stance, 
In idle war the headlong waves advance ; 
While, as the unvarying star 
That to the trembling pilot points his course, 
Though Aquilo and Notus try their force, 
She guides our wandering bark to sheltering 
havens far, 


——« 


PAINTING. 


Lieut and mingling shade 
Being and birth on Painting first bestowed ; 
Beneath her hand the varying colors glowed, 
And fair design in long perspective showed, 
Touch alone could tell, : 
In the warm tablets’ flowing lines, inwrought 
With brightest hues, from living nature caught, 
How deeply treasured there deception’s spell. 
All that the eyes surveyed, 
All that imagination’s power could trace, 
Breathed’in the Pencil’s imitative grace : 
O’er the cold canvass form, and soul, and feeling 
That wondrous art infused, with power of life ; 


penn Bt RN a TN IANO SOS HOA ESS 


eee te nomen Mat pcsnene ti EAN ERAN ent Re as SEES 


LUZAN.—N. F. DE MORATIN.—C 


ADALSO. 719 


Portrayed each pulse, each passion’s might re- 
vealing, 
Sorrow and joy, love, hatred, fear, and strife. 
Though haply mute, the eternal doubt upsprung, 
Can such perfection be denied a tongue? 


—_—- 


NICOLAS FERNANDEZ DE MORATIN. 


Nicovas Fernanpez DE Moratin was born 
at Madrid, in 1737. He studied first at San 
Ildefonso, and afterwards at the Jesuits’ College 
in Calatayud. Thence he went to Valladolid 
to study the law, diversifying his pursuits by 
reading the Greek and Latin classics. He re- 
turned to San Ildefonso, where he married. 
He went afterwards to Madrid, where he soon 
became distinguished among the literary men 
of the time. He wrote for the theatre, which 
he endeavoured to reform. He received many 
literary honors, and enjoyed the friendship of 
the most eminent men in his own’and in foreign 
countries. His miscellaneous poems were first 
published in a periodical form, and entitled ‘ El 
Poeta.” He composed three tragedies, the best 
of which, ‘‘ La Hormesinda,” was first acted in 
1770. Shortly after this, he returned tempo- 
rarily to the law, without, however, renouncing 
his poetical pursuits. Having received an ap- 
pointment as substitute for Ayala in the chair of 
Poetry at Madrid, he retired from his profession. 
The rest of his life was spent in literature, and 


he died at Madrid, May 11, 1780. 


—<—< 


FROM AN ODE TO PEDRO ROMERO, THE BULL- 
FIGHTER. 


Aone the Plaza moved the gallant youth, 
With head erect, and manly pride ; 
Nor is there one from out the crowd, in sooth, 
Who may his boding fears and pity hide. 
Yet with smooth brow, and beauteous face, 
He scorns the danger that awaits him there: 
Scarce had the down begun to grace 
His lip, yet conscious courage bids him dare 
The fierce encounter, for he feels inspired, 
F’en as of old Pelides young was fired. 
Then onward doth he to the combat go, — 
With what a gait of lordliness, 
And manly grace and gentleness ! — 
And in the midst the Spanish athlete low 
Bends to the fair, — whose eyes all-joyous 
glow 
With hopes, — while cymbals loudly sound and 
trumpets blow. 


More valiant looked not Ason’s godlike son, 
When first in Colchian lands he stepped, 
And, breathing fury, tamed the beasts of Mars, — 
When from his covert close impetuous leaped 

The fierce and pain-bemaddened bull, 
Fed where the Jarama’s blue waters flow. 


| Thou, like a god, of valor full, 


Await’st the onset, —in that listed field, 
Thy ‘sole defence a simple shield, — 
Weak safeguard ’gainst so fierce a foe ! 
With left foot fixed in the ground, 
And breast exposed, thou proudly look’st 


around ! 
And in thy ample, sinewy right hand 
(Flung nobly back, — while smiles irradiant 
play 


Around thy lips) a flaming brand 
Is waved, — which Mars might covet in the 


battle-fray ! 


Save that the hearts of all are throbbing loud, 
Within each pale spectator’s breast, — 

Deep silence hovered o’er the astonished crowd ; 
And on each lady’s cheek had fear impressed 
A mark, —to make their lovers frown, 

And feel the pangs of jealousy : 
With breath suppressed and strained eye, 
The crowd in deep attention wait, 
To see their youthful champion’s fate. 
Called at the signal, forth the bull hath flown, 
Bellowing with fury, breathing fire, 
And mad with ire. 
’Midst lis career he sudden stops to look 
Upon the matadore’s wind-wafted cloak, — 
In shape as huge as the Phalarian brute: 

He snorts, recoils, —and eager to assail, 

He proudly shakes aloft his ample front, 

And scatters wide the sand, and points” his 

lengthened tail. 


ee 


JOSE DE CADALSO. 


Turs author was born at Cadiz, October 8, 
1741. His parents sent him to Paris very young, 
where he studied hterature and the sciences. 
Having travelled through France, England, 
Germany, Italy, and Portugal, he returned to 
Spain, took the military order of Santiago, and 
entered the service in 1762, joining the Span- 
ish forces then employed against Portugal. He 
greatly distinguished himself in the profession 
of arms, and rose to a high rank. But in the 
midst of his military occupations he found time 
for the cultivation of letters, and formed ac- 
quaintance with the principal literary men of 
his time, among whom his advicé and example 
exercised much influence. He died, February 
27, 1782; of a wound he received at the siege 
of Gibraltar. 

Cadalso wrote a tragedy after the French 
models, entitled “ Sancho Garcia”; his. lyrical 
poems were first published in 1773, under the 
title of “Los Ocios de mi Juventud.” He is 
chiefly known by his ‘Cartas Marruecas,’’ or 
Moorish Letters, written im the character‘of a 
Moor travelling in Spain, on the model of the 
«Lettres Persanes,” and by “ Los Eruditos a la 
Violeta,” a satirical work, in which he ridicules 
the pretensions of literary charlatans. 


" 
ne une 


UIP LILLE TT 


E 
| 


\ 


ANACREONTIC, 


Wuo, crowned with ivy 
And vine leaves, descends 
From yonder green mountain, 
And hitherward wends, — 


A flask in his hand, 

And a smile in his eye, 
Surrounded by shepherds 

And nymphs, who, with joy, 


To the sound of their cymbals 
His high deeds record, 
Applauding and singing 
The gifts of their lord ? 


: "T is certainly Bacchus, 
The monarch of vines: — 
O, no, ’t is the poet 
Who fancied these lines! 


IMITATION OF GONGORA. 


Tuat much a widowed wife will moan, 

When her old husband ’s dead and gone, 
I may conceive it: 

But that she won’t be brisk and gay, 

A If another offer the next day, 

. Hn Ht I won't believe it. 


That Chloris will repeat to me, 
“Of all men, I adore but thee,” 
; I may conceive it: 
i But that she has not often sent 
oe To fifty more the compliment, 
fa | I won't believe it. 


That Celia will accept the choice 
Elected by her parents’ voice, 
I may conceive it: 
But that, as soon as all is over, 
She won’t elect a younger lover, 
I won’t believe it. 


That, when she sees her marriage gown, 
Inez will modestly look down, 

I may conceive it: 
But that she does not, from that hour, 
Resolve to amplify her power, 

I won’t believe it. 


That a kind husband to his wife 
Permits each pleasure of this life, 

I may conceive it: 
But that the man so blind should be 
As not to see what all else see, 

I won’t believe it. 


That in a mirror young coquettes 
‘Should study all their traps and nets, 
I may conceive it: 
But that the mirror, above all, 
Should be the object principal, 
I won't believe it. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


ue - fi 


encountered violent tempests, he died of an 
acute pulmonary complaint, in the small port 


of Vega, November 27, 1811. 


GASPAR MELCHIOR DE JOVELLANOS. 


Turis distinguished Spaniard was born at Gi- 
jon, in Asturia, January 5, 1744, He studied 
at Oviedo, Alcala de Henares, and Avila. He 
rose rapidly in the profession of the law, and 
became a member of various learned societies. 
He occupied himself with poetry, and wrote a 
play, entitled, « El Delinquente Honrado,’’ the 
tragedy of ‘Pelayo,’ a translation of the first 
book of Milton’s “ Paradise Lost,’’ and various 
poems, which he entitled, “« Ocios Juveniles.” 
He enjoyed the friendship of the most distin- 
guished among his contemporaries. But his 
prosperity was suddenly interrupted by the 
downfall of his friend, the Count de Cabarrus, 
in whose disgrace he was involved. Being 
banished from the court, he retired to his native 
place, where he lived from 1790 to 1797, wholly 
occupied with literature, and with projects of 
practical utility. At the end of this period, he 
was nominated Ambassador to Russia, and soon 
after was called to Madrid, and appointed Min- 
ister of Grace and Justice. He did not long 
remain in the ministry. The intrigues of the 
favorite, Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, drove 
him, in 1798, again to Gijon. In 1801, he was. 


arrested and sent to a Carthusian monastery in 
the island of Majorca; thence, in 1802, transfer- 
red to the castle of Belver, where he endured 
a close imprisonment for seven years. The 
change of public affairs in 1808 led to his liber- 
ation. Joseph Bonaparte offered him a place 
in his cabinet, but Jovellanos refused it, and 
embracing the cause of the insurgents, became 
a member of the Central Junta, which had 
the direction of the patriotic forces in defence 
of the throne and of independence. The junta | 
was dissolved in 1810, in the island of Leon, 
and Jovellanos embarked at Cadiz for Asturia. 
But he was driven by a storm to Muros de Noya, 
in Galicia, where he was detained more than a 
year, Asturia being then occupied by the French. 
He finally reached Gijon in 1811, and was re- 
ceived with acclamations by the inhabitants. 
But the enemy again invaded Asturia, and he 
was forced to make his escape by sea. Having 


—_—_— 


TO THE SUN. 


GREAT parent of the universe! 
Bright ruler of the lucid day ! 
Thou glorious Sun! whose influence 
The endless swarms of life obey, 
Drinking existence from UY Vaya 
Thou, who from forth the opening womb 
Of the fair dawning crystalline 
Com’st radiant to thine eastern shrine, 
Pouring thy golden floods in light 
O’er humblest veil and proudest height ; 


JOVELLANOS.—YRIARTE.—IGLESIAS. 


Whilst thy resplendent car reveals 
Its rolling adamantine wheels, 
That speed sublime, nor leave a trace, 
Through all the airy realms of space: 
Welcome thy reign ! 
Thy morning beams 
And crown of rays, 
Whose glory never more decays ; 
While every gladdening bosom feels the gleams 
Of joy and peace again ! — 
Dark-shading Night, 
Parent of treasons, perfidies, and guile, 
Flies from thy sight, 
And far in deep abysses hides the while ; 
And lazy Sleep, 
Her shadows, lying phantasms, and alarms, 
A hateful train, 
Melt into air; and in their place the charms 
Of lucid light and joy gay vigil keep; 
And peace and pleasure visit us again. 


a 


TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 


Tomas DE YRIARTE was a native of the island 
of Teneriffe, where he was born September is, 
1750. He studied first at Orotava, and after- 
wards at Madrid. He wrote much for the 
stage, furnishing both original plays and trans- 
lations from the French. He held various pub- 
lic employments, and wrote constantly for the 
public; but he owes his literary fame chiefly to 
a poem, entitled, “¢ Musica,”’ which he published 
in 1780, and the “ Fabulas Literarias,”’ which 
appeared in 1782. In 1786, he fell under the 
censures of the Inquisition, on a charge of in- 
culcating infidel principles, and was obliged to 
perform a secret penance to obtain absolution. 
His laborious and sedentary habits aggravated 
the gout with which he was afflicted, and he 
died September 17, 1791. 


es 


FROM THE FABULAS LITERARIAS. 


THE ASS AND THE FLUTE. 


You must know that this ditty, 
This little romance, 

Be it dull, be it witty, 
Arose from mere chance. 


Near a certain inclosure, 
Not far from my manse, 

An ass, with composure, 
Was passing by. chance. 


As he went along prying, 
With sober advance, 

A shepherd’s flute lying, 
He found there by chance. 


Our amateur started 
And eyed it askance, 
Drew nearer, and snorted 
Upon it by chance. 
91 


The breath of the brute, Sir, 
Drew music for once ; 

It entered the flute, Sir, 
And blew it by chance. 


« Ah!’’ cried he, in wonder, 
«¢ How comes this to pass? 
Who will now dare to slander 

The skill of an ass? ”’ 


And asses in plenty 
I see at a glance, 

Who, one time in twenty, 
Succeed by mere chance. 


— 


THE BEAR AND THE MONKEY. 


A BEAR, with whom a Piedmontese 
Joined company to earn their bread, 

Essayed on half his legs to please 
The public, where his master led. 


With looks that boldly claimed applause, 

He asked the ape, “Sir, what think you? 2 
The ape was skilled in dancing-laws, 

And answered, ‘It will never do.” 


“© You judge the matter wrong, my friend,” 
Bruin rejoined; ‘* you are not civil! 

Were these legs given for you to mend 
The ease and grace with which they swivel ? a 


It chanced a pig was standing by: 

“© Bravo! astonishing! encore!” 
Exclaimed the critic of the sty ; 

“Such dancing we shall see no more!’ 


Poor Bruin, when he heard the sentence, 
Began an inward calculation ; 

Then, with a face that spoke repentance, 
Expressed aloud his meditation : — 


“© When the sly monkey called me dunce, 
I entertained some slight misgiving ; 

But, Pig, thy praise has proved at once 
That dancing will not earn my living.” 


Let every candidate for fame 
Rely upon this wholesome rule :— 
Your work is bad, if wise men blame; 
But worse, if lauded by a fool. 


——¢— 


JOSE IGLESIAS DE LA CASA. 


Jos& IeiEstas was born at Salamanca, in 
1753. He studied in the University of that 
city. He devoted himself particularly to the 
ancient Spanish poets, and to humorous and 
satirical composition. He became a priest in 
the neighbourhood of Salamanca, and discharg- 
ed the duties of his office with great fidelity. 
Having thus consecrated himself to the church, 
he abandoned the light and humorous style of 
his early writings, and wrote in a more serious 


vein. He died August 26, 1791. 
3t 


SONG, 


AvEx!s calls me cruel ; 
The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 
He says, are not more cold: 


When even the very blossoms 
Around the fountain’s brim, 

And forest walks, can witness 
The love I bear to him. « 


I would that I could utter 
My feelings without shame ; 
And tell him how I love him, 
Nor wrong my virgin fame. 


Alas! to seize the moment 
When heart inclines to heart, 

And press a suit with passion, 
Is not a woman’s part. 


If man comes not to gather 
The roses where they stand, 

They fade among their foliage ; 
They cannot seek his hand. 


see ee 


JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES. 


THs writer was born at Ribera, in the bish- 
opric of Badajoz, March 11,1754. He studied 
at Madrid, Segovia, and Salamanca. At the 
last named city, he had the good fortune to gain 
the friendship of Cadalso, who directed his 
studies, and formed his taste to such an extent, 
that it was said, “ Melendez is Cadalso’s best 
work.’ In 1781, he went to Madrid, where 
he became acquainted with Jovellanos, who had 
already formed a very favorable Opinion of his 
talents Jovellanos took him into his house, in- 
troduced him to his friends, and did all that the 
most generous fiiendship could suggest, to pro- 
mote his success. In 1784, he wrote the pas- 
toral comedy, entitled, “‘ Las Bodas de Camacho 
el Rico,” and in 1785, published his “ Poesias 
Liricas,” which were received with extraordi- 
nary applause, and established his reputation as 
a poet. In 1789, he received an appointment 
in Saragossa, and in 1791, was transferred to 
Valladolid. In 1797, he was called to Madrid, 
where his friend and protector, Jovellanos, was 
at the height of his power; but in the next year 
he shared in the fall of his illustrious friend, 
and was banished to Medina del Campo, and in 
1800, to Zamora. Having passed through a 
series of vicissitudes, caused by the political and 
military occurrences of the times, he returned 
to Madrid, after the capitulation of Baylen, in 
1808. With the final overthrow of the intru- 
sive government of the French, under which he 
had accepted office, he left Spain, and passed 
the remainder of his life in France. He died 


at Montpellier, May 24, 1817. 


SPANISH POETRY. 


a a 


eee 


SACRED ODE. 


Lorp! in whose sight a thousand years but 


seem 
A fleeting moment, — O Eternal Being! 
Turn towards me thy clemency, 
Lest like a shadow vain my brief existence flee ! 


Thou who dost swell with thine ineffable 
Spirit the world, —O Being Infinite ! 
Regard me graciously, 
Since than an atom more invisible am I! 


Thou in whose mighty, all-protecting hand 
The firmament of heaven abides, — O Power! 
Since of my soul thou know’st 
The fallen and abject state, unveil the virtuous 
boast ! 


Thou who dost feed the world’s immensity, 
O Fount of Life, still inexhaustible ! 
Hear my despised breath, 
Since before thee my life will seem but wretch- 
ed death ! 


Thou who dost see within thy boundless mind 
Whatever was or will be! — knowledge 
vast ! — 
Thy light I now implore, 
That I in error’s shades may wander lost no 
more ! 


Thou, who upon the sacred throne of heaven 
In glorious light dost sit, Immutable ! 
For thine eternal rest, 
Exchange, my Lord, the thoughts of this unsta- 
ble breast ! 


Thou, whose right hand, if from the abyss 
withdrawn, 
Doth cause the stars to fall, — Omnipotent! 
Since I am nothing, take 
Sweet mercy upon me, for thy dear Jesus’ sake ! 


Thou, by whose hand the sparrow is sustained, 
Father of all, God of the universe! 
Thy gifts with gracious speed 

Scatter upon my head, since I am poor indeed ! 


Being Eternal, Infinite! Soul! Life! 
Father all-knowing ! wise, omniscient Power! 
From thine exalted throne, 
Since I thy creature am, look down upon thine 
own ! 


NOON. 


Tue Sun, ’midst shining glory now concealed 
Upon heaven’s highest seat, 

Darts straightway down upon the parched field 
His fierce and burning heat; 


And on revolving Noonday calls, that he 
His flushed and glowing face 

May show the world, and, rising from the sea, 
Aurora’s reign displace. 


The wandering Wind now rests his weary wings, 
And hushed in silence broods ; 

And all the vocal choir of songsters sings 
Among the whispering woods. 


And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe 
His own dear shepherd-maid, 

The herdboy leads along his flock of sheep 
To the sequestered shade ; 


Where shepherd youths and maids in secret 
bowers 
In song and feast unite, 
In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours 
Of their siesta light. 


The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well, 
Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs, 

Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel, 
Now yields him to repose. 


All, all is calm and silent. O, how sweet, 
On this enamelled ground, 

At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat 
To cast your eyes around ! 


The busy bee, that round your listening ear 
Murmurs with drowsy hum; 

The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near, 
Moaning their mates’ sad doom. 


And ever in the distance her sweet song 
Murmurs Jorn Philomel ; 

While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong 
Her love and music well. 


And ’midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet, 
In whose bright, limpid stream 

The blue sky and the world of boughs are met, 
Mirrored in one bright gleam. 


And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves 
The slumbering winds scarce blow ; 
Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous 
waves, 
Follow their motion slow. 


These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat, 
Bright with a thousand flowers ; 

These interwoven forests, where the heat 
Is tempered in their bowers! 


The dark, umbrageous wood, the dense array 
Of trunks, through which there peers 
Perchance the town; which, in 
day, 
Like crystal bright appears! 


These cooling grottoes! —O retirement blest ! 
Within thy calm abode, 

My mind alone can from her troubles rest 
With solitude and God. 


Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love, 
And all I now admire ; 

And from the winter of my soul dost move 
The deep enthusiast fire. 


MELENDEZ VALDES. 


the glow of 


723 


O bounteous Nature, ’t is thy healing womb 
Alone can peace procure } 

Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come, 
From storms of life secure ! 


TO DON GASPAR MELCHIOR JOVELLANOS. ° 


FOR THE EASTER HOLIDAYS. 


A rruce now, dear Jové, to care for a season : 
Come, — Easter is nigh, — to the Jute let us 
sing, 
Whilst the March wind pines sadly, gay strains 
such as Teos 
Heard warbled ’midst grapes to her bard’s 
Attic string. 
Or, beside the mild fire, bid with exquisite con- 
verse 
The fugitive hours pass in brilliant relief: 
They go, — but from night’s shady keeping re- 
turn not; 
Why, then, by lost dreams should we make 
them more brief? 


As to gold the white down on the summer peach 
changes, 
So the bloom that my cheek early fe 
is fled, 
And the years that have passed, bringing wis- 
dom but slowly, 
With thousand gray ringlets have mantled my 
head. | 
I have seen the vale smile beneath April’s sweet 
blossoms, 
Beneath burning June have 
cay, 
And the pomp and profusion of viny October 
Before dull December waste coldly away. 


athered 


I seen them de- 


Yes! the days and winged months escape from 
us like shadows, 


And years follow months, as the sea-billows 


pass : 
Mind it not, — we ’ve a charm against Time’s 
revolutions, 
In the bright golden liquor that laughs in the 
glass. 


Pour it out; crowned with myrtle and rose, we 
will frighten 
Chagrin far away with our long, merry shout, 
And in pledges quaffed off to wit, wine, and dear 
woman, 


Disregard the rude elements warring without. 


For what are they to us, if our bosoms beat 
lightly, 
And beauty and song set our 
free, 
Whilst the bliss which a 
for a sceptre, 
Love, the holy enchantress, consigns me in 
thee? 


prisoned souls 


king would exchange 


I remember, one eve, when the sun, half in 


shadow, 
Sank slow to his own western island afar, 


————$_$___—— 


724 


Whilst the peasants and peasant-girls danced 
near my trellis, 


And I in the porch touched my festal guitar; 


How I sang the rich treasure which Heaven, in 
its bounty, 
Had lent, to console me in pleasure and pain, 
And in prayers for thy welfare implored all its 
angels, — 
Thy welfare, so dear to our own native Spain; 
Smit with passionate thirst, in my right band 
the beaker 
I filled till the bright bubbles danced o’er the 
top, 
And to thee and to thine, in a frenzy of feeling, 
Drained it manfully off to the last purple drop ; 


And whilst maiden and youth stood in loud ad- 
miration 
Applauding the feat, how I filled it again, 
And with yet deeper rapture a second time 
emptied 
Its bowl of the glory that brightened my brain; 
Singing still, singing still, in my zeal for thy 
glory, 
As now to my lute in its ardent excess, 
Thy virtues, thy fame in the land’s future story, 
And the bliss, more than all, that in thee we 
possess ! 


—_¢—__ 


LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN. 


Leanpro FEernanpez Moratin, the son of 
the poet Nicolas, was born at Madrid, March 
10,1760. His father destined him to a life of 
business, and was not a little surprised to find, 
that, at the age of eighteen, he ventured to com- 
pete for the Royal Academy’s poetical prize, by 
offering, in 1779, a heroic ballad on the tak- 
ing of Granada. The next year his father 
died, and, in order to support his mother, he 
continued to work several years at the trade of 
|| Jeweller, in which he had been brought up. 
|| He did not, however, renounce his literary oc- 
cupations. In 1782, he again offered a poem to 
the Royal Academy ; but it was not until 1786 
that he was able to find a position suitable, to 
his taste and talents. In that year, the Count 
de Cabarrus, being sent to Paris on important 
business, appointed Moratin his secretary, by 
the advice of Jovellanos. There he became ac- 
quainted with Goldoni, who contributed to the 
formation of his taste in comedy. Returning 
to Spain, he received from the government an 
ecclesiastical benefice, and was ordained in 
1789. His situation was greatly improved, soon 
after, by a promotion to a much more valuable 
benefice in Montoro, which enabled him to 
follow his literary occupations uninterruptedly. 
Having obtained leave to travel, he visited 
France, England, Flanders, Germany, Switzer. 
land, and Italy, and then fixed his residence at 
Bologna, where he remained until 1796, when 


SPANISH POETRY. 


he returned to Spain. In 1808, he withdrew 
from Madrid, but returning with the French, 
was appointed librarian in 1811. Again, when || 
the French evacuated Madrid in 1812, he was || 
forced to leave the capital, and was, for a time, 
reduced to a state of the most lamentable desti- 
tution; but at length, his property, which had 
been sequestrated, was restored to him. In 1817, 
he went to France, and remained in Paris until 
1820, and thence returned to Barcelona, where, 
in 1821, he published an edition of his father’s 
writings. Once more he took up his residence 
in Paris, where he died June 21, 1828, at the 
age of sixty-eight. 


_—_—— 


FROM EL VIEJO Y LA NINA. 


DON ROQUE, 
Tis, Munoz, is our Opportunity. 


MUNOZ, 
Go to! go to! 
- DON ROQUE. 
But look ye, now, Munoz, — 
This is our Opportunity ; while I 
Keep watch to see if any one approach, 
Do thou go hide, as we have settled it. 
Bestir! Why, how now, man? How slow thou 
art ! 


MUNOZ. 
I am not very lively, it is true. 


DON ROQUE. 
Come, come, — despatch ! On this side 
can enter. 
[He walks to the canopy. Munoz remains still, 


you 


MUNOZ. 
Sooth to say, an excellent contrivance ! 


DON ROQUE. 
How now? 
MUNOZ. 

Go to! —I say, ’t is uséless all. 
What, think you, shall we do by hiding here ? 
‘Tis labor lost, —in vain, —if I have eyes, 
I hope, — nay, take for granted, — that to-day 
They go, —and we remain. What then? Why, 

that | 
Trouble and jealousies will never cease. 


DON ROQUE, 
And, prithee, wherefore ? 


MUNOZ. 
Canst thou not divine ? 
Because dull, frozen age and May-tide youth 
Can never meet in dalliance. If she live 
In constant fear, — to solitude condemned, — 
Each day to play the nurse, and mend your 
hose, — 
To see this face and form, for aye, — to hear 
The endless growling of your phthisicky 
cough, — 
To warm o’ winter nights your woollen wrap- 
pers, — 
To cook your herbs, prepare rank ointments, and 


a NA EE OETA SS i att net atta DI ORE I ANT SSE RIT DPR 
Ter SPE PET Te are ekerices 


b SFieMORATEND | 725 | 


Your powders, plasters, cataplasms ;—- how shall 
Her delicate hands take pleasure in such work ¢ 
Tis mingling oil and vinegar ! Go to! 
Believe me, master, though she smile, her face 
Portrays her heart’s dissemblance. 


DON ROQUE. 
Thou mistak’st, — 
Prate is thy pleasure. 
pose ! 


Come, now, to our pur- 


MUNOZ. 

I will not crouch me like a spaniel hound ; 
And thou art sore beset with gins and traps. 
Look to hear tender whisperings at each step ; 
Your movements will be watched by prying 

eyes, 
And juggling hands will dexterously convey 
The billet-doux, for assignations sweet, 
When they may carry on their vile intrigues. 


DON ROQUE, 
Ay, now, in part I take thy meaning, Munoz, — 
Her inclination hankers for such fare ! 


MUNOZ. 

No, no,—- you understand not, — *tis not so: 

Her age — her age is that wherein lies hid 

The mystery. Men and women— more or 
less — 

Have minds o’ th’ selfsame metal, mould, and 
form. 

Doth not the infant love to sport and laugh, 

And tie a kettle to a puppy’s tail ? 

Doth not the dimpled girl her kerchief don 

(Mocking her elder) mantilla-wise, — then speed 

To mass and noontide visits, where are bandied 

Smooth gossip-words of sugared compliment? 

But when at budding womanhood arrived, 

She casts aside all childish games, nor thinks 

Of aught save some gay paranymph, — who, 
caught 

In Love’s stout meshes, flutters round the door, 

And fondly beckons her away from home ; 

The whilst, her lady mother fain would cage 

The foolish bird within its narrow cell ! 

And then the grandam idly wastes her breath 

In venting saws ‘bout maiden modesty 

And strict decorum, — from some musty vol- 
ume: 

But the clipped wings will quickly sprout 
again ; 

And whilst the doting father thinks his child 

A paragon of worth and bashfulness, 

Her thoughts are hovering round the precious 
form 

OF her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego ; — 

And he, all proof ’gainst dews and nightly blasts, 

In breathless expectation waits to see 

His panting Rosa at the postern-door 5 

While she sighs forth, “* My gentle cavalier!” 

And then they straightway fall to kissing hands, 

And antic gestures, — such as lovers use, — 

Expressive of their wish quickly to tie 

The Gordian knot of marriage ; pretty creatures! 

But why not earlier to have thought of this, — 

When he, the innocent youth, was wont to play 


RPT ARs PO a ae 


poo 2 tne Bt hate Ue sata UDOI te Eco AAS ADE Fae RN I 


At coscogilla ; and the prattling girl, | 

Amid her nursery companions, toiled 

In sempstress labors for her wooden dolls ¢ | 

Ah! wherefore, did I ask? Because, forsooth, | 

Their ways are changed with their increasing 

ears ! 

For when for gallantry the time be come, 

And when the stagnant blood begins to boil 

Within the veins, my Master, —then the lads 

Cast longing looks on damosels ; —- for nature 

Defies restraint, —and kin-birds flock together. 

And think not, Master, Chance disposes thus; | 

Or were it so, then Chance directs us all, | 

Whene’er we have attained the important age. 

[— thy Munoz — am a living instance ! 

Was [ not once a lively, laughing boy? 

And, in my stripling age, did I not love 

The pastimes suited to those madcap days? 

O, would to Heaven those times were present 
still ! 

But wherefore fret myself with hopes so vain? 

The silly thought doth find no shelter here, — 

That any beauty, with dark, roguish eyes, 

With sparkling blood, and rising warmth of 
youth, 

Would e’er affect this wrinkled face of mine : 

The very thought doth smack of foolishness ! 

And though the truth may be a bitter pill, 

Yet, Senor Don Roque de Urrutia, 

It is most fitting that we know ourselves. 


DON ROQUE. 
Peace, peace, good Munoz, for the love of 
Heaven! 
No more of this, — for every word 
Is a sharp dagger to my heart. 


MUNOZ. 
"T is meet 
That I explain myself in phrases such 
As my poor wit can furnish. 


—— 


FROM THE EPISTLE TO LASO. 


Sweer peace of mind, that only mortal joy, 
Can ne’er be found, until ambitious rage 
Is quelled, and vicious bonds are boldly severed. 
Nor hope the charm to find in poverty, 
Which squalid fevers, and despair, and crime 
Accompany, — nor is it gained by all 
The wealth which royal coffers can bestow. 
The unenlightened vulgar and the vain 
To Fortune’s luring idol homage bring ; 
But prudent moderation is alone 
The virtue of the wise. O, blest is he 
Who in the golden mean, from both extremes 
Removed, enjoys that calm so little known ! 
He envies not his neighbour’s happiness ; 
He neither fears the proud man’s anger, nor 
His favor courts ; truth falling from his tongue, 
He Vice abhors, —and though earth’s sceptre 
she 
Should grasp, 
before her, 
Free, innocent, retired, and happy lives, 


Of none the master, and of none the slave. 
31* 


and servile slaves should bow 


i 4 


O thou, fair wandering Arlas’ humble shore, 
So rich in Ceres’ gifts, her fruits and vines! 
Thou verdant plain, that giv’st a pasture to 
The wandering flock! thou lofty-towering hill! 
Thou forest dark and cool !—ah! when shall I, 
A blest inhabitant, be here possessed 
Of one small, rural, and convenient spot, 

A temple sacred to the Muses and 

To friendship, — grateful unto Heaven and 
man, — 

And see my fleeting years rol] gently by 

In a delicious peace? A frugal board ; 

A lovely garden rich in fruits and flowers, 

Which [ myself shall till; melodious streams 

From summits gliding downward to the vale, 

And forming there a smooth, transparent lake 

For Venus’ swans; a hidden grotto, decked 

With moss and laurel ; tuneful birds, that flit 

Around as free as I; the gentle sound 

Of humming bees around the honeycomb; 

And light winds breathing odoriferous balm: 

This is sufficient for my heart, —and when 

At length the silence of the eternal night 

In gloom envelopes me, I shall repose 

A happy shade, if but some tender tears 

Should sweetly bathe my sepulchre. 


—_¢—. 


JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA Y 
SUPERVIELA. 


Juan Bautista pe ARRIAZA was born vat 


h Madrid, in 1770. He acquired the rudiments 


of education in the Seminary of Nobles there, 
and studied the sciences in the military school 
at Segovia. Having completed his studies, he 
entered the service of the royal navy. He 
continued in this career until 1798, when a se- 
vere disease of the eyes compelled him to retire. 
He had already published some of his poems, 
which showed to the world his uncommon 
talents. He now entered upon diplomacy, and 
was appointed Secretary of Legation in London, 
where he finished, in 1802, his descriptive and 
moral poem, “ Emilia,” which was published 
the following year at Madrid. In 1805, he 
went to Paris, and on his return, two years after- 
ward, to Spain, took part in the political move- 
ments of the following years, and maintained 
the cause of the king and of absolutism, both 
against Joseph Bonaparte and the French fac- 
tion, and against the constitutional party of 1812. 
At the Restoration, his services were rewarded 
by the king with several high appointments. in 
the court. Thenceforward, he gave much of 
his time to poetry. The best edition of his 
lyrical poems was’ published at Madrid, in 1829, 
and reprinted at Paris, in 1834. His works are 
distinguished for clearness, harmony, and ele- 
gance of'style. He has shown great fertility of 
invention, and richness of genius. Maury says, 


| **Since Lope de Vega, Arriaza is the only one 1 


| of our poets who seems to think in verse.” 


y 


SPANISH POETRY. 
A a a ane arc 


THE VAIN RESOLUTION. 


In fair Elfrida’s chains I once was bound; 
She proudly with my faithful homage bore, 
Then scorned my vows:— but time has closed 
the wound, 


And now, O Love, I swear to love no more! 


Love, in these latter days is lost in art, 
And with the frost of falsehood it is hoar ; 
It has no charms to fascinate the heart, 
Its better reign is done: —I’ll love no more! 


“Say,” asked the little god, “what fears af. 
fright thee ? 
All thy fair fortunes I will soon restore ; 
The Graces, three in one, shall now delight 
thee,”? — 
No matter, Love, I wish to love no more! 


Delina then he set before my eyes, — 
One like the fair ideals known of yore; 

A star she seemed, just fallen from the skies : — 
But still I swore that I would love no more ! 


At her fair side the rose would lose its smile, 
And pale would burn the beacon on the shore ; 

Full many a heart her charms may well beguile, 
But never mine : — for I will love no more ! 


She walks, — and, springing up to kiss her feet, 
The flowerets seem to me from earth to soar ; 

She sings, with voice most musically sweet; — 
Still, still I swear that I will love no more ! 


Many the lovers who their homage bring; 

Her conquests I would surely not deplore, — 
Nay, her fair praises I would gladly sing: 

I give my verse, — but I will love no more! 


‘Join her gay train,’ the blind boy softly cried, 
‘“* Nor weakly fear her beauty to adore ; 

If in its light thy heart is truly tried, 
Thou canst renew thy vow to love no more.” 


Strange as it seems, I heeded not the wile 
By which I had been led away before, 

Nor even marked Love’s bright malicious smile, 
As, once again, I swore to love no more ! 


In my lost heart there rises every hour 
A purer flame than that which burned of yore: 
Delina, thou hast taught me all Love’s power! 
To see thee is to love thee evermore ! 


ee, 


FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA. 


Tuis distinguished man was born at Granada, 
March 10,1789. He studied at the University, 
and afterwards became Professor in the College 
of San Miguel. When Spain was invaded in 
1808, he enlisted under the standard of the na- 
tional party, which he encouraged and supported 


Se ee 


po ent Pinel re anlar oc 


: hens Si ae in a aS wa tl LE OS 


De 


_——— a ee a mri phaicremEsis? SLAR Te 


MARTINE 


are 


TVS NN RIV AS. 


teins 


by his patriotic writings. He was obliged to 
take refuge in Cadiz from the victorious arms 
of the Franch. He was intrusted with various 
diplomatic negotiations, and, among the rest, was 
sent to London, where he published bis poem 
of “Zaragoza.” On his return to Cadiz, in 
1812, he composed his tragedy of “ La Viuda 
de Padilla,” which was represented in the 
midst of the siege of that city, so that the spec- 
tators, on their way to the theatre, were exposed 
to danger from the bursting of the bombs which 
were continually thrown into the city by the 
French. In 1814, he was appointed a member, 
from Granada, of the cortes convoked at Ma- 
drid. At the Restoration, he was sent to Africa, 
and imprisoned in consequence of the zeal with 
which he had supported the constitutional par- 
ty. The revolution of 1820 restored him to 
liberty, and he was a member of the extraordi- 
nary cortes of 1820 and 1821, in which he 
distinguished himself by his eloquence and his 
moderation. In 1822, he became, against his 
will, a member of the cabinet ; but was driven 
from office by the crisis of the 7th of July, and 
came near losing his life. The Restoration of 
1823 again drove him into banishment. After 
travelling through Holland, Switzerland, and 
Italy, he fixed his residence in Paris, where 
he remained, devoted to poetry and letters, and 
occupied with the publication of his “* Obras Lit- 
erarias,” until 1831, when, by the king’s permis- 
sion, he returned to his country, and lived in 
Malaga. Here he collected and revised his 
“‘ Poesias Liricas,” which were printed in 1833, 
at Madrid. Since then, he has written a vari- 
ety of historical, lyrical, and dramatic works. 
His poetical style is marked by ease, pictu- 
resqueness, and harmony. 


THE ALHAMBRA. 


Come to my bidding, gentle damsels fair, 
That haunt the banks of Douro and Genil ! 
Come, crowned with roses in your fragrant 
hair, 
More fresh and pure than April balms distil ! 


With long, dark locks adown your shoulders 
straying 5 


Uncinctured robes, the bosom bare displaying, 
Let songs of love escort me to the bower. 


With love resounds the murmur of the stream ; 

With love the nightingale awakes the grove ; 

O’er wood and mountain love inspires the 
theme, 


love. 


pride, 
Three centuries of ruin sleep profound, 
Fram marble walls, with gold diversified, 
The sullen echoes murmur love around. 


With eyes of fire, and lips of honeyed power ;, 


And Earth and Heaven repeat the strain of 


Even there, where, ’midst the Alcazar’s Moorish 


Where are its glories now?—the pomps, the 
charms, 
The triumph, the emprise of proud display, 
The song, the dance, the feast, the deeds of arms, 
The gardens, baths, and fountains, — where 
are they? 


Round jasper columns thorns and ivy creep; 
Where roses blossomed, brambles now o’er- 
spread : 
The mournful ruins bid the spirit weep ; 
The broken fragments stay the passing tread. 


Ye nymphs of Douro! to my words give heed ; 
Behold how transient pride and glory prove ; 
Then, while the headlong moments urge their 
speed, 
Taste happiness, and try the joys of love. 


—_4@—=> 


ANGEL DE SAAVEDRA, DUQUE DE 
RIVAS. 


Tu1s nobleman, who unites the qualities of 
the soldier, patriot, and statesman to the genius 
of the poet and painter, was born at Cordova, 
March 1,1791. He studied in the Seminary of 
Nobles at Madrid, and in 1807 entered the royal 
guards. He fought in the battles of Rio Seco, 
Tudela, Uclés, Ciudad Real, Talavera, and 
Ocana. Inthe last he received eleven severe 
wounds, and was borne from the field by a 
soldier of cavalry. He was made prisoner at 
Malaga by General Sebastiani, but succeeded 
in escaping to Gibraltar, and afterwards to Ca- 
diz. He was present during the whole siege of 
Cadiz, dnd took part in the batthe of Chiclana. 
In 1820, he supported the constitutional party 
with great zeal, and about this time published 
two volumes of ‘ Poestas.” He also repre- 
sented Cérdova in the cortes, and when that 
body was dissolved by the French in 1823, he 
went to London, where he occupied himself 
with literary labors. His love of painting at- 
tracted him to Italy. He reached Leghorn in 
July, 1825, but, not being allowed to remain 
there, crossed over to Malta, where he was 
received, both by the English and the natives, 
with great distinction. While here, he studied 
painting and literature, and finished his epic 
noem of “Florinda.” He remained in Malta 
until 1830. Not being permitted by the gov- 
ernment of Charles the Tenth to reside in Paris, 
he opened a school of drawing in Orléans ; but 
after the July revolution, be lived in Paris, with 
his wife and children. In 1832, he finished a 
work, entitled“ El Moro Expésito,” written in 
the romantic, as distinguished from the classical 
style, to which he had adhered in his former 
productions. In 1834, he was restored to his 
country, and having succeeded to the dukedom 
of Rivas, by the death of his elder brother, took 
rank among the chief grandees of Spain. Since 
then, he has written several dramatic pieces. 


: se : 


9} 


727 1 


| 


SPANISH POETRY. 


Mi EE MA Mca ke... 
ODE TO THE LIGHTHOUSE AT MALTA. How many now may gaze on this seashore, 
_ Alas! like me, as exiles doomed to roam! 
Some who, perchance, would greet a wife once 
more, 
Or children’s home! 


Tue world in dreary darkness sleeps profound ; 
The storm-clouds hurry on, by hoarse winds 
driven; 
And night’s dull shades and spectral mists con- 
found 


Earth, sea, and heaven! 


Wanderers, by poverty or despots driven 
To seek a refuge, as I do, afar, 
Here find, at last, the sign of welcome given, — 


King of surrounding Chaos! thy dim form A hospitable star ! 


Rises with fiery crown upon thy brow, 
To seatter light and peace amid the starm, 


And still, to guide the bark, it calmly shines, — 
And life bestow. 


The bark that from my native land oft bears 
Tidings of bitter griefs, and mournful lines 
Written with tears. 


In vain the sea with thundering waves may 
peal 
And burst beneath thy feet in giant sport, 
Till the white foam in snowy clouds conceal 
The sheltering port: 


When first thy vision flashed upon my eyes, 
And all its dazzling glory I beheld, 
O, how my heart, long used to miseries, 


With rapture swelled! 
Thy flaming tongue proclaims, ‘ Behold the 


shore! ”’ 


Inhospitable Latium’s shores were lost, 
And voiceless hails the weary pilot back, 


And, as amid the threatening waves we 


Whose watchful eyes, like worshippers, explore steered, 
Thy shining track. When near to dangerous shoals, by tempests 
tossed, 


Now silent night a gorgeous mantle Wears, — 
By sportive winds the clouds are scattered 
far, 
And, lo! with starry train the moon appears 
In circling car : 


Thy light appeared. 


No saints the fickle mariners then praised, 
But vows and prayers forgot they with the 
night, 
While from the silent gloom the cry was raised, 
* Malta in sight!” 


While the pale mist, that thy tall brow enshrouds, 
In vain would veil thy diadem from sight, 
Whose form colossal seems to touch the clouds 

With starlike light. 


And thou wert like a sainted image crowned, 
Whose forehead bears a shower of golden rays, 
Which pilgrims, seeking health and peace, sur- 
round 
With holy praise. 


Ocean’s perfidious waves may calmly sleep, 
Yet hide sharp rocks, — the cliff, false signs 
display, — 
And luring lights, far flashing o’er the deep, 
The ship betray : 


Never may I forget thee! One alone 
Of cherished objects shall with thee aspire, 
King of the Night! to match thy lofty throne 
And friendly fire ; 


But thou, whose splendor dims each lesser 
beam, — 
Whose firm, unmoved position might declare 


Thy throne a monarch’s, — like the North Star’s 
gleam, 


Reveal’st each snare. 


That vision still with sparkling light appears 
In the sun’s dazzling beams at matin hour, 
And is the golden angel memory rears 
On Cérdova’s proud tower. 


So Reason’s steady torch, with light as pure, 
Dispels the gloom, when stormy passions 
rise, 
Or Fortune’s cheating phantoms would obscure 
The soul’s dim eyes. 


Se 


JOSE MARIA HEREDIA. 


THs poet was a native of the island of Cuba 
During a residence in the United States, in the 
year 1825, he published at New York a collec- 
tion of pieces, entitled, “«Poesias de José Maria 
Heredia,” some of which are of distinguished 
merit. He died in 1839, at the age of thirty- 
five years. 


Since I am cast by adverse fortunes here, 
Where thou presidest o’er this scanty soil, 
And bounteous Heaven a shelter grants to cheer 

My spirit’s toil; 


Frequent I turn to thee, with homage mute, 
Ere yet each troubled thought is calmed in 
sleep, 
And still thy gem-like brow my eyes salute 
Above the deep. 


NIAGARA. 


My lyre! give me my lyre! my bosom feels 
The glow of inspiration. O, how long 
Have I been left in darkness, since this light 


Last visited my brow! 
Thou with thy rushing waters dost restore 
The heavenly gift that sorrow took away. 


Niagara ! 


Tremendous torrent! for an instant hush 

The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside 

Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes 

May see the fearful beauty of thy face ! 

I am not all unworthy of thy sight; 

For from my very boyhood have I loved, 

Shunning the meaner track of common minds, 

To look on Nature in her loftier moods. 

At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, 

At the near bursting. of the thunderbolt, 

I have been touched with joy; and when the 
sea, ; 

Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and 
showed 

Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved 

Its dangers and the wrath of elements. 

But never yet the madness of the sea 

Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me 
now. 


Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves 
Grow broken ’midst the rocks; thy current then 
Shoots onward like the irresistible course 
Of Destiny. Ah, terribly they rage, — 
The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there! 

brain 

Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze 
Upon the hurrying waters ; and my sight 
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge 
Sweeps the wide torrent. Waves innumerable 
Meet there and madden, — waves innumerable 
Urge on and overtake the waves before, 

And disappear in thunder and in foam. 


My 


They reach, they leap the barrier, — the abyss 
Swallows insatiable the sinking waves. 
A thousand rainbows arch them, and woods 
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock 
Shatters to vapor the descending sheets. 
A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves 
The mighty pyramid of circling mist 
To heaven. The solitary hunter near 
Pauses with terror in the forest shades. 


What seeks my restless eye? Why are not 
here, 

About the jaws of this abyss, the palms, — 

Ah, the delicious palms, — that on the plains 

Of my own native Cuba spring and spread 

Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun, 

And, in the breathings of the ocean alr, 


Wave soft beneath the heaven’s unspotted blue? 


But no, Niagara, — thy forest pines 
Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm, 
The effeminate myrtle, and frail rose may grow 
In gardens, and give out théir fragrance there, 
Unmanning him who breathes it. Thine it is 
To do a nobler office. Generous minds 
Behold thee, and are moved, and learn to rise 


92 


HEREDIA. 


Above earth’s frivolous pleasures; they partake 
Thy grandeur, at the utterance of thy name. 


God of all truth! in other lands I ’ve seen 
Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, 
Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw 
Their fellows deep into impiety ; 

And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face 
In earth’s majestic solitudes. Even here 
My heart doth open all itself to thee. 

In this immensity of loneliness, 

I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear 
The eternal thunder of the cataract brings 
Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. 


Dread torrent, that with wonder and with 

fear 

Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks 

Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, — 

Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who sup- 
plies, 

Age after age, thy unexhausted springs? 

What power hath ordered, that, when all thy 
weight 

Descends into the deep, the swollen waves 

Rise not and roll to overwhelm the earth ? 


The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, 

Covered thy face with clouds, and given his 
voice 

To thy down-rushing waters ; he hath girt 

Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. 

I see thy never-resting waters run, 

And I bethink me how the tide of time 

Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man — 

Pass, like a noonday dream — the blossoming 
days, 

And he awakes to sorrow. I, alas! 

Feel that my youth is withered, and my brow 

Ploughed early with the lines of grief and care. 


Never have I so deeply felt as now 
The hopeless solitude, the abandonment, 
The anguish of a loveless life. Alas! 
How can the impassioned, the unfrozen heart 
Be happy without love ? ‘I would that one, 
Beautiful, worthy to be loved and joined 
In love with me, now shared my lonely walk 
On this tremendous brink. °“T were sweet to 

see 

Her dear face touched with paleness, and become 
More beautiful from fear, and overspread 
With a faint smile while clinging to my side. 
Dreams, —dreams! I am an exile, and for me 
There is no country and there is no love. 


Hear, dread Niagara, my latest voice ! 
Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
Over the bones of him who sings thee now 
Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble 

verse, 

Might be, like thee, immortal! I, meanwhile, 
Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, 
Might raise my radiant forehead in the clonds 
To listen to the echoes of my fame. 


| 


Tue Portuguese language is that form which 
the Romance assumed on the Atlantic seaboard 
of the Peninsula, and was originally one and 
the same with the Galician dialect of Spain. 
It is a sister dialect of the Spanish or Castilian, 
to which it bears a striking resemblance. 
‘‘ Daughters of the same country,” says a Por- 
tuguese writer,” ‘but differently educated, they 
have distinct features, and a different. genius, 
gait, and manner; and yet there is in the fea- 
tures of both that family likeness (ar de fa- 
milia), which is recognized at the first glance.”’ 
The Portuguese is softer and more musical than 
the Spanish, but wants the Spanish strength 
and majesty. It has discarded the Arabic 
guttural, but has adopted the equally unmusical 
nasal of the French.t Sismondi calls it wn 
Castillan désossé, “boned Castilian.” 

The history of Portuguese poetry may be di- 
vided into three periods, corresponding with 
those of the Spanish. I. From 1150 to 1500. 
II. From 1500 to 1700. III. From 1700 to 
the present time. 


I. From 1150 to 1500. The first names re- 


* Bosquejo da Historia da Poesia e Lingua Portugueza 
(by Atmerpa Garrett), in FonsEca’s Parnaso Lusitano. 
5 vols. Paris. 32mo. 

t “The Romance, out of which the present Portuguese 
language has grown ”’ (says Bouterwek, in the Introduction 
to his History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, Vol. 
I., pp. 12-14), ‘ was probably spoken along the coast of the 
Atlantic long before a kingdom of Portugal was founded. 
Though far more nearly allied to the Castilian dialect than 
to the Catalonian, it resembles the latter in the remarkable 
abbreviation of words, both in the grammatical structure 
and in the pronunciation. ' At the same time, it is strikingly 
distinguished from the Castilian by the total rejection of the 
guttural, by the great abundance of its hissing sounds, and 
by a nasal pronunciation common to no people in Europe 
except the French and the Portuguese. In the Spanish 
province of Galicia, only politically separated from Portu- 
gal, this dialect, known under the name of lingoa Gallega, 
is still as indigenous as in Portugal itself, and was, at an 
early period, so highly esteemed, that Alfonso the Tenth, 
king of Castile, surnamed the Wise (ed Sabio), com- 
posed verses in it. But the Galician modification of this 
dialect of the western shores of the Peninsula has sunk, 
like the Catalonian Romance of the Opposite coast, into a 
mere provincial idiom, in consequence of the language of 
the Castilian court being adopted by the higher classes in 
Galicia. Indeed, the Portuguese language, which, in its 
present state of improvement, must no longer be con- 
founded with the popular idiom of Galicia, would have 
experienced great difficulty in obtaining a literary culti- 
vation, had not Portugal, which, even in the twelfth cen- 
tury, formed an independent kingdom, constantly vied in 
arts and in arms with Castile, and during the sixty years 
of her union with Spain, from 1580 to 1640, zealously 
maintained her particular national character.” 


PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


corded in the annals of Portuguese poetry are 
those of Gonzalo Hermiguez, and Egaz Moniz. 
They flourished about the middle of the twelfth 
century, during the reign of Alfonso the First. 
They were knights of his court, and, like all 
poetic knightsy since knighthood first began, 
sang of love and its despairs,—‘ the sweet 


pains and pleasant woes of true love.”? Some 
specimens of their songs have been published 
by Faria y Souza.* To the same period belongs 
also the first essay in Portuguese epic poetry ; 
the fragment of an old chronicle of the con- 
quest of Spain by the Moors, from the hand of 
an unknown author. 

During the thirteenth century, no advance 
was made in Portuguese poetry, though the Jan- 
guage became more fixed and subject to rules. 
In the last half of this century, King Diniz 
(Dionysius), like his contemporary, Alfonso the - 
Wise, of Spain, displayed himself as a poet 
and the friend of poets. He likewise founded, 
in 1290, the National University. His poems 
are preserved in Cancioneiros, as yet unpub- 
lished. 

In the fourteenth century, the entire Portu- 
guese Parnassus seems to have escheated to the 
crown. Hardly a poetic name of that century 
survives, which does not belong to the royal 
family. Alfonso the Fourth, son of King 
Diniz, was a poet; so was his brother, Alfonso 
Sanchez; so was Pedro the First, the poetical 
part of whose history is not in what he wrote, 
but in what he did, in the romantic episode of 
“‘Tonez de Castro.” 

The Portuguese poetry of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, like the Spanish, is preserved, for the 
most part, in the Song-books, or Cancioneiros 
Geraes.{ That of Garcia de Resende is said 
to contain the names of more authors than the 
Spanish collection, that is, more than, one hun- 
dred and thirty-six. Among these, the most 
distinguished are Bernardim Ribeyro, and Chris- 
tovad Falcad. Ribeyro is called the Portuguese 
Ennius; and his fame rests chiefly upon his 
eclogues, and his pastoral romance in prose, 
‘‘ Menina e Moga” (The Innocent Maiden), the 
prototype of Montemayor’s “ Diana.”. Faleaéd 


* Europa Portuguesa. Por MAanveL pg Farta y Souza. 
3 vols. Lisboa. 1678-80. fol. 

t The Cancioneiro usually spoken of is that of Garcia 
de Resende, published in 1516. Another was made in 1577, 
by Father Pedro Ribeyro, but never printed. One of the 
series of the ‘‘ Bibliothek des Literarischen Vereins,” in 
Stuttgart, now in press, is entitled “ Der Portuguesische 
Cancioneiro, herausgegeben von Archiyrath Kausler.” The 
full title is not given. 


? 


tne tS Sa ee i NL SAS RR ARISES ASSIS Steet uae 


eas sar anata A hal LA Tes Bat LSAT TILER So NA ENF ISS 


was a knight of the order of Christ, an admiral, 
and a governor of, Madeira, as well as a poet. 
His principal work is the eclogue of *“ Crisfal,”’ 
in which, as in the writings of Ribeyro, the 
Tagus, the Mondego, and the rocks and groves 
of Cintra form the scenery, and the heroine 
is the poet’s mistress. At the conclusion of 
this pastoral, a wood nymph, who has over- 
heard the lover’s complaints, “inscribes them 
on a poplar, in order, as it is said, that they 
may grow with the tree toa height beyond the 
reach of vulgar ideas.” * 

To this century belong, doubtless, many of 
the Portuguese ballads, of which no colleec- 
tion has yet been published. This was the 
heroic age of Portugal, when “a tender as 
well as heroic spirit, a fiery activity and a soft 
enthusiasm, war and love, poetry and glory, 
filled the whole nation ; which was carried, by 
its courage and spirit of chivalrous enterprise, 
far over the ocean to Africa and India. This 
separation from home, and the dangers encoun- 
tered on the ocean, in distant climes, and un- 
known regions, gave their songs a tone of mel- 
ancholy and complaining love, which strangely 
contrasts with their enthusiasm for action, their 
heroic fire, and even cruelty.” t 

Il. From 1500 to 1700. This is the most 
illustrious period of Portuguese literature. At 
its commencement, the classic or Italian taste 
was introduced by Saa de Miranda, and Anto- 
nio Ferreira, as it was in Spain by Boscan and 
Garcilaso. Saa de Miranda is called the Portu- 
guese Theocritus, as indicating his supremacy 
in bucolic poetry. Living for the most part in 
the seclusion of the country, he made his song 
an image of his life ; for he divided his hours 
between domestic ease, hunting the wolf through 
the forests of Entre Douro e Minho, and, as 
he himself expresses it, ‘ culling flowers with 
the Muses, the Loves, and the Graces.” From 
his solitude he sang to his countrymen the charms 
of a simple life, the dangers of foreign luxuries, 
and the enervating effects of ‘ the perfumes of 
Indian spices.’’ Antonio Ferreira was surnamed 
the Portuguese Horace. He is distinguished 
for the beauty of his odes, which have become 
the models for the poets of his nation, as those 
of Herrera and Luis de Leon are for those of 
Spain. To these distinguished names may be 
added a third, of equal, if not greater, distinc- 
tion, that of Gil Vicente, the Portuguese Plau- 
tus. Had he been born later, or under more 
auspicious dramatic influences, he might have 
stood beside the great Lope de Vega; as it is, 
his fame is by no means inconsiderable, and 
Erasmus is said to have studied Portuguese 
for the purpose of reading his comedies. He 
persevered to the last in adhering to the old 
national taste, in opposition to the new school 
of Saa de Miranda and Ferreira. 

But the greatest poet of the sixteenth cen- 


* Ross’s BourerWEK, Vol. IL, p. 42. 
+ Encyciopedia Americana, Art. Portuguese Language 
and Literature. 


PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE A 


SEN MINT ICSE NES MIU SERA ISLS TE no i a as ne RSET 


ND ‘POETRY: 


tury, as of all others in Portuguese poetry, is 
he who sang of 
‘the renowned men, 
Who, from the western Lusitanian shore, 
Sailing through seas man never sailed before, 
Passed beyond ‘Taprobane,’’ — 


Luis de Camoens, author of the national epic, 
«©Qs Lusiadas,’” who lived in poverty and 
wretchedness, died in the Lisbon hospital, and, 
after death, was surnamed the Great, —a title 
never given before, save to popes and emperors. 
The life of no poet is so full of vicissitude and 
romantic adventure as that of Camoens. In 
youth, he was banished from Lisbon on account 
of a love affair with Catharina de Attayda, a 
dama do paco, or lady of honor at court ; 
he served against the Moors as a volunteer on 
board the fleet in the Mediterranean, and lost 
his right eye by a gun-shot wound in a battle 
off Ceuta; he returned to Lisbon, proud and 
poor, but found no favor at court, and no means 
of a livelihood in the city ; he abandoned his 
native land for India, indignantly exclaiming 
with Scipio, “Ingrata patria, non possidebis ossa 
mea!”? three ships of the squadron were lost 
in a storm, he reached Goa safely in the fourth ; 
he fought under the king of Cochin against 
the king of Pimenta; he fought against the 
Arabian corsairs in the Red Sea; he was ban- 
ished from Goa to the island of Macao, where 
he became administrator of the effects of de- 
ceased persons, and where he wrote the great- 
er part of the “ Lusiad’”’?; he was shipwrecked 
on the coast of Camboya, saving only his life and 
his poem, the manuscript of which he brought 
ashore saturated with sea-water; he was accus- 
ed of malversation in office, and thrown into 
prison at Goa; after an absence of sixteen 
years, he returned in abject poverty to Lisbon, 
then ravaged by the plague ; he lived a few 
years on a wretched pension granted him by 
King Sebastian when the *“ Lusiad’’ was pub- 
lished, and on the alms which a slave he had 
brought with him from India collected at night 
in the streets of Lisbon; and finally died in 
the hospital, exclaiming, ‘ Who could believe 
that on so small a stage as that of one poor bed 
Fortune would choose to represent so great a 
tragedy?’ Thus was completed the Iliad of 
his woes. Fifteen years afterward, a splendid 
monument was erected to his memory ; so that, 
as has been said of another, “he asked for 
bread, and they gave him a stone.” 

The other poets of this century are eclipsed 
and rendered almost invisible by the superior 
splendor of Camoens. Those most worthy of 
mention among them are Pedro de Andrade 
Caminha, and Diogo Bernardes, both admirers 
and disciples of Ferreira and the classic school ; 
and Francisco Rodriguez Lobo, whose ‘ Corte 
na Aldea, e Noites de Inverno ” (The Court in 
the Country, and Winter Nights), with its state- 
ly phrases and Ciceronian fulness of periods, is 
one of the earliest specimens of elegant and 
cultivated prose in Portuguese literature, and 


EY SSS SS en a ee cara 


732 


in whose three pastoral romances, ‘“ Primave- 
ra’’ (Spring), “O Pastor Peregrino”” (The 
Wandering Shepherd), and “O Desenganado” 
(The Disenchanted), the whole bucolic passion 
of the nation seems to have reached its per- 
fect blossom and most luxuriant expansion, till, 
overpowered by excess, in dreamy mazes lost, 
the reader begins to * envy no man’s nightin- 
gale or spring,” and exclaims, with George 
Herbert, — 
“Is it not verse, except enchanted groves 
And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines 2 
Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves? 
Must all be veiled, while he that reads divines, 
Catching the sense at two removes ?”? 


To the sixteenth century belongs the origin of 


the Portuguese drama, or, perhaps, more prop- 
erly speaking, its entire history. It begins with 
Saa de Miranda; for, if any dramatic works were 
produced before his day, they are now lost and 
forgotten. He is the author of two comedies in 
prose, which are imitations of Plautus and Te- 
rence, and in their general character not unlike 


the Italian imitations of these classic models, of 


the same age, the “Calandria” of Cardinal 
Bibbiena, and Ariosto’s ‘“ Cassaria.”’ Ferreira 
also wrote plays; and notwithstanding he was 
called the Portuguese Horace for the excellence 
of his odes, his fame at the present day rests 
chiefly upon his tragedy of « Ignez de Castro.” 
The subject of this tragedy is drawn from Portu- 
guese history, being the well known tale of Dom 
Pedro’s wife. In style and management it is 
an imitation of the Greek tragedy, with chorus- 
es of Coimbrian women. 

But the greatest of the old playwrights, and, 
in truth, the greatest dramatic genius that Por- 
tugal has produced, is Gil Vicente, who, as has 
already been remarked, is surnamed the Portu- 
guese Plautus. He belongs to the national or 
romantic, not to the classic school; and has 
left behind him thirty-four pieces in his native 
tongue, and several others in Spanish. They 
are divided into Christmas plays, or autos sacra- 
mentales, comedies, tragi-comedies, and farces. 
Of these, the autos are the most important, and 
display most prominently the author’s charac- 
teristic beauties and defects. The following 
analysis of some of his pieces is from Bouter- 
wek’s excellent ‘“ History of Portuguese Litera- 
ture” (pp. 92-99), and shows with what gaudy 
colors, and on how large a canvass, this ancient 
scene-painter illustrated his art. s 

“The invention and the execution of Gil 
Vicente’s autos present an equal degree of 
rudeness The least artificial are also those 
in which the most decided traits of national 
character appear. The shepherds and shep- 
herdesses who are introduced into these autos 
are Portuguese and Spanish both in their names 
and manners. Their simple phrases and turns 
of language are similar to those employed by 
the characters in Saa de Miranda’s eclogues, 
except that their discourse is more negligent, 
and occasionally more coarse. In combining 


PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


rT ee ie ee 
: ake oor 


the appearance of angels, the Devil, the Holy 
Virgin, and allegorical characters, with popular 
scenes, an effect perfectly consistent with the 
ideas of the audience was produced ; for, ac- 
cording to the Catholie doctrine, the miracles 
with which Christianity commenced are con- 
tinued without intermission ; through the mys- 
teries ‘of faith, the connection between the 
terrestrial, celestial, and infernal worlds is de- 
clared ; and by allegory, that connection is ren- 
dered perceptible. The critic would therefore 


Judge very unfairly, were he to regard as proofs 


of bad taste the eonsequences which a poet - 
naturally entails on himself in writing according 
to the spirit of his religion. Making allow- 
ance, however, for that spirit, the rudeness of 
Gil Vicente’s autos must be acknowledged 
even by him, who, measuring them by the rule 
of critical judgment, is perfectly disposed to 
view every system of religion only on its poetic 
side. For instance, in one of the simplest of 
these autos, some shepherds, who discourse in 
Spanish, enter a chapel, which is decorated 
with all the apparatus necessary for the cele- 
bration of the festival of Christmas. The 
shepherds cannot sufficiently express their rus- 
tic admiration of the pomp exhibited in the 
chapel. Faith (La Fé) enters as an allegorical 
character. She speaks Portuguese, and, after 
announcing herself to the shepherds as True 
Faith, she explains to them the nature of faith, 
and enters into an historical relation of the 
mysteries of the incarnation. This is the whole 
subject of the piece. Another auto, in which 
the poet’s fancy has taken a wider range, pre- 
sents scenes of a more varied nature. Mercury 
enters as an allegorical character, and as the 
representative of the planet which bears his 
name. He explains the theory of the plane- 
tary system and the zodiac, and cites astro- 
nomical facts from Regiomontanus, in a long 
series of stanzas in the old national style. A 
seraph then appears, who is sent down from 
heaven by God in compliance with the prayers 
of Time. The seraph, in the quality of a 
herald, proclaims a large yearly fair in honor 
of the Holy Virgin, and invites customers to it. 
A devil next makes his appearance with a 
little stall which he carries before him. He 
gets into a dispute with Time and the seraph, 
and asserts that among men such as they are 
he shall be sure to find purchasers for his wares. 
He therefore leaves to every customer his free 
choice. Mercury then summons Eternal Rome 
as the representative of the church. She ap- 
pears, and offers for sale peace of mind, as the 
most precious of her merchandise. The devil 
temonstrates, and Rome retires. Two Por- 
tuguese peasants now appear in the ‘market. 
One is very anxious to sell his wife, and ob- 
serves, that, if he cannot sell her, he will give 
her away for nothing, as she is a wicked spend- 
thrift. Amidst this kind of conversation, a 
party of peasant women enter, one of whom, 
with considerable comic warmth, vents bitter 


ole 


complaints against her husband. The man who 
has already been. inveighing against his wife 
immediately recognizes her, and says, ‘ That is 
my slippery helpmate.’. During this succession 
of comic scenes, the action does not advance. 
The devil at last opens his little stall, and dis- 
plays his stock of goods to the female. peas- 
ants; but one of them, who is the most pious 
of the party, seems to suspect that all is not 
quite right with regard to the merchandise, 
and she exclaims, ‘Jesus! Jesus! True God 
and man!’ The devil immediately takes to 
flight, and does not reappear ; but the seraph 
again comes forward and mingles with the rus- 
tic groups. The throng continues to increase ; 
other countrywomen, with baskets on their 
heads, arrive ; and the market is stored with 
vegetables, poultry, and other articles of rural 
produce. The seraph offers virtues for sale; 
but they find no purchasers. The peasant girls 
observe, that in their village money is more 
sought after than virtue, when a young man 
wants a wife. One of the party, however, 
says, that she wished to come to the market, 
because it happened to fall on the festival of 
the Mother of God; and because the Virgin 
does not sell her gifts of grace (as gragas), but 
she distributes them gratis (de graga). This ob- 
servation crowns the theological morality of the 
piece, which terminates with a hymn of praise, in 
the popular style, in honor of the Holy Virgin. 

“© These specimens will afford an adequate 
idea of the spirit and style of Gil Vicente’s 
autos. His largest work of this class may, 
however, be referred to, in proof of the little 
attention he bestowed on dramatic plan in the 
composition of his spiritual comedies. It pur- 
ports to be ‘A Summary of the History of 
God.’ After the prologue, which is spoken by 
an angel, Sir Lucifer (Senhor Lucifer) enters, 
attended by a numerous retinue of devils. 
Belial is president of his court of justice (meirin- 
ho de corte), and Satan gentleman of his privy 
council (fidalga do conselho). After this privy 
councillor has performed his part in the temp- 
tation of Adam and Eve in Paradise, the whole 
details of which are represented on the stage, 
Lucifer confers on him the dignities of duke 
and captain of the kingdoms of the world. 
Next succeeds a series of scenes which sum- 
marily represent the history of the Christian 
redemption. The World, accompanied by 
Time and angels, enters as a king. The rep- 
resentation of the fall of man is followed by 
the history of Abel, by whom a beautiful and 
simple hymn is sung. The next scenes exhibit 
the histories of Abraham, Job, and David; and 
thus the auto proceeds through the incidents of 
the Old and New Testaments, until the ascen- 
sion of Christ, which is represented on the stage 
amidst an accompaniment of drums and trum- 
pets. 

‘¢On comparing the autos of Gil Vicente with 
those of Calderon, the difference appears not 
much less considerable than that which exists be- 


PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
SI apace ih es lai eae sceme nai Os a LT 
tween the works of Hans Sachs and Shakspeare. 
But the graceful simplicity with which many of 


raises the Portuguese poet infinitely above the 
poetic shoemaker of Nuremberg.”’ 


733 


the scenes of these spiritual dramas are executed 


Camoens, also, was a dramatic writer, and has 
left behind him three comedies, which were 
probably written in his youth, and rather show 
the versatility of his talent than increase his 
fame. In the latter half of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, the Portuguese stage, like the Portuguese 
monarchy, was subdued by the Spanish, and 
Lope de Vega took possession of the theatre, as 
Philip did of the throne. There was no longer 
a national court nor a national drama. 

In the seventeenth century, the national taste 
became more and more corrupted, and the in- 
fluences of the Spanish language and literature 
were more extensive and obvious. Few names 
are recorded, and these few, like words written 
with phosphorus, burn with a pale light, and 
are visible only from the surrounding aarkness. 
This century has been called The Age of Son- 
nets. Manoel de Faria e Souza, the commen- 
tator of the ** Lusiad,’’ opened the poetic can- 
nonade with six hundred, or, as he expresses it, 
‘¢ Six Centuries of Sonnets.” He was followed 
by Barbosa Bacellar, noted for his Saudades, 
or * Complaints of a Lovelorn Heart, vented in 
Solitude’; then came Torrezao Coelho, Ribeiro 
de Macedo, Correa de la Cerda, Violante do Ceo, 
Jeronymo Bahia, and Alvares da Cunha, all 
infected with Italian Marinism and the Span- 
ish Gongorism. Bahia wrote an idyl, of fifty 
octavo pages, on a chandelier which the duchess 
of Savoy presented to the queen of Portugal; 
and Da Cunha says, in one of his epistles, 
“« Though the pen touch softly the guitar of the 
paper, rude thunder resounds from that guitar.” 
One poet, however, Freire de Andrada, arose 
in determined opposition to this bad taste, and 
opposed it with ineffectual sallies of wit, and a 
comic power, which, had it been employed upon 
themes of more general interest, would have 
given hima more prominent station in the liter- 
ature of his country. The writings of the most 
celebrated of these poets may be found in a col- 
lection entitled “A Fenix Renascida,” edited 
by Matthias Pereira da Sylva.* 

Ill. From 1700 to the present time. At 
length, the long caravan of sonneteers, crossing 
the desert of the seventeenth century, disap- 
pears, and the tinkling of their little rhymes is 
heard no more; but the barren waste is around 
us still, and at the commencement of the eight- 
eenth century, like the Sphinx half buried in 
the sand, lies the “ Henriqueida”’ of Ericeyra, 
in all its epic ponderosity. Francisco Xavier 
de Menezes, Conde da Ericeyra, was president 
of the Spanish Academy, and a man of distine- 
tion and letters. He was mainly instrumental 
in introducing into Portuguese literature the 


* A Fenix Renascida, ou Obras Poeticas dos melhores en- 
genhos Portugueses. Segunda Edigad. 3 vols. Lisboa: 1746. 
8vo. 


734 PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 


French taste, which prevailed extensively, 
though not universally, during the first part of 
this period. His principal work is the “ Hen- 
riqueida,” an epic poem, of which Henry of 
Burgundy, the founder of the Portuguese mon- 
archy, is the hero. ‘In his theoretical intro- 
duction,” says Bouterwek, ‘“‘ Kriceyra declares, 
that he has, in a certain measure, endeavoured 
to imitate all epic poets, and to imbibe a portion 
of the manner of each; but had he withheld 
this acknowledgment, no reader acquainted with 
other epic poems could have failed to recog- 
nize in the ‘ Henriqueida’ the styles of Homer, 
Virgil, Ariosto, Tasso, and, progressively, of 
Lucan, Silius Italicus, and Statius, but without 
ever discerning the animating spirit of genuine 
poetry. The tedious coldness which pervades 
the whole poem destroys the effect of those 
incidental beauties of style which it must be 
allowed to possess.’’* Five counts of Ericeyra, 
in succession, were distinguished as men of 
letters; till at length a degenerate scion of the 
race scattered the magnificent library that five 
generations had accumulated, and even bartered 
a portion of its treasures for ‘a great Spanish 
ass!’’ t 

This was the iron age of Portuguese song. 
But in the latter half of the eighteenth century, 
sublime and more harmonious strains were 
heard, welcome as music at night, in the odes 
of Pedro Antonio Correa Garead. He was the 
founder of the Arcadian Society, and the first 
to renovate the spirit of poetry in his benighted 
country; and he perished miserably in a dun- 
geon. He was followed by Antonio Diniz da 
Cruz, also an Arcadian, who wrote a “ Century 
of Sonnets,” and a heroi-comic poem, entitled 
‘““O Hysope,” the Hyssop, or Holy-water 
Sprinkler. Then came Domingos dos Reis 
Quita, the barber’s apprentice, and author of 
eclogues, idyls, odes, and a new tragedy of 
““Ignez de Castro.” Then Claudio Manoel 
da Costa, the earliest of the Brazilian poets, 
who, first as a student under the cork-trees of 
Coimbra, and afterwards among the gold and 
diamond mines of his native country, imitated 
the songs of Petrarch and Metastasio, and sang 
so melodiously, that “the reader cannot. fail 
sometimes to fancy he recognizes the sim- 
ple tone of the old Portuguese lyric poetry, 
reflected by an Italian echo.” Then the reck- 
less and dissolute improvvisatore, Barbosa du 
Bocage, the gay Lothario of Setubal, who, 
like Byron, died old at thirty-nine; and finally, 
Francisco Manoel do Nascimento, who probably 
did more for Portuguese poetry than any man 
since Camoens, and who, from the bosom of 
wealth and literary ease, was driven into exile 
by the Inquisition, and died in Paris, a’ poor old 
man, of more than eighty years. Surely, if 
ever a country dishonored itself by stoning its 
prophets, that country is Portugal. 


a cei 


* History of Portuguese Literature, p. 342. 
t Quarterly Review, Vol. Ti pieeoos 


The state of Portuguese literature since the 
commencement of the present century is far 
from brilliant. Among the most distinguished 
of the living poets are Curvo Semedo, J. A. de 
Macedo, Evangelista Moraes Sarmento, the 
Chevalier de Almeida Garrett, Silva Mozinho 
de Albuquerque, Pina Leitad, a Brazilian, and 
Medina e Vascuncellos, a native of Madeira 
To these may be added the names of four female 
writers who have distinguished themselves in 
poetry, Dona Marianna Maldonado, Dona Fran- 
cisca da Costa, Dona Leonor de Almeida, and the 
Viscondessa de Balsemad, an ancient lady, whom 
we lose sight of between the ages of seventy 
and eighty, still warbling songs of love. Many 
of these writers have a mournful destiny, and 
are of that class which Dante thought most of 
all men to be pitied, « who, being in exile and 
affliction, behold their native land in dreams 
only.”’ 

Speaking of the Portuguese poetry, and that 
of the other Romance languages, Sismondi grace- 
fully remarks: ‘Its writers do not attempt to 
engage our attention with ideas, but with ima- 
ges richly colored, which incessantly pass before 
our view. Neither do they ever name any ob- 
ject that they do not paint to the eye. The 
whole creation seems to grow brighter around 
us, and the world always appears to us through 
the medium of this poetry as when we gaze on 
it near the beautiful waterfalls of Switzerland, 
while the sun is upon their waves. The land- 
scape suddenly brightens under the bow of 
heaven, and all the objects of nature are tinged 
with its colors. It is quite impossible for any 
translation to convey a feeling of this pleasure. 
The romantic poet seizes the most bold and 
lofty image, and is little solicitous to convey its 
full meaning, provided it glows brightly in his 
verse. In order to translate it into another Jan- 
guage, it would first of all be requisite to soften 
it down, that it might not stand forward out of 
all proportion with the other figures; to com- 
bine it with what precedes and follows, that it 
might neither strike the reader unexpectedly, 
nor throw the least obscurity over the style.”’ 


For a farther account of Portuguese poetry, 
the reader is referred to the following works: — 
‘“‘History of Spanish and Portuguese Litera- 
ture,” by Frederick Bouterwek; translated b 
Thomasina Ross, 2 vols., London, 1823, 8vo. ; 
— “ Historical View of the Literature of the 
South of Europe,” by J. C. L. Simonde de Sis- 
mondi; translated by Thomas Roscoe, 4 vols., 
London, 1823, 8vo. ; republished in New York, 
1827, 2 vols., 8vo.; —‘ Bosquejo da Historia 
da Poesia e Lingua Portugueza,” by Almeida 
Garrett, in Fonseca’s “ Parnaso Lusitano,” 5 
vols., Paris, 1826, 32mo.;— Articles in the 
“Quarterly Review,” Vol I., p. 235, and the 
‘Foreign Quarterly Review,” Vol. X., p. 437. 
See, also, ‘ Bibliotheca Lusitana Historica, Cri- 
tica, e Cronologica,”’ by Diogo Barbosa Macha- 
do, 4 vols., Lisboa, 1741 —59, folio. 


FIRST PERIOD.—CENTURIES XII.-XV. 


ANONYMOUS. 


—_—_—— 


FRAGMENT OF AN OLD HISTORIC POEM. 


In his ‘Europa Portuguesa,’ ’’ says Sismon- 
di, ‘¢ Manuel de Faria y Sousa presents us with 
fragments of an historical poem, in verses of arte 
mayor, and which he asserts had been discover- 
ed, in the beginning of the twelfth century, in 
the castle of Lousam, when it was taken from 
the Moors. The manuscript containing them 
appeared, even then, he observes, to have been 
defaced by time; from which he would infer 
that the poem may be attributed to the period of 
the conquest of the Arabs. But the fact itself 
seems to rest on very doubtful authority, and the 
verses do not appear, either in their construction, 
in their language, or even in their ideas, to lay 
claim to so high an antiquity. This earliest mon- 
ument of the Romance language is, however, 
sufficiently curious to merit attention, and three 
stanzas are therefore here subjoined.”’ 


Jucian and Horpas, with the adulterous blood 
Of Agar, fiercest spoilers of the land, 
These changes wrought. They called fierce 
Islam’s brood 
’Neath the Miramolin’s sway; a numerous 
band 
Of shameless priests and nobles. Musa stood, 
And Zariph there, upon the Iberian strand, 
Hailed by the false count, who betrayed the 
ower 
Of Beetica, and yielded shrine and tower. 


He led them safely to that rocky pilé, 

Gibraltar’s strength. Though stored with rich 
resource 

Of full supplies, though men and arms the while 
Bristled its walls, its keys without remorse 

Or strife he gave, a prey, by shameless guile, 
To that vile, unbelieving herd, the curse 

Of Christian lands, who, rifling all its pride, 

To slavery doomed the fair; the valiant died. 


And died those martyrs to the truth, who clung 
To their dear faith, midst every threatening 
ill; 
Nor pity for the aged or the young 
Stayed their fierce swords, till they had drunk 
their fill ; 
No sex found mercy, though, unarmed, they 
hung 
Round their assassins’ knees, rejoiced to kill; 
And Moors, within the temples of the Lord, 
Worsnipped their prophet false with rites ab- 
horred. 


BERNARDIM RIBEYRO. 


Brernarpim Riseyro is one of the best poets 
of Portugal. He flourished in the reign of Em- 
manuel, between 1495 and 1521. He was born 
at Torrao, in the province of Alemtejo, and after 
having studied the law entered the service of 
the king. A passion for one of the ladies of 
the court, said by some to have been Dona 
Beatrix, the daughter of the king, absorbed him 
to such a degree, that he often retired into the 
solitude of the fields and the woods, or wandered 
along the banks of some stream, mourning all 
night long his woes. 
it is a comfort to know ‘that he was married, 
and was affectionately attached to his consort” ; 
and yet some expressions in one of his cantigas 
seem to prove that ‘ancient recollections sti!! 
agitated him during this union.” 

Bernardim was the first Portuguese writer 
who gained a high reputation as a pastoral poet. 
His most celebrated pieces are five eclogues, the 
scenes of which are laid on the banks of the 
Tagus and the Mondego. They are written, for 
the most part, in redondilhas. The poet gives 
utterance in them to the monotonous accents of 
despairing love; but the subject is rendered less 
fatiguing by the graces of his poetry. Ribeyro 
was the author of another work, entitled ‘¢ Me- 
nina e Moga,” which is remarkable for being 
the earliest Portuguese prose work which aims 
at the expression of impassioned sentiment in an 
elevated style. Although fragmentary and ob- 
scure, it was the model of the pastoral romances 
with which the literature of Spain afterwards 
abounded. 


sd 


FROM THE THIRD ECLOGUE. 


O wretcHeD lover! whither flee? 
What refuge from the ills I bear? 
None to console me, or to free, 
And none with whom my griefs to share! 
Sad, to the wild waves of thevsea 
I tell the tale of my despair 
In broken accents, passion-fraught, 
As wandering by some rocky steep, 
I teach the echoes how to weep 
In dying strains, strains dying Love hath taught. 


There is not one of all I loved 
But failed me in my suffering hour, 
And saw my silent tears unmoved. 
Soon may these throbbing griefs o’erpower 
Both life and Jove, so Heaven approved ! 
For she hath bade me hope no more. 


But, as Bouterwek saysy | 


\ 
} 


| 


| 
| 
| 


eS — 


736 


I would not wish her such a doom: 
No! though she break this bruised heart, 
I could not wish her so to part 
From all she loved, to seek, like me, the tomb. 


How long these wretched days appear, 
Consumed in vain and weak desires, 
Imagined joys that end in fear, 
And baflled hopes and wild Love’s fires ! 
At last, then, let me cease to bear 
The lot my sorrowing spirit tires! 
For length of days fresh sorrow brings : 
I meet the coming hours with grief, — 
Hours that can bring me no relief, 
But deeper anguish on their silent wings. 


, 


—_@——. 


FRANCISCO DE PORTUGAL, CONDE 
DO VIMIOSO. 


Tuts nobleman held a high rank at the court 
of Manoel, being connected with the royal 
family. He was born in the last half of the 
fifteenth century, at Evora, was elevated to the 
dignity of Count in 1515, and died in 1549. 
His “Obras Poeticas”’ were published in the 
Cancioneiro of 1516. 


LOVE AND DESIRE, 


O Love! sweet Love! I love you so, 
That my desire dares not aspire 
Even to Desire. 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


For if I dared desire, sweet Hope 
Would follow in its train; and how 
Could I with thy displeasure cope, 
Who wilt no glance of Hope allow? 
And so to Death I turn me now, 
For my desire dare not aspire 
Even to Desire. 


—e— 


FERNANDO DE ALMEYDA. 


THIs poet was born at Alberca, in 1459. His 
poetical pieces are mostly of a religious charac- 
ter. 


_ 


THE TIMBREL. 


WueEn I strike thee, O my timbre], 
Think not that I think of thee ! 


Couldst thou know, ungentle timbrel, 
Couldst thou know my misery, 
All thy notes of mirth and gladness 
Soon transformed to gloom would be, — 
Couldst thou know that when I strike thee 
’T is in sorrow’s agony, 
To escape the recollection 
Of the woes that visit me. 


Sirs! my heart is now the mansion 
Of a clamorous misery : 

Timbrel! dost thou hear my sadness ? — 
Think not that I think of thee ! 


POI OER AR Romo! 


SECOND PERIOD.—CENTURIES XVI, XVI 


GIL VICENTE. 


Tus famous poet, the founder of the theatre 
in Spain and Portugal, was born at Barcellos, 
about the year 1480. He studied the law, but 
abandoned it for dramatic poetry, in which he 
acquired such distinction that he has been called 
the Portuguese Plautus. His pieces were rep- 
resented before the court of King Emmanuel, 
and afterwards of Joad III., and one was printed 
in 1504. Asa dramatist, Gil Vicente stood 
alone in that age; for he preceded all the great 
dramatic poets of England, France, and Spain. 
Erasmus is said to have studied Portuguese that 
he might read his works in the original. Vicente 
_ died at Evora, in 1557. 


SONG, 


Ir thou art sleeping, maiden, 
Awake, and open thy door: 

'T is the break of day, and we must away, 
O’er meadow, and mount, and moor, 


Wait not to find thy slippers, 
But come with thy naked feet : 

We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 
And waters wide and fleet. 


HOW FAIR THE MAIDEN! 


How fair the maiden! what can be 
So fair, so beautiful, as she ? 


Ask the mariner who sails 
Over the joyous sea, 

If wave, or star, or friendly gales, 
Are half so fair as she. 


Ask the knight on his prancing steed 
Returning from victory, 

If weapon, or war, or arrow’s speed, 
Is half so fair as she. 


Ask the shepherd who leads his flocks 
Along he flowery lea, 

If the valley’s lap, or the sun-crowned rocks, 
Are half so fair as she. 


par 


THE NIGHTINGALE, 


Tx rose looks out in the valley, 
And thither will I go, — 

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
Sings his song of woe. 


The virgin is on the river-side, 
Culling the lemons pale: 
Thither, yes! thither will I go, 
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
Sings his song of woe. 


The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, 
'T is for her lover all: 
Thither, — yes! thither will I go, 
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
Sings his song of woe. 


In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, 

She has placed the lemons pale : 
Thither, yes! thither will I go, 

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
Sings his song of woe. 


ys 


FRANCISCO DE SAA DE MIRANDA. 


Tus poet, one of the first that distinguished 
themselves at the court of John the Third, was 
born at Coimbra, in 1495. He studied the law 
at the University in that city, in compliance 
with the wishes of his father, though his own 
taste inclined him strongly to poetry. After 
his father’s death, he left the law, and travelled, 
visiting the principal cities of Spain and Italy. 
On his return, he was well received by the 
king, and attached himself for a time to the 
court; but having given offence to a powerful 
court lady, by a passage in one of his poems, he 
soon retired, dissatisfied and disappointed, to iis 
estate of Tapada, near Ponte de Lima, where he 
passed the rest of his life. He married Dona 
Briolanja de Azevedo, a lady who had neither 

outh nor beauty, but whose amiable qualities 
attached him so strongly to her that he never 
recovered from the shock occasioned by her 
death. After this event, he never trimmed his 
beard, nor pared his nails, nor answered a letter, 
nor left his house, except to go to church. He 
survived her three years, in a state of the deep- 
est melancholy, and died in the year 1558, at 
the age of sixty-three. 

Saa de Miranda, after the custom of the liter- 
ary men of his time, wrote both in Castilian 
and Portuguese, and some of his best eclogues 
are in the former language, two of them only 
being in his native tongue. He is remarkable 
for being the first who introduced poetical epis- 
tles to the Portuguese. ‘Saa de Miranda,” says 
Garrett, in his ‘+ Historia da Lingua e da Poesia 
Portugueza,” prefixed to the “ Parnaso Lusita- 
no,” — “the true father of our poetry, one of 
the greatest men of his age, was the poet of 


int tea ieadbacniesae Sere oere a — = Ee re sane chute een sto aS > 
ea nn eee seth Ran PEALE ah BLN ND St PN ER EE ISIS 


GIL VIGENTE.—SAA DE MIRANDA. 


pees 


737 


reason and of virtue; he philosophized with the 
Muses, and poetized with philosophy. His 
great knowledge, his experience, his affable 
manners, and even the nobility of bis birth, 
gave him an undisputed superiority over all the 
writers ofthat time, by whom he was listened 
to, consulted, and imitated. Saa de Miranda 
exercised over all the poets of that epoch the 
same species of power which Boileau succeeded 
in acquiring in France.” 


SONNETS. 


I Know not, lady, by what nameless charm 
Those looks, that veice, that smile, have each the 
ower 

Of kindling loftier thoughts, and feelings more 

Resolved and high. Even in your silence, warm, 

Soft accents seem my sorrows to disarm ; 

And when with tears your absence I deplore, 

Where’er [ turn, your influence, as before, 

Pursues me, in your voice, your eye, your form. 

Whence are those mild and mournful sounds I 
hear, 

Through every land, and on the pathless sea? 

Is it some spirit of air or fire, from thee, 

Subject to laws I move by and revere ; 

Which, lighted by thy glance, can ne’er de- 
cay ?— 

But what I know not, why attempt to say? 


— 


As now the sun glows broader in the west, 

Birds cease to sing, and cooler breezes blow, 

And from yon rocky heights hoarse waters flow, 

Whose music wild chases the thoughts of rest ; 

With mournful fancies and deep cares oppressed, 

[ gaze upon this fleeting worldly show, 

Whose vain and empty pomps like shadows go, 

Or swift as light sails o’er the ocean’s breast. 

Day after day, hope after hope, expires ! 

Here once I wandered,’mid these shades and 
flowers, 

Along these winding banks and greenwood 
bowers, 

Filled with the wild-bird’s song, that never tires: 

Now all seems mute, —all fled! But these shall 
live, 

And bloom again: alone unchanged, I grieve. 


* 


Tue sun is high,—the birds oppressed with heat 
Fly to the shade, until refreshing airs 
Lure them again to leave their cool retreat. 
The falls of water but of wearying cares 
To me the memory give. Things changeful all 
And vain! what heart in you its trust may 
place? 
While day succeeds to day with rapid pace, 
Far more uncertain we, than whether squall 
Or favoring breeze the ships betide. I see 
About me shady groves with flowerets decked, 
Waters and fountains, fields with verdure gay, 
The birds are singing of their loves the lay. 
Now, like myself, is all grown dry and checked : 


Yet all shall change again, save only me! 
33* 


; = ; psieataase 


93 


i ae aes 
y ai , 
* 


Fates 4) 


A a _ 


i 


ee 


_ By deeds, which with humanity were fraught, 
_ Fain hadst restored the olden time, of sage 


- Designed to everlast, — presumption bold ! — 


THaAr spirit pure, which from this world of woe 

Contented journeyed, in exalted spheres 

Justly rewarded for its well spent years, 

Left us, as weary grown of scenes below : 

That noble mind a harbour safe hath gained, 

Through life’s vexed sea its voyage performed 
at last ; 

Leaving the track by which it. fleeting passed 

To that pure glory rightfully obtained. 

Thou soul, that cam’st in this our iron age, 


The theme, and hoards of purer treasure 
brought, 


While Tejo’s sands are rich, and Douro’s shores, 
with gold. 


—__ 


FROM HIS EPISTLE TO KING JOHN. 


Great king of kings, one single day, 
One hour of yours, in idle mood 
Should I consume, it would betray, 
That, guiltily, I did not pay 
Due reverence to the general good. 


For in a distant hemisphere, 

Where other stars gem other skies, 
Nations of various form and cheer, — 

By God till now hid from our eyes, — 
Submiss, your mandates wait to hear. 


You in all subject hearts abide, 
O monarch powerful as just, — 
You who will knots the hardest tied 
Untangle, or with sword divide, — 
Great living law in whom we trust! 
/ 
Where men are, Covetise is ever ; 
All she bewilders, all deceives ; 
Less foiled by Justice’s firm endeavour, 
The web that fraudful Malice ‘Weaves, 
Or to unravel or dissever 


Your ships that boldly navigate, 
Sailing this solid globe around, 
"Midst their discoveries, no state 
Ungoverned by some king have found. 
What were a headless body’s fate ? 


Kingdoms confessing two kings’ right 
Inevitable ills o’erwhelm. 

Earth from one sun receives her light, 

One God upholds her by his might: 
One monarch only suits one realm. 


With privileges high as these, 
Conscientiously should kings beware 

Of looks deceptive, arts to please, 
Practised their justice to ensnare, 


PORTUGUESE PO 


ETRY 


Is deemed in interest to fail : 
If valueless at public sale, 
None will to favoritism aspire. 


The man who bears a single mind, 
A single face, a single truth, 

Uptorn, not bent, by stormiest wind, 

For all besides on earth ’s designed ; 
But for a courtier, — no, in sooth! 


O BASE GALICIAN! 


O Base Galician! Jone and lost, 
Thou ’st left me on the desert coast, 
Vile, base Galician ! 


I went where once thou didst abide, — 
There thou abid’st not ; 

The valley to my cries replied, — 
But thou repliedst not. 

Sad, melancholy, mortified, 

I wander weeping, while 

Thou dost but smile. 


Say where thy mother’s dwelling is, — 
I will go to her. 
Galician! who could dream of this, 
Thou — thou no truer! 
Eyes filled with tears of bitterness, 
A heart where flames of anguish burn, — 
O, when shall peace return ? 


——_@—— 


LUIS DE CAMOENS. 


Luis px Camorns, the glory of Portugal, and 


one of the most illustrious poets of modern times, 

was born of a noble family, at Lisbon, in 1524. || 
He studied at the University of Coimbra, which 
he entered in 1537 or 1538. Tn 1545, he left the || 
University for Lisbon and the court, having ac- 
complished himself in elegant literature, and, 
contrary to the customs of the time and place, 
having assiduously cultivated the art of writing 
in his mother tongue. 
in Lisbon, he fell deeply in love with a lady of 
the palace, Dona Catharina de Attayda, whose 
charms are celebrated in his poems. 
sion involved him in some difficulties, and he 
was banished from the court 
Here he wrote an elegy bewailing the hardship 
of his lot, and comparing his own exile to that 


of, Oyid v4. 


While he was residing 


This pas- 


to Santarem. 


‘Thus fancy paints me, thus, like him, forlorn, 

Condemned the hapless exile’s fate to prove; 

In life-consuming pain thus doomed to mourn 
The loss of all I prized, —of her I love.” 


Like Ovid, he beguiled the weariness. of ban- 


© 


And cobweb laws to break with ease, 


Who cannot ’gainst the law prevail 
By force, or art, or favor, Sire, 


ishment with study and composition. He is 
supposed to have conceived the idea of his great 
poem at this period ; but at length, despairing of 
a restoration to the favor. of the court, he deter- 
mined to become a-soldier. His. first plan was 


ss aD NE eat hla aera 


CAMOENS. 


to go to India, and he actually teok passage on 
board the vessel in which Dom Affonso de 
Noronha, the Portuguese viceroy, sailed; but he 
changed his mind, and, with his friend, Dom 
Antonio de Noronha, joined the troops at Ceuta, 
which were assembled for an expedition to 
Africa. He displayed great bravery, and, ina 
naval engagement in the Straits of Gibraltar, 
received a wound from a splinter, which de- 
prived him of his right eye. He remained 
some time in Africa, and then returned to Lis- 
bon, and finding his fortunes at a low ebb, being 
hopelessly separated from. the object of his at- 
tachment, and his father having died at Goa, 
after a disastrous shipwreck on the coast of Mal- 
abar, he now, having reached the twenty-ninth 
ear of his age, embarked for India. The ship 
in. which he sailed was the only one out of the 
whole squadron which reached its destination. 

Immediately on his arrival at Goa, he joined 
an expedition against the king of Pimenta, re- 
turning from which, he received the sorrow- 
fal news of the death of his friend, Antonio de 
Noronha, who fell in battle with the Moors near 
Tetuan, in Africa. In 1554, he gerved as a 
volunteer against the Mahometans, who cruised 
in the straits of Mecca, and inflicted much in- 
jury on the Portuguese trade. The hardships he 
endured in this expedition are described in one 
of his pooms. When he returned to Goa, he is 
said to have made enemies among the persons 
composing the Portuguese administration of In- 
dia, by writing a satire, in which their infamous 
conduct was severely reprobated. They applied 
for redress to Barreto, who was then exercising 
the powers of viceroy, and Camoens was sent, 
or, as it is sometimes expressed, banished, to 
China. Arriving at Macao, he held the office 
of Provedor dos Defuntos, or commissary for 
the effects of persons deceased. The situa- 
tion appears to have been both profitable and 
easy, for he amassed a small fortune, and found 
much leisure from the details of business, which 
he devoted to his poem. He spent much of his 
time in a grotto overlooking the sea, and there 
the greater part of the “ Lusiad’’ is said to 
have been written. The place is still shown 
to strangers as the Grotto of Camoens. 

After a few years passed in this manner, he 
was invited by Constantino de Braganza, the 
new viceroy, to return to Goa. He embarked 
with the little fortune he had accumulated, but 
his evil destiny still pursued him, and he was 
wrecked at the mouth of the river Mecon, es- 
caping with his life, and saving only the manu- 
script of his ‘ Lusiad,” which he justly regarded 
as the most precious of his possessions. He 
thus alludes to his misfortune in the seventh 
canto of the poem :— 


«¢ Now blest with all the wealth fond hope could crave, 
Soon I beheld that wealth beneath the wave 
For ever lost ;— myself escaped alone, 
On the wild shore all friendless, hopeless, thrown; 
My life, like Judah’s Heaven-doomed king of yore, 
By miracle prolonged.”’ 


He was kindly treated by the natives of the 
country, among whom he remained some days. 
He is said to have written, at this time, his par- 
aphrase of the one hundred and thirty-seventh 
Psalm. Arriving at Goa in 1561, he was 
well received by the viceroy, to whom he ad- 
dressed a poem, in imitation of the epistle of 
Horace to Augustus. The departure of Con- 
stantino, the same year, again exposed Camoens 
to the machinations of his enemies. He was 
arrested and imprisoned, on a charge of malver- 
sation in the office he had held at Macao. 


‘* Woes, succeeding woes, 
Belied my earnest hope of sweet repose ; 
In place of bays around my brows to shed 
Their sacred honors o’er my destined head, 
Foul calumny proclaimed the fraudful tale, 
And left me mourning in a dreary jail.” 


He proved his innocence, but was still detain- 
ed in custody by a hard creditor, named Miguel 
Rodrigues Coutinho, to whom he owed a trifling 
debt. From his prison he addressed some play- 
ful verses to the viceroy, praying to be released, 
and he was at length liberated. He remained 
in India several years longer, occupying his 
winters in composition, and the spring and 
summer serving as a volunteer in the military 
and nayal expeditions, always displaying a bra- 
very in danger, and a cheerful fortitude under 
hardships and misfortunes, which won for him 
the love and admiration of his companions in 
arms. 

About this time he is said to have heard of 
the death of Catharina de Attayda. He laments 
her loss and commemorates her virtues in sev- 
eral of his most beautiful poems. The follow- 
ing sonnet on that subject was translated by 
Hayley : — 

‘‘ While, pressed with woes from which it cannot flee, 
My fancy sinks, and slumber seals my eyes, 
Her spirit hastens in my dreams to rise, 
Who was in life but as a dream to me. 
O’er the drear waste, so wide no eye can see 
How far its sense-evading limit lies, 
1 follow her quick step; but, ah, she flies! 
Our distance widening by fate’s stern decree. 
‘Fly not from me, kind shadow!’ I exclaim ;— 
She, with fixed eyes, that her soft thoughts reveal, 
And seemed to say, ‘Forbear thy fond design,’ — 
Still fies. I call her, but her half-formed name 
Dies on my faltering tongue ; — I wake, and feel 
Not e’en one short delusion can be mine.” 


Having at length completed the “ Lusiad,”” Ca- 
moens determined to return to Europe, and lay 
the work at the feet of his sovereign, the youth- 
ful Dom Sebastian; but not having the means 
in his power, he accepted an invitation to ac- 
company Pedro Barreto, who was on the point 
of embarking to assume the government of 
Sofala. This vain, mean, and tyrannical man 
soon made the condition of Camoens intolerable; 
and when some of his friends, who had newly 
arrived, relieved his pressing wants, and invited 
him to‘join them on their return to Portugal, 
Barreto refused to let him go until he had paid 
two hundred ducats, which he asserted Camo- — 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


ens owed him, The money was contributed 
by the gentlemen, and Camoens continued his 
homeward voyage. He reached Portugal in 
1569. King Sebastian was at this time mak- 
ing preparations for his disastrous expedition to 
Africa, and had but little time or thought for 
the merits and services of a man like Camoens. 
The “ Lusiad”’ was not published until two years 
afterwards; and the king is said to have granted 
the poet an insignificant pension. The poem 
was received with enthusiasm, and was reprint- 
ed within a year. The situation’ of Camoens, 
however, became more and more disheartening. 
He was poor, and no further favor or assistance 
was offered him by the court. His health was 
so broken by the hardships he had undergone 
and by the climate of India, that he was una- 
ble to write; and he is said to have sunk into 
such extreme and utter poverty, that his exist- 
ence was maintained from day to day by his 
servant Antonio, a native of Java, whom he 
had brought home from India, and who begged 
by night for the bread which kept his master 
from starving the following day. At length, he 
was reduced so low that he lost all power of 
exertion. He closed his days in a hospital, 
dying in 1579, at the age of fifty-five. The 
very sheet in which he was shrouded was the 
gift of charity. His deathbed was watched by 
a friar, Josepe Indio, who wrote in a copy of the 
first edition of the “Lusiad”’ these words: — 
‘‘ How miserable a thing to see so great a genius 
so ill rewarded! I saw him die ina hospital at 
Lisbon, without possessing a shroud to cover his 
remains, after having borne arms victoriously in 
India, and having sailed five thousand five hun- 
dred leagues : — a warning for those who weary 
themselves by studying night and day without 
profit, as the spider who spins his web to catch 
flies.”’ 

Besides the * Lusiad,’’ Camoens wrote son- 
nets, songs, odes, elegies, eclogues, redondilhas, 
epigrams, epistles, and three comedies, They all 
exhibit an exalted genius, and the noblest traits 
of character. But his great national epic, the 
“ Lusiad,” is the crowning glory of his life, and 
the highest literary claim that his country has to 
urge upon the respect of foreign nations. In it 
are immortalized the grand discoveries of Vasco 
de Gama, and the illustrious deeds that adorn 
the annals of the great age of Portugal, — the 
age of enthusiasm, adventure, and gigantic en- 
terprise. In spirit and style it is more national 
than any other heroic poem of modern times ; 
and notwithstanding the incongruities of the su- 
pernatural machinery, introduced by the poet in 
compliance with the pedantic views that pre- 
vailed in his age, it must be considered an ad- 
mirable monument of genius. It displays great 
powers of invention, the most plastic command 
of style, and, at times, a wonderful sublimity of 
conception. Many passages are adorned with 
the most exquisite beauties and the most melt- 
ing tenderness of sentiment, the richest music 
of language and the most glowing imagery. 


Above all, it is informed with the profound and 
impassioned feelings of the poet’s heart. 

The “ Lusiad” has been translated into nearly 
all the languages of modern Europe, not to 
mention the versions into Hebrew and Latin. 
The best account of the author is found in the 
“ Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Luis de 
Camoens,” by John Adamson, London, 1820, 
2 vols., 8vo. 


a 


FROM THE LUSIAD. 


IGNEZ DE CASTRO. 


Waite glory thus Alonzo’s name adorned, 
To Lisboa’s shores the happy chief returned, 
In glorious peace and well deserved repose 
His course of fame and honored age to close. 
When now, O king, a damsel’s fate severe,! 

A fate which ever claims the woful tear, 

Disgraced his honors. On the nymph’s lorn 
head 

Relentless rage its bitterest rancor shed: 

Yet such the zeal her princely lover bore, 

Her breathless corse the crown of Lisboa wore. 

"T was thou, O Love, whose dreaded shafts 
control 

The hind’s rude heart, and tear the hero’s soul; 

Thou ruthless power, with bloodshed never 
cloyed, 

"T was thou thy lovely votary destroyed, 

Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, 

In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow ; 

The breast, that feels thy purest flames divine, 

With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine. 

Such thy dire triumphs ! — Thou, O Nymph, the 
while, 

Prophetic of the god's unpitying guile, 

In tender scenes by lovesick fancy wrought, 

By fear oft shifted as by fancy brought, 

In sweet Mondego’s ever-verdant bowers, 

Languished away the slow and lonely hours: 

While now, as terror waked thy boding fears, 

The conscious stream received thy pearly tears; 

And now, as hope revived the brighter flame, 

Each echo sighed thy princely lover’s name. 

Nor less could absence from thy prince remove 

The dear remembrance of his distant love : 

Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow, 

And o’er his melting heart endearing flow: 

By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms, 

By day his thoughts still wander o’er thy charms; 

By night, by day, each thought thy loves employ, 

Each thought the memory or the hope of joy. 

Though fairest princely dames invoked his love, 

No princely dame his constant faith could move: 

For thee alone his constant passion burned, 

For thee the proffered royal maids he scorned. 

Ah, hope of bliss too high ! — the princely dames 

Refused, dread rage the father’s breast inflames: 


1 Dona Ignez de Castro, daughter of a Castilian gentle- 
man who had taken refuge in the court of Portugal, and 
privately married to Dom Pedro; she was, however, cruelly 
murdered, at the instigation of the politicians, on account 
of her partiality to Castilians. 


eee 


CAMOENS. 


PSSST | 


741 


ts ae nscale ee 


He, with an old man’s wintry eye, surveys 

The youth’s fond love, and coldly with it weighs 

The people’s murmurs of his son’s delay 

To bless the nation with his nuptial day ; 

Alas ! the nuptial day was passed unknown, 

Which but when crowned the prince could dare 
to own ;) 

And with the fair one’s blood the vengeful sire 

Resolves to quench his Pedro’s faithful fire. 

O thou dread sword, oft stained with heroes’ gore, 

Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, 

What rage could aim thee at a female breast, 

Unarmed, by softness and by love possessed ? 


Dragged from her bower by murderous, ruffian 
hands, 
Before the frowning king fair Ignez stands; 
Her tears of artless innocence, her air 
So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair, 
Moved the stern monarch ; when with eager zeal 
Her fierce destroyers urged the public weal : 
Dread rage again the tyrant’s soul possessed, 
And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confessed. 
O’er her fair face a sudden paleness spread ; 
Her throbbing heart with generous anguish bled, 
Anguish to view her lover’s hopeless woes ; 
And all the mother in her bosom rose. 
Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops 
drowned, 
To heaven she lifted, but her hands were bound ; 
Then on her infants turned the piteous glance, 
The look of bleeding woe: the babes advance, 
Smiling in innocence of infant age, 
Unawed, unconscious of their grandsire’s rage ; 
To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, 
The native, heart-sprung eloquence of woe, 
The lovely captive thus: —‘O monarch, hear, 
If e’er to thee the name of man was dear, — 
If prowling tigers, or the wolf’s wild brood, 
Inspired by nature with the lust of blood, 
Have yet been moved the weeping babe to spare, 
Nor left, but tended with a nurse’s care, 
As Rome’s great founders to the world were 
given 5 
Shalt thou, who wear’st the sacred stamp of 
Heaven, 
The human form divine, — shalt thou deny 
That aid, that pity, which e’en beasts supply ? 
O, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, 
Of human mould! superfluous were my prayer; 
Thou couldst not then a helpless damsel slay, 
Whose sole offence in fond affection lay, 
In faith to him who first his love confessed, 
Who first to love allured her virgin breast. 
In these my babes shalt thou thine image see, 
And still tremendous hurl thy rage on me? 
Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare, 
O, let these infants prove thy pious care! 
Yet pity’s lenient current ever flows 
From that brave breast where genuine valor 
rlows 3 
That thou art brave let vanquished Afric tell, 
Then let thy pity o’er mine anguish swell ; 
Ab! let my woes, unconscious of a crime, 
Procure mine exile to some barbarous clime: 


| 

%: 
Give me to wander o’er the burning plains | 
Of Lybia’s deserts, or the wild domains | 
Of Scythia’s snow-clad rocks and frozen shore ; 
There let me, hopeless of return, deplore. 
Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale, 
Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale, 
The lion’s roaring, and the tiger’s yell, 
There with mine infant race consigned to dwell, 
There let me try that piety to find, 
In vain by me implored from human-kind : 
There in some dreary cavern’s rocky womb, 
Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, 
For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow, 
The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow: 
All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear 
These infant pledges of a love so dear, — 
Amidst my griefs a soothing, glad employ, 


015 
Amidst my fears a woful, hopeless joy.” 


In tears she uttered. As the frozen snow, 
Touched by the spring’s mild ray, begins to 
flow, — 
So just began to melt his stubborn soul, 
As mild-rayed pity o’er the tyrant stole : 
But destiny forbade. With eager zeal, 
Again pretended for the public weal, 
Her fierce accusers urged her speedy doom ; 
Again dark rage diffused its horrid gloom 
O’er stern Alonzo’s brow: swift at the sign, 
Their swords unsheathed around her brandished 
shine. 
O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, 
By men of arms an helpless lady slain! 


Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire, 
Fulfilled the mandate of his furious sire: 
Disdainful of the frantic matron’s prayer, 

On fair Polyxena, her last fond care, 

He rushed, his blade yet warm with Priam’s 
gore, 

And dashed the daughter on the sacred floor ; 

While mildly she her raving mother eyed, 

Resigned her bosom to the sword, and died. 

Thus Ignez, while her eyes to Heaven appeal, 

Resigns her bosom to the murdering steel : 

That snowy neck, whose matchless form sus- 

tained 

The loveliest face, where all the Graces reigned, 

Whose charms so long the gallant prince in- 

flamed, 

That her pale corse was Lisboa’s queen pro- 

claimed, — 

That snowy neck was stained with spouting 

gore ; 

Another sword her lovely bosom tore. 

The flowers, that glistened with her tears be- 

dewed, 

Now shrunk and languished with her blood im- 
brued. 

As when a rose, erewhile of bloom so gay, 

Thrown from the careless virgin’s breast away, | 

Lies faded on the plain, the living red, 

The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled; 

So from her cheeks the roses died away, 

And pale in death the beauteous Ignez lay. 


742 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


With dreadful smiles, and crimsoned with her 
blood, 

Round the wan victim the stern murderers stood, 

Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, 

Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power. 


Whate’er this prodigy, it threatens more 
Than midnight tempests and the mingled roar, 


When sea and sky combine to rock the marble 
shore.”’ 


I spoke ; — when, rising through the dark- 
ened air, 
Appalled we saw an hideous phantom glare ; 
High and enormous o’er the flood he towered, 
And ’thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered. 
An earthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread ; 
Erect uprose his hairs of withered red ; 
Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, 
Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth’s blue 
rows; 
His haggard beard flowed quivering on the wind, 
Revenge and horror in his mien combined ; 
His clouded front, by withering lightnings 
scarred, 
The inward anguish of his soul declared ; 
His red eyes glowing from their dusky caves 
Shot livid fires; far echoing o’er the waves 
His voice resounded, as the caverned shore 
With hollow groan repeats the tempest’s roar. 
Cold-gliding horrors thrilled each hero’s breast ; 
Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed 
Wild dread ;—the while, with visage ghastly wan, 
His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began :— 


O sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold, 
Nor veil thine head in darkness, — as of old 
A sudden night unwonted horror cast 
O’er that dire banquet, where the sire’s repast 
The son’s torn limbs supplied ?— Yet you, ye 
vales, 
Ye distant forests, and ye flowery dales, 
When, pale and sinking to the dreadful fall, 
You heard her quivering lips on Pedro call ; 
Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound, 
And “ Pedro! Pedro!” mournful, sighed around. 
Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego’s groves 
Bewailed the memory of her hapless loves: 
Her griefs they wept, and to a plaintive rill 
Transformed their tears, which weeps and mur- 
murs still ; 
To give immortal pity to her woe, 
They taught the rivulet through her bowers to 
flow ; 
And still through violet beds the fountain pours 
Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours. 
Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain: 
Her gallant lord begins his awful reign. 
In vain her murderers for refuge fly ; 
Spain’s wildest hills no place of rest supply. 
The ‘njured lover’s and the monarch’s ire, 
And stern-browed justice, in their doom conspire : 
In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls 
in fire. 


**O you, the boldest of the nations, fired 
By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired ; 
Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose, 
Through these my waves advance your fearless 
prows, 
Regardless of the lengthening watery way, 
And all the storms that own my sovereign sway ; 
Who, ’mid surrounding rocks and shelves, ex- 
plore 
Where never hero braved my rage before ; — 
Ye sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane 
Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign, 
Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature 
drew 
To veil her secret shrine from mortal view: 
Hear from my lips what direful woes attend, 
And bursting soon shall o’er your race descend ! 


THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE. 


Now ‘prosperous gales the bending canvass 
swelled; 


From these rude shores our fearless course we 
held. 

Beneath the glistening wave the god of day 

Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray, 

When o’er the prow a sudden darkness spread, 

And slowly floating o’ér the mast’s tall head 

A black cloud hovered; nor appeared from far 

The moon’s pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling 
star: 

So deep a gloom the lowering vapor cast, 


““ With every bounding keel that dares my rage 
Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage ; 
The next proud fleet! that through my drear 


Transfixed with awe, the bravest stood aghast. domain, ; 
Meanwhile a hollow bursting roar resounds, With daring search, shall hoist the streaming 
As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds; vane, — 


Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning 
heaven, 

The wonted signs of gathering tempest given. 

Amazed we stood.—‘O thou, our fortune’s 
guide, 

Avert this omen, mighty God!” I cried. 

“Or through forbidden climes adventurous 
strayed, 

Have we the secrets of the deep surveyed, 

Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky 


Were doomed to hide from man’s unhallowed 
eye? 


That gallant navy, by my whirlwinds tossed, 
And raging seas, shall perish on my coast; 
Then he, who first my secret reign descried, 

A naked corse wide floating o’er the tide 

Shall drive. Unless my heart’s full raptures fail, 
O Lusus, oft shalt thou thy children wail ; 


1 On the return of Gama to Portugal, a fleet of thirteen 
sail, under the command of Pedro Alvarez de Cabral, was 
Sent out on the second voyage to India, where the admiral, 
with only six ships, arrived. The rest were ‘mostly destroyed 


by a terrible tempest at the Cape of Good Hope, which lasted 
twenty days. 


Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou de- 
plore, 

Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my 

shore. 


‘© With trophies plumed behold a hero come! ? 
Ye dreary wilds, prepare his yawning tomb! 
Though smiling fortune blessed his youthful 

morn, 
Though glory’s rays his Jaurelled brows adorn, 
Full oft though he beheld with sparkling eye 
The Turkish moons in wild confusion fly, 
While he, proud victor, thundered in the rear, — 
All, all his mighty fame shall vanish here: 
Quiloa’s sons, and thine, Mombaze, shall see 
Their conqueror bend his laurelled head to me; 
While, proudly mingling with the tempest’s 
sound, 
Their shouts of joy from every cliff rebound. 


“The howling blast, ye slumbering storms, 
repare ! 
A youthful lover and his beauteous fair 
Triumphant sail from India’s ravaged land ; 
His evil angel leads him to my strand. 
Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall 
roar, 

The shattered wrecks shall blacken all my shore. 
Themselves escaped, despoiled by savage hands, 
Shall naked wander o’er the burning sands, 
Spared by the waves far deeper woes to bear, 
Woes even by me acknowledged with a tear. 
Their infant race, the promised heirs of joy, 
Shall now no more an hundred hands employ ; 
By cruel want, beneath the parents’ eye, 
In these wide wastes their infant race shall die. 
Through dreary wilds, where never pilgrim trod, 
Where caverns yawn and rocky fragments nod, 
The hapless lover and his bride shall stray, 
By night unsheltered, and forlorn by day. 
In vain the lover o’er the trackless plain 
Shall dart his eyes, and cheer hjs spouse in vain; 
Her tender limbs, and breast of mountain snow, 
Where ne’er before intruding blast might blow, 
Parched by the sun, and shrivelled by the cold 
Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. 
Thus wandering wide,a thousand ills o’erpassed, 
In fond embraces they shall sink at last ; 
While pitying tears their dying eyes o’erflow, 
And the last sigh shall wail each other’s woe. 


‘© Some few, the sad companions of their fate, 
Shall yet survive, protected by my hate, 
On Tagus’ banks the dismal tale to tell 
How blasted by my frown your heroes fell.” 


He paused, in act still further to disclose 
A long, a dreary prophecy of woes; 
When, springing onward, loud my voice re- 
sounds, 
And ’midst his rage the threatening shade con- 
founds: 


2 Dom Francisco‘de Almeyda, first Portuguese viceroy of 
India, where he obtained several great victories over the 


Mohammedans and pagans. 


sae a A a No A INT at An aE RS I 


= ee . as RE a ee hye Pee ee 


CAMOENS. 


«© What art thou, horrid form, that rid’st the air? 
By heaven’s eternal light, stern fiend, declare!” 
His lips he writhes, his eyes far round he throws, 
And from his breast deep hollow groans arose ; 
Sternly askance he stood: with wounded pride 
And anguish torn, “In me, behold,” he cried, 
While dark-red sparkles from his eyeballs rolled, 
“In me, the Spirit of the Cape behold, — 
That rock by you the Cape of Tempests named, 
By Neptune’s rage in horrid earthquakes framed, 
When Jove’s red bolts o’er Titan’s offspring 
flamed. 
With wide-stretched piles I guard the pathless 
strand, 
And Afric’s southern mound unmoved I stand: 
Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar, 
F’er dashed the white wave foaming to my shore; 
Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail 
On these my seas to catch the trading gale ;— 
You, you alone, have dared to plough my main, 
And with the human voice disturb my lonesome 
reign.” 


He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he 

drew, 

A doleful sound, and vanished from the view: 

The frightened billows gave a rolling swell, 

And distant far prolonged the dismal yell; 

Faint and more faint the howling echoes die, 

And the black cloud dispersing leaves the sky. 

High to the angel host, whose guardian care 

Had ever round us watched, my hands I rear, 

And heaven’s dread King implore, — “ As o’er 
our head 

The fiend dissolved, an empty shadow, fled ; 

So may his curses by the winds of heaven 

Far o’er the deep, their idle sport, be driven !’ 


With sacred horror thrilled, Melinda’s lord 
Held up the eager hand, and caught the word : 
‘«©Q wondrous faith of ancient days,” he cries, 
«¢ Concealed in mystic lore and dark disguise ! 
Taught by their sires, our hoary fathers tell, 
On these rude shores a giant spectre fell, 

What time from heaven the rebel band were 
thrown: 

And oft the wandering swain has heard his moan. 

While o’er the wave the clouded moon appears 

To hide her weeping face, his voice he rears 

O’er the wild storm. Deep in the days of yore 

A holy pilgrim trod the nightly shore ; 

Stern groans he heard; by ghostly spells con- 
trolled, 

His fate mysterious thus the spectre told: — 


“© ¢ By forceful Titan’s warm embrace com- 

pressed, ; 

The rock-ribbed mother Earth his love con- 
fessed ; 

The hundred-handed giant, at a birth, 

And me she bore. Nor slept my hopes on earth ; 

My heart avowed my sire’s ethereal flame : 

Great Adamastor then my dreaded name. 

In my bold brothers’ glorious toils engaged, 

Tremendous war against the gods I waged: 


(Be 
iy 
(a 
; 
. 
: 
| 


» 


—= 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


Yet not to reach the throne of heaven I try, 
With mountain piled on mountain to the sky ; 
To me the conquest of the seas befell, 

In his green realm the second Jove to quell, 
Nor did ambition all my passions hold; 

"T was love that prompted an attempt so bold. 
Ah me! one summer, in the cool of day, 

I saw the Nereids on the sandy bay, 

With lovely Thetis, from the wave advance 
In mirthful frolic and the naked dance : 

In all her charms revealed the goddess trode. 


With fiercest fires my struggling bosom glowed: 


Yet, yet I feel them burning in my heart, 

And hopeless languish with the raging smart. 

For her, each goddess of the heavens I scorned; 

For her alone my fervent ardor burned, 

In vain I wooed her to the lover’s bed ; 

From my grim form with horror mute she fled, 

Maddening with love, by force I ween to gain 

The silver goddess of the blue domain; 

To the hoar mother of the Nereid band 

I tell my purpose, and her aid command: 

By fear impelled, old Doris tries to move 

And win the spouse of Peleus to my love. 

The silver goddess with a smile replies, 

‘What nymph can yield her charms a giant’s 
prize ? :; 

Yet from the horrors of a war to save, 

And guard in peace, our empire of the wave, 

Whate’er with honor he may hope to gain, 

That let him hope his wish shall soon attain.” 

The promised grace infused a bolder fire, 

And shook my mighty limbs with fierce de- 
sire. 

But, ah, what error spreads its dreamful might! 

What phantoms hover o’er the lover’s sight! 

The war resigned, my steps by Doris led, 

While gentle eve her shadowy mantle spread, 


Before my steps the snowy Thetis shone 


In all her charms, all naked,.and alone. 

Swift as the wind, with open arms I sprung, 
And round her waist with joy delirious clung ; 
In all the transports of the warm embrace, 

An hundred kisses on her angel face, 

On all its various charms, my rage bestows, 
And on her cheek my cheek enraptured glows: 
When — 0, what anguish, while my shame [ 


tell! 
What fixed despair, what rage my bosom 
swell] ! — 


Here was no goddess, here no heavenly charms; 

A rugged mountain filled my eager arms, 

Whose rocky top, o’erhung with matted brier, 

Received the kisses of my amorous fire. 

Waked from my dream, cold horror freezed my 
blood; 

Fixed as a rock before the rock I stood: 

**O fairest goddess of the ocean train, 

Behold the triumph of thy proud disdain! 

Yet why,” I cried, * with all I wished decoy, 

And, when exulting in the dream of joy, 

An horrid mountain to mine arms convey?” 

Maddening I spoke, and furious sprung away. 

Far to the south I sought the world unknown, 

Where I, unheard, unscorned, might wail alone, 


My foul dishonor and my tears to hide, 

And shun the triumph of the goddess’ pride. 

My brothers now, by Jove'’s red arm o’erthrown, 

Beneath huge mountains piled on mountains 
groan ; 

And I, who taught each echo to deplore, 

And tell my sorrows to the desert shore, — 

I felt the hand of Jove my crimes pursue; 

My stiffening flesh to earthy ridges grew ; 

And my huge bones, no more by marrow 
warmed, 

To horrid piles and ribs of rock transformed, 

Yon dark-browed cape of monstrous size became; 

Where round me still, in triumph o’er my shame, 

The silvery Thetis bids her surges roar, 

And waft my groans along the dreary shore.’ ”’ 


CANCAO. 

Cansr thou forget the silent tears 
Which I have shed for thee, — 
And all the pangs, and doubts, and fears, 
Which scattered o’er my bloom of years 

The blights of misery ? 


I never close my languid eye, 
Unless to dream of thee; 

My every breath is but the sigh, 

My every sound the broken cry, 
Of lasting misery. 


O, when in boyhood’s happier scene 
I pledged my love to thee, 

How very little did I ween 

My recompense should now have been 
So much of misery ! 


CANZONET. 


Fiowers are fresh, and bushes green ; 
__Cheerily the linnets sing ; 
Winds are soft, and skies serene : | 
Time, bowever, soon shall throw 
Winter's snow 
O’er the buxom breast of Spring. 


Hope that buds-in lover’s heart 
Lives not through the scorn of years: 

Time makes: Love itself depart ; 
Time and scorn congeal the mind; 


Looks unkind 
Freeze Affection’s warmest tears. 


Time shall make the bushes green, 
Time dissolve the winter snow, 
Winds be soft, and skies serene, 
Linnets sing their wonted strain: 
But again 
Blighted Love shall never blow! 


STANZAS. 


I saw the virtuous man contend 
With life’s unnumbered woes ; 

And he was poor, — without a friend, — 
Pressed by a thousand foes. , 


I saw the Passions’ pliant slave 
In gallant trim, and gay ; 

His course was Pleasure’s placid wave, — 
His life, a summer’s day. 


And I was caught in Folly’s snare, 
And joined her giddy train, — 

But found her soon the nurse of Care, 
And Punishment, and Pain. 


There surely is some guiding power 
Which rightly suffers wrong, — 

Gives Vice to bloom its little hour, — 
But Virtue, late and long. 


CANCAO. 


Wuen day has smiled a soft farewell, 
And night-drops bathe each shutting bell, 
And shadows sail along the green, 

And birds are still and winds serene, 

I wander silently. 


And while my lone step prints the dew, 
Dear are the dreams that bless my view; 
To Memory’s eye the maid appears, 

For whom have sprung my sweetest tears, 
So oft, so tenderly ! 


I see her, as with graceful care 

She binds her braids of sunny hair; 

I feel her harp’s melodious thrill 
Strike to my heart, and thence be still 
Reéchoed faithfully. 


I meet her mild and quiet eye, 

Drink the warm spirit of her sigh, 

See young Love beating in her breast, 
And wish to mine its pulses pressed, — 


God knows how fervently ! 


Such are my hours of dear delight ; 
And morn but makes me long for night, 
And think how swift the minutes flew, 
When last amongst the dropping dew 

I wandered silently. 


CANGAO. 


O, wep not thus! — we both shall know 
Ere long a happier doom: 
There is a place of rest below, 
Where thou and I shall surely go, 
And sweetly sleep, released from woe, 
Within the tomb. 


My cradle was the couch of Care, 
And Sorrow rocked me in it: 
Fate seemed her saddest robe to wear, 

On the first day that saw me there, 


And darkly shadowed with despair 
My earliest minute. 


E en then the griefs I now possess 
As natal boons were given ; 
And the fair form of Happiness, 
94 


POR Oia 


CAMOENS. 


Which hovered round, intent to bless, 
Scared by the phantoms of distress, 


Flew back to heaven. 


For I was made in Joy’s despite, 


And meant for Misery’s slave ; 


And all my hours of brief delight 
Fled, like the speedy winds of night, 
Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight 


Across my grave. 


STANZAS. 


TO NIGHT. 

Nicut ! to thee my vows are paid ; 
Not that e’er thy quiet shade 
Me, in bower of dalliance laid 

Blest and blessing, covers : 
No, — for thy friendly veil was made 

To shroud successful lovers ; 

And I, Heaven knows, 

Have never yet been one of those 
Whose love has proved a thornless rose ! 


But since, as piteous of my pain, 

Goddess! when I to thee complain 

Of truth despised and hard disdain, 
Thou dost so mutely listen ; 

For this, around thy solemn fane 
Young buds I strew, that glisten 

With tears of woe 
By jealous Tithon made to flow, 
From Morning, — thine eternal foe ! 


——— 


CANZONET. 


How sprightly were the roundelays 
I sang in Love’s beginning days! 
Now, alas, I but deplore 

Death of all that blessed before ! 


Then my heart was in its prime, — 
'T was Affection’s budding-time ! 

It is broken now, and knows 

One sense only, —sense of woes! 


Joy was whilom dashed with ill, 
Yet my songs were cheerful still ; 
They were like the captive’s strains, 
Chanted to the sound of chains! 


CANZONET. 


Since in this dreary vale of tears 

No certainty but death appears, 

Why should we waste our vernal years 
In hoarding useless treasure ¢ 


No, —let the young and ardent mind 
Become the friend of human-kind, 
And in the generous service find 

A source of purer pleasure ! 


Better to live despised and poor, 
Than guilt’s eternal stings endure ; 
The future smile of God shall cure 
The wound of earthly woes. 
3K 


— 


746 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


Vain world! did we but rightly feel 

What ills thy treacherous charms conceal, 

How would we long from thee to steal 
To death, —and sweet repose ! 


CANCAO. 


"T 1s done! by human hopes and human aid 

Abandoned, and unpitied left to mourn, 

I weep o’er all my wrongs; o’er friends fast 
sworn, 

Whose friendship but betrayed, 

But whose firm hatred not so soon decayed. 

The land that witnessed my return, 

The land I loved above all lands on earth, 

Twice cast me like a weed away ; 

And the world left me to the storm a prey: 

While the sweet airs I first drank at my birth, 

My native airs, once round me wont to blow, 

No more were doomed to fan the exile’s fever- 
ish brow. 

O strange, unhappy sport of mortal things ! 

To live, yet live in vain; 

Bereft of all that Nature’s bounty brings, 

That life to sweeten or sustain ; 

Doomed still to draw my painful breath, 

Though borne so often to the gates of death. 

For, ah, not mine — like the glad mariner 

To his long-wished-for home restored at last, 

Telling his chances to his babes, and her 

Whose hope had ceased —to paint misfortunes 
past : 

Through the dread deep my, bark, still onwards 
borne, 5 

As the fierce waves drive o’er it tempest-torn, 

Speeds ’midst strange horrors to its fatal bourn. 

Yet shall not storms or flattering calms delude 

My voyage more; no mortal port is mine: 

So may the Sovereign Ruler of the flood 

Quell the loud surge, and with a voice divine 

Hush the fierce tempest of my soul to rest, — 

The last dear hope of the distressed, 

And the lost voyager’s last unerring sign. 

But man — weak man ! — will ever fondly cast 

A forward glance on beckoning forms of' bliss ; 

And when he deems the beauteous vision his, 

Grasps but the painful memory of the past. 

In tears my bread is steeped ; the cup I drain 

Is filled with tears, that never cease to flow, 

Save when with dreams of pleasure short and 
vain 

I chase the conscious pangs of present woe. 


SONNETS. 


Frw years I number, — years of anxious care, 

Sad hours and’ seasons of unceasing woe ; 

My fifth short lustre saw my youth laid low: 

So soon was overcast life’s morning fair ! 

Far lands and seas I roamed, some hope to 
share 

Of solace for the cares that stamped my brow: 

But they, whom fortune fails, in vain bestow 

Stern toils, and imminent hazards vainly dare. 


Beside Alanquer first my painful breath 

I drew, ’midst pleasant fields of fruits and 
flowers ; 

But fate hath driven me on, and dooms that here 

These wretched limbs be rendered up to death, 

A prey to monsters of the sea, where lowers 

The Abyssinian steep, far from my country dear. 


Au, vain desires, weak wishes, hopes that fade ! 

Why with your shadowy forms still mock my 
view ? 

The hours return not; nor could Time renew, 

Though he should now return, my youth de- 
cayed : 

But lengthened years roll on in deepening shade, 

And warn you hence. The pleasures we pursue 

Vary, with every fleeting day, their hue ; 

And our frail wishes alter soon as made. 

The forms I loved, all once most dear, are fled, 

Or changed, or no more the same semblance 
wear 

To me, whose thoughts are changed, whose 
Joys are dead: 

For evil times and fortunes what small share 

Of bliss was mine with daily cares consume, 

Nor leave a hope to gild the hours to come. 


Wuar is there left in this vain world to crave, 
To love, to see, more than I yet have seen ? 
Stull wearying cares, disgusts and coldness, 
spleen, 
Hate, and despair, and death, whose banners 
wave : 
Alike o’er all! Yet, ere I reach the grave, 
‘T is mine to learn, no woes nor anguish keen 
Hasten the hour of rest; woes that have been, 
And worse to come, if worse, ’t is mine to brave. 
I hold the future frowns of fate in scorn ; 
Against them all hath death a stern relief 
Afforded, since my best-loved friend was torn 
From this sad breast. In life I find but grief ; 
By death with deepest woe my heart was riven : 
For this alone I drew the breath of heaven ! 


SweEeEtT Ly was heard the anthem’s choral strain, 

And myriads bowed before the sainted shrine, 

In solemn reverence to their Sire Divine, 

Who gave the Lamb, for guilty mortals slain : 

-When, in the midst of God’s eternal fane, — 

Ah, little weening of his fell design! — 

Love bore the heart, which since hath ne’er 
been mine, 

To one who seemed of Heaven’s elected train ! 

For sanctity of place or time were vain, 

’Gainst that blind archer’s soul-consuming 
power, 

Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above. 

O lady! since I’ve worn thy gentle chain, 

How oft have I deplored each wasted hour, 

When I was free, and had not learned to 
love! 


Sitent and cool, now freshening breezes blow 

Where groves of chestnut crown yon shadowy 
steep ; 

And all around the tears of evening weep 

For closing day, whose vast orb, westering slow, 

Flings o’er the embattled clouds a mellower 
glow ; 

While hum of 
deep, 

And falling rills, such gentle cadence keep, 

As e’en might soothe the weary heart of woe. 

Yet what to me is eve, what evening airs, 

Or falling rills, or ocean’s murmuring sound, 

While sad and comfortless I seek in vain 

Her who in absence turns my joy to cares, 

And, as I cast my listless glances round, 

Makes varied scenery but varied pain‘ 


folded herds, and murmuring 


— 


ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINA DE ATTAYDA. 


Tose charming eyes, within whose starry 
sphere 

Love whilom sat, and smiled the hours away, — 

Those braids of light, that shamed the beams 
of day, — 

That hand benignant, and that heart sincere, — 

Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear 

Like snow-banks scattered with the blooms of 
May, 

Turned to a little cold and worthless clay, 

Are gone, for ever gone, and perished here, — 

But not unbathed by Memory’s warmest tear ! 

Death ! thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour, 

That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a 
flower, 

The mellower fruitage of its prime was given : 

Love saw the deed, —and, as he lingered near, 

Sighed o’er the ruin, and returned to heaven! 


eo 


Hieu in the glowing heavens, with cloudless 
beam, 

The sun had reached the zenith of his reign, 

And for the living fount, the gelid stream, 

Fach flock forsook the herbage of the plain ; 

Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade, 

The birds had sheltered from the scorching 
ray, — 

Hushed were their melodies, 
glade 

Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay ; — 

When through the glassy vale a lovelorn swain, 

To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 

Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved : 


and grove and 


“© Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer 
cried, 

“© By whom thou art not loved ?’’ —and thus 
replied 

An echo’s murmuring voice, — “ Thou art not 
loved!” 


— 


Farr Tejo! thou, whose calmly flowing tide 
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 


CAMOENS. 


ee 


Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide, — 

Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs 
and swains : 

Sweet stream! I know not when my steps 
again 

Shall tread thy shores , and while to part I 
mourn, 

I have no hope to meliorate my pain, 

No dream that whispers, — I may yet return ! 

My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 

Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair, 

Commands me thus to leave thee and repine : 

And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, 

And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, 

And blend my tears with other waves than thine ! 


— 


Sprrit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown 
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
Now is yon heaven eternally thine own, — 
Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here. 

O, if allowed in thy divine abode 

Of aught on earth an image to retain, 
Remember still the fervent love which glowed 
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain! 
And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 
Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies, — 
O, ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away, 
That I may join thee in those realms of day, 
Swiftly as thou hast vanished from mine eyes! 


Savep from the perils of the stormy wave, 

And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 

But just escaped from shipwreck’s billowy grave, 

Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 

How warm his vow, that Ocean’s fairest mien 

No more shall lure him from the smiles of home! 

Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 

Once more he turns, o’er boundless deeps to 
roam. 

Lady! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 

Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, 

Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free ; 

But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 

Still draws me back where countless perils reign, 

And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 


— 


Waves of Mondego, brilliant and serene + 
Haunts of my thought, where Memory fondly 
strays 5 

Where Hope allured me with perfidious mien, 
Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; 
Yes! I forsake your banks: but still my heart 
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, 
And, suffering not one image to depart, 

Find lengthening distance but endear you more. 
Let fortune’s will, through many a future day, 
To distant realms this mortal frame convey, 
Sport of each wind, and tossed on every wave ; 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, 

On thought’s light passion still shall fly to you, 
And still, bright waters, in your current lave ! 


) 


he 


Dida 


a 
a a a 


eee 


egarrcmenivnn ee TOUTE 
“ a 


ANTONIO FERREIRA. 


Tus elegant and classical poet has been 
ealled the Horace of Portugal. He was born at 
Lisbon, in 1528, and was educated at the Uni- 
versity of Coimbra, where he afterwards became 
a professor. He followed the example of Saa de 
Miranda in studying the Italian poets, and in 
writing exclusively in the Portuguese, notwith- 
standing the custom of the place to compose 
Latin verses. He was subsequently appointed 
to a place at court, and gained a high reputation 
by his literary acquirements and his critical 
ability. He died suddenly of the plague, in 
1569, in the forty-first year of his age. 

The reputation of Ferreira rests chiefly on 
his tragedy of “Ignez de Castro,” written after 
the antique model, with a chorus of Coimbrian 
women. The subject is the murder of Ignez 
de Castro, the wife of Dom Pedro, whose story 
is so beautifully told in the  Lusiad.” Th 
point of time, this is the second regular drama in 
modern literature ; the “ Sofonisba’”’ of Trissino 
having appeared a few years earlier. Ferreira 
composed also sonnets, epigrams, odes, poetical 
epistles, and various other minor poems, togeth- 

er with two comedies. 


—_—_—— 


SONNETS. 


O spirit pure, purer in realms above 
Than whilst thou tarriedst in this vale of pain, 
Why hast thou treated me with cold disdain, 
Nor, as thou ought’st, returned my faithful love ? 
Was it for this, thou hast so oft professed, — 
And thee believing was my heart secure, — 
That the same moment of death’s night ob- 
scure 
Should lead us both to days of happy rest? 
Ah, why, then, leave me thus imprisoned here? 
And how didst thou alone thy course pursue, 
My body lingering in existence drear 
Without its soul ?— Too clear the reason true !— 
Thy virtues rare the glorious palm obtain, 
While I, unworthy, sorrowful remain. 


To thy clear streams, Mondego, I return 

With renovated life and eyes now clear. 

How fruitless in thy waters fell the tear, 

When Love’s delirium did with me sojourn, — 

When I, with face betraying anguish deep, 

And hollow voice, and unsuspecting ear, 

Knew not the danger of the mo 

Whereon I stood, — of which 
fear 

The memory chills! Seducing wiles of Love! 

"Neath what vain shadows did you hide my 
fate, — 

Shadows that swiftly passed the happier state 

Which now this breast enjoys! Now peace I 
prove ; 

For smiling day succeeds the clouds of night, 


And sweet repose, and joys, and prospects 
bright. 


untain steep 
my soul with 


EY Lebel Lil Sate 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


Offspring of idleness, god of the vain ; 


Apollo, Mars, groan with the scorching wound. 


And, when he misses, causes bitterest woe. 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF IGNEZ DE CASTRO. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 
Wuen first young Love was born, 
Earth was with life imbued ; | 
The sun acquired his beams, the stars their light; 
Heaven shone in Nature’s morn ; | 
And, by the light subdued, 
Darkness revealed long-hidden charms to sight ; 
And she, the rosy-hued, 
Who rules heaven’s fairest sphere, 
Daughter of Ocean rude, — | 
She to the world gave Love, her offspring dear. 


"T is Love adorns our earth 
With verdure and soft dews ; 
With colors decks the flowers, with leaves the 
groves; 
Turns war to peace and mirth ; 
O’er harshness softness strews ; 
And melts a thousand hates in thousand loves. 
Incessant he renews ! | 
The lives stern Death consumes, 
And gives the brilliant hues 
In which earth’s beauteous picture ever blooms. 


The raging of his flames ! 
"T were cowardice to fear ; 
For Love is soft and tender as a child. 
His rage entreaty tames; | 
And passion’s starting tear 
He kisses from the eyes, tenderly mild. 
Within his quiver hear 
The golden arrows ring ; 
They deadly shafts appear; i 
But love-fraught, love-impelled, their flight they 
wing. 


Love sounds in every lay, | 
In every tuneful choir; | 
Tempestuous winds are lulled by his sweet voice ; 
Sorrow is chased away ; 
And in his genial fire 
The limpid streams, the hills and vales rejoice. 
Love’s own harmonious lyre 
In heaven is heard to sound ; 
And whilst his flames inspire 
Thy heart, thou, Castro, by Love’s God art 


crowned. 


* 


SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 


Raruer, a tyrant blind, 
Forged by the poet’s brain; 
Desire, deceit unkind, 


The never-failing bane 
Of all high thoughts inspire. 
His arrows, tipped with fire, 
Madly he hurls around: 


Aloft in air he flies, 
And the earth burns below ; 
His deadly shafts he plies, 


He glories foe with foe 


cab ena Sen SI et RIT PSA AEE ROS 


eee eae sins te LI hn BRAS ttt PR MID LOLI 


FERREIRA. 


tna 


In passion’s chains to bind ; 
And those by Fate designed 
For union, those he parts : 
Unsated he with tears, blood, breaking hearts. 


Into the tender breast 
Of chastely blushing maid, 
As time and chance suggest, 
He ’ll steal, or furiously her heart invade. 
The fire, by reason’s aid 
Extinguished, will revive ; 
In cold blood, scarce alive, 
In age’s snows will blaze, 
Kindling the inmost soul with beauty’s rays. 


From thence the venom streams 
Through the erst healthy frame: 
The slumbering spirit dreams 
In self-delusion, weaving webs of flame. 
Then disappear chaste shame 
And generous constancy 5 
Then death and misery 
Enter in softness’ guise, 
The heart is hardened, and the reason dies. 


From great Alcides’ hand 
Who snatched the iron mace, 
At foot of maiden bland 
Marking the lion-conqueror's maid-like place? 
The spoils of that dread chase 
Who turned to delicate 
Attire of female state 5 
And fingers, wont to burl 
War’s weapons round, the distaff forced to twirl? 


What other fire consumed 
The glories of old Troy? 
Or Spain, the mighty, doomed 
To groan beneath a paynim yoke’s annoy? 
A blind and wanton boy 
The noblest minds o’erthrew, 
Mangled, and maimed, and slew 3 
Triumphing over lives and blood, 
The prey of appetite’s remorseless mood. 


Blest, O, how wondrous blest, 
Who ’gainst the fatal dart 
Has known to guard his breast, 


MESSENGER. 


Tidings 
So cruel, that, in bearing them, myself 
Towards theeamcruel. But first calm thy spirit, 
And in it fashion of calamities 

The worst that could befall. A soul thus armed 
Is the best remedy against ill fortune. 


DOM PEPRO. 


Thou hold’st me in suspense. I pray thee, speak! 
Procrastination aggravates the ill. 


MESSENGER, 
That Dona Ignez, thou so lov’st, is dead ! 


DOM PEDRO. 


O God! O Heavens! What say’st thou? 


MESSENGER, 
By a death 
So cruel, to relate it were fresh sorrow. 


DOM PEDRO. 


Is dead? 

MESSENGER, 
She is. 

DOM PEDRO, 
Who murdered her? 


MESSENGER, 

This day, 
Thy father with armed followers surprised her. 
Secure in innocence, she did not fly ; 
But naught availed her, nor her love for thee, 
Nor yet thy sons, in whom she sought defence, 
No, nor the innocence and piety 
With which, down falling at thy father’s feet, 
So forcefully for pardon she entreated, 
That weeping he pronounced it. But even then 
His cruel ministers and counsellors 
Against a pardon so well merited 
Unsheathed their swords, and plunged them in 

her breast. 
They murdered her as she embraced her babes, 
Who there remained discolored with her blood. 


DOM PEDRO. 

What should I say? what do? what shriek or 
groan? 

O fortune! O barbarity! O grief! 


O mine own Dona Ignez! O my soul ! 


Or quench the flames whilst kindling in his 
heart ! 
Such grace doth Heaven impart 
But to a favored few. 
Vain joys, that quickly flew, 
Thousands with tears lament, 
And their submission to Love’s power repent. 


— 


DOM PEDRO’S LAMENT. 


MESSENGER. 
O, nnavy tidings! — A sad messenger, 
My lord, thou seest. 


DOM PEDRO. 
What tidings bring’st thou? 


And art thou slain? Hath death the audacity 
To touch thee? Do I hear it, and survive? 
I live, and thou art dead! O cruel death! 
My life thou ’st slain, and yet I am not dead! 
Open, thou earth, and swallow me at once! 
Burst, burst away, my soul, from this evil body, 
Whose weight by force detains thee ! 
O mine own Dona Ignez! O my soul! 
My love, my passion, my desire, my care, 
Mine only hope, my joy, and art thou murdered? 
They ’ve murdered thee! Thy soul, so innocent, 
So beautiful, so humble, and so holy, 
Has left its home! Thy blood has drenched 
their swords ! 
Thy blood! What cruel swords! 
hands! 


What cruel 


3K* 


How could they move against thee? Those 
hard weapons, 
How had they stren 
thee? 
How, cruel king, couldst thou allow the deed? 
Mine enemy, — not father, — enemy ! 
Wherefore thus murder me? 
Ye tigers, serpents! why, if for my blood 
Athirst, glutted ye not on me your rage ? 
Me had you slain, I might survive. B 
Wherefore not murder me ? 
Mine enemies, 
Your wrongs? 
meek lamb, 
Innocent, beautiful, sincere, and chaste; 
But you, as rancorous enemies, would slay me, — 
Not in my life, but soul. Ye heavens, that saw 
Such monstrous cruelty, how fell ye not? 
Ye mountains of Coimbra, ‘neath your rocks 
Why overwhelmed ye not such ministers? 
Why trembles not the earth? why opens not? 
Wherefore supports it such barbarity ? 


gth or edge, turned against 


Ye savage lions, 


arbarians, 
If wronged by me, 
why not on me revenge 

She had not wronged you, that 


MESSENGER. 
My lord, for weeping there is ample leisure ; 
But what can tears ’gainst death? I pray thee, 
now, 


Visit the corse, and render it due honors. 


DOM PEDRO. 
Sad honors! Other honors, lady mine, 
I had in store for thee, — honors thy due! 


How look upon those eyes, for ever closed ? 

Upon those tresses, now not gold, but blood? 

Upon those hands, so cold and livid now, 

That used to be so white and delicate ? 

On that fair bosom, pierced with cruel wounds? 

Upon that form, so often in mine arms 

Clasped living, beautiful, now dead and cold? 

How shall I see the pledges of our loves? 

O cruel father, didst thou not in them 

Behold thy son? Thou _ hear’st not, my be- 
loved ! 

I ne’er shall see thee more! throu 
world 

Shall never find thee! — Weep my 
me, 

All you who hear me! 
rocks, 

Since in men’s hearts dwells such b 

And thou, Coimbra, shroud thyself for ever 

In melancholy! Ne’er within thy walls 

Be laughter heard, or aught save te 

Be thy Mondego’s waters change 

Withered thy trees, thy flowers ! 
call 

Upon Heaven’s justice to avenge my woes! 

I slew thee, lady mine! 
thee ! t 

With death I recompensed thy tenderness! 

But far more cruelly than thee they slew 

Will I destroy myself, if I avenge not 

Thy murder with unheard-of cruelties ! 

For this alone does God prolong my life! 


ghout the 


griefs with 


Weep with me, ye 


arbarity ! 


ars and sighs! 
d to blood! 
Help me to 


F 


—— 


’T was I destroyed 


A 


PORTUGUESE P 


the post of Gentleman of the Chamber to Dom 
Duarte, brother of King Joao III., and after- 
wards enjoyed the favor of Sebastian. 
ha was not a poet of a high order of genius, 
but his style is elegant and correct. He has 


been called the Fontenelle of Portuguese litera- 
ture. 


his works 


We As Bs 


Wirnu equal force should sw 
As filled the spirits of those 
Whose valorous deeds secured the world’s ac- 


In lively tints, revealing to the eye, 
The achievements grand which bear thy Muse’s 


The beauties of thy verse and feel its power, 
Is due the approving meed, the bard’s immortal 


OETRY. 


With mine own hands their breasts I 
thence 
I'll tear out the ferocious hearts that durst 
Conceive such cruelty: then let them die! 
Thee, too, I ’Il persecute, thou king, my fve! 
Quickly shall wasting fires work ravages 
Amidst thy friends, thy kingdom! 
friends 
Shall look on others’ deaths, 
drown 
The plains, with whose blood shall the rivers 
stream, 
_For hers in retribution ! Slay me thou, 
Or fly my rage! No longer as my father 
Do I acknowledge thee! Thine enemy 
I,call myself, — thine enemy! My father 
Thou ’rt not, —I’m no son, —I’m an enemy !— 
Thou, Ignez, art in heaven! I remain 
Till I’ve revenged thee; then I there rejoin 
thee! 
Here shalt thou be a queen, as was thy due; 
Thy sons shall, only as thy sons, be princes ; 
Thine innocent body shall in royal state 
Be placed on high! Thy tenderness shall be 
Mine indivisible associate, 
Until I leave with thine my weary body, 
And my soul hastes to rest with thine for ever! 


"ll open; 


Thy slain 


whose blood shall 


—_@——. 


PEDRO DE ANDRADE CAMINHA. 


THIs poet was a native of Oporto. His 
family came originally from Castile. He was 
the friend of Ferreira and Bernardes. He held |, 


Camin- 


, at Villa Vigosa; but 
were not collected and printed until 


Caminha died in 1594 


a 


SONNET. 


eep the poet’s lyre 
sons of fame 


claim. 


The hero’s ardor and the warrior’s fire 

Should in the cadence of his measures gleam: 
Harmonious sounds, unknown in v 
Justly to deeds of bold emprise be 
When such brave actions form the poet’s theme, 


ulgar song, 
long, 


ull well thy lay, Jeronimo, portrays 


praise ; 
nd for that praise, from all who can descry 


dower. 


DIOGO BERNARDES. 


Diogo Brrnarpes, who has been pronounced 
by Mr. Southey one of the best Portuguese poets, 
was born at Ponte de Barca, on the river Lima, 
in the province of Entre Douro e Minho. He 
was secretary of the embassy to Spain, and 
afterwards accompanied Sebastian in his expe- 
dition for the conquest of Africa. He was 
made prisoner in the disastrous battle of Alca- 
gar, remained some time in captivity, and 
wrote several pieces describing his misfortunes. 
Though he had encouraged Sebastian in the 
rash enterprise, he complained bitterly of the 
king’s folly, when he himself had to share in its 
consequences. After obtaining his liberty, he 
returned to Lisbon, where he died in 1596. 

The character of Bernardes has suffered from 
a charge of plagiarism that has been sometimes 
brought against him. He is accused of having 
printed several of Camoens’s sonnets as his own. 
Upon this, Mr. Southey remarks, in his Notes 
to “ Roderick”? : —‘To obtain any proofs upon 
this subject would be very difficult; this, how- 
ever, is certain, that his own undisputed pro- 
ductions resemble them so closely, in unaffected 
tenderness and in sweetness of diction, that the 
whole appear like the works of one author.” 


SONNETS. 


O Lima! thou that in this valley’s sweep 

Now murmuring glid’st, with soothing sounds, 
the while 

That western skies obscure Sol’s gilded smile, 

Luring the neighbours of thy stream to sleep: 

I, now lovelorn, of other sounds than thine 

Catch but the whispers as thy waters flow, 

And, in the loved one’s absence sunk in woe, 

Increase thy wave with gushing tears of mine. 

And whilst meandering gently to the sea, 

Seemeth, methinks, — so sweet the moan thou 
makest, — 

That thou a share in all my griefs partakest : 

Yet I’m deceived; thou but complain’st of me, 

That the intrusion of my falling tear 

Should break the surface of thy waters clear. 


Ir thee, my friend, should Love, of nature kind, 
Like to a tyrant treat, and e’er impose 
Upon thee, blameless, all his host of woes, — 
And well thy mien betrays what now thy mind 
In sorrow feels, — contented suffer all 
The cruel pangs which she thou lov’st ordains ; 
For gentle calm succeeds the direful squall, 
And gilded mornings follow nights’ dark reigns. 
As well I hope, when these thy torments end, 
Thou ’It gather the sweet fruit of all thy toil ; 
Then dear will be the memory of the past: 
And e’en should fate thine ardent wishes foil, — 
For the loved cause that did thy bloom o’er- 
cast, 
Pride shouldst thou in the tears which thou 
didst so misspend. 


BERNARDES. 751 


sae Ae Ne a a Me RECA tN Wi DSA AD ae UR SES a: 


Sincz, now that Lusitania’s king benign, 

To wage thy battle, Curist, to arms resorts, 

And high aloft—his guide —the standard sports, 

Bearing the picture of thy death divine : 

What, Afric, canst thou hope, but by such host 

To see thyself o’erwhelmed; e’en could that 
chief, 

Thy Hannibal, and other warriors lost, 

Come to thy succour and attempt relief ? 

Wouldst thou avert a desolation new, 

Such as thy Carthage still in memory bears, 

Then bow submissive, where no chance appears ; 

Accept Sebastian’s sway, — God’s ordinance 
true: 

If Lusian valor ne’er was known to quail, 

With such a king and God how must its force 
prevail ! 


—__— 


FROM THE FIRST ECLOGUE. 


SERRANO, 
O sricgut Adonis! brightest of our train! 
For thee our mountain pastures greenest 
sprung, 
Transparent fountains watered every plain, 
And lavish Nature poured, as once when 
young, 
Spontaneous fruits, that asked no fostering care ; 
With thee our flocks from dangers wandered 
free 
Along the hills, nor did the fierce wolf dare 
To snatch by stealth thy timorous charge from 
thee. 
SYLVIO. 
Come, pour with me your never-ceasing tears ! 
Come, every nation, join our sad lament 
For woes that fill our souls with pains and fears ; 
Woes, at which savage nations might relent! 


SERRANO. 
Let every living thing that walks the earth, 
Or wings the heavens, or sails the oozy deep, 
Unite their sighs to ours! Adieu to mirth! 
Pleasures, and joys, adieu ! for we must weep. 


a SYLVIO. 
O ill-starred day! O day that brought our woe, 
Sacred to grief! that saw those bright eyes 
close, 
And Death’s cold hand from the unsullied snow 
Of thy fair cheek pluck forth the blooming 
rose ! 
SERRANO. 

Faint and more faint, the tender colors died, 
Like the sweet lily of the summer day, — 
Found by the ploughshare in its fragrant pride, 
And torn, unsparing, from its stem away. 


FROM THE ECLOGUE OF MARILIA. 


How sweetly ’midst these hazel-bushes rose 
E’en now the nightingale’s melodious lay, 
Whilst the unhappy Phyllis mourned her woes! 

I came to drive my lambs, idly that stray, 
From yonder wheat, and caught, as I drew near, 
Either’s last cadence, ere both fled away. 


, ————— — 


—— oo 


tee. aes, 


——S 
ae 


= 


eee — 


I ae 


3 
ae 


So inly felt, that sorrow’s voice I knew, 
And my heart bled such suffering to hear: 


The bird flew off, and my regrets are vain. 


. e 


exclude 
Are happy, —O, how enviable their state ! 


How wretched those whose hearts he has sub- 


dued ! 

‘How often do they vainly call on Fate! 
How often cruel Love invoke, and wail, 
And lavish sighs and tears on an ingrate ! 

“ Vainly their eyes disclose the tender tale 
Ofa lost heart. In us, foredoomed to grief, 
Beauty and grace, alas! of what avail ? 


“If we ’re disdained, ’t is sorrow past relief ; 


In which if curelessly the heart must pine, 
The term of life and suffering will be brief. 


‘I loved thee holily as the chaste dove: 
If other thoughts within thy bosom dwell, 


Thine own heart must that wrongful thought 


reprove. 

“ But wherefore do I here my sorrows tell, 
Where Echo only to my sad lament 
Can answer, and not he I love so well? 


** Across these mountains since his course he 


bent, 
Never again revisiting our plains, 
By what dark jealousies my heart is rent! 
“So little room for hope to me remains, 
Despair were haply lesser misery : 


But Love resists despair, and Love still reigns,” 


—o—- 


FRA AGOSTINHO DA CRUZ. 

Tuts religious poet was the brother of Diogo 
Bernardes, and took the name of Da Cruz, from 
the convent of Santa Cruz, where he served his 
novitiate. He was born in 1540, and early 
manifested the devotional and pious feelings 
which led him to consecrate his life to religion. 
The order to which he joined himself was one 
of the most austere in Portugal ; but, not satisfied 
with the ordinary rigors of ascetic life, he ob- 
tained permission to retire and become a hermit 
on the Serra de Arrabida. Here he took up his 
abode in a small hut, and lived until 1619; 
when, being attacked by a fever, he was carried 
to a hospital at Setubal, and died there, May 14 
of the same year. 

The works of Fra Agostinho, entitled “ Va- 
rias Poesias,” consisting of sonnets, eclogues, 
and elegies, were published at Lisbon, in 1771. 


SONNETS. 
TO HIS SORROWFUL STATE, 


OF lively spring this vale displays the charms; 


The birds here sing, and plants and flowers are 
seen 


SS ee een ea ans 


ESE POETRY. ‘ 
et ; cm 


Sad Phyllis cried, ** Alas!” in tone so drear, 


PORTUGU 


Complaining thus, she mournfully withdrew ; 


‘Those nymphs who from their bosoms Love 


With joy to deck the fields; the ivy green 
Around the loftiest laurel twines its arms. 
Calm is the sea, and from the river’s flow, 
Now gently ebbing, asks a smaller due, — 
Whilst loveliest dawnings waken to the view: 
But not for me, who ne’er a change must know 
In tears I fearful wait my coming fate, 

And mourn the memory of my former state, 
And naught have I to lose, nor aught to hope. 
Useless to him a change, for whom nor joy 
Nor pleasure may his future time employ, 
Whose sorrows can admit no wider scope. 


TO HIS BROTHER, DIOGO BERNARDES. 


Or Lima, whence I bent my pilgrim way 

In this lone mount my sepulchre to make, 

I may not to the beauties tune my lay ; 

For thoughts would rise which [ should now 
forsake, 

The humble garb of wool about me bound, 

Formed to no fashion but a lowly vest, 

And feet which naked tread the stony ground, 

From worldly converse long have closed my 
breast. 

The gaysome throng, who loudly laud thy name, 

Seeing thy gentle Lima ’neath the care 

Of one, a noble prince and monarch’s heir, 

The more thou writ’st, the more will sound thy 
fame, 

Brother, though I on thee less praise bestow, 

Jointly let ours to God eternal flow ! 


—_@——- 


FERNAO ALVARES DO ORIENTE. 


Tuis poet was born about the middle of the 
sixteenth century, in Goa. He is supposed to 
have passed his life in the Portuguese posses- 
sions in India, and never to have visited Portu- 
gal. He bore arms under the command of 
Fernad Tellez, in an expedition undertaken by 
that officer to the North. He lived until after 
1607. His principal work is a pastoral, partly 
in prose and partly in verse, entitled “ Lusitania 
Transformada.”’ 


eee 


SONNET. 


Piacep in the spangled sky, with visage bright, 
The full-orbed moon her radiant beams displays ; 
But ’neath the vivid sun’s more splendid rays 

Sink all her charms, and fades her lovely light. 
Spring with the rose and flowers adorns the 

field, 

Yet they are doomed to doff their gay attire ;— 
The murmuring fountain to Sol’s parching fire, 


The sparkling stream from rock distilled, must 
yield. 


And he who founds on earth his hopes of ease 
Ill knows tke order which this earth obeys: 
Nor sky, nor sun, nor moon, a lasting peace 
Enjoy, but ever change; and so the days 

Of man precarious are, that, though he seem 
To flourish long, yet falls the fabric like a dream. 


LOBO.—FARIA E SOUZA.—DO CEO. 


Be Age Ih ie UE he ee rT 


FRANCISCO RODRIGUEZ LOBO. 


—— 


Tus poet, who has been called the Portu- 
guese Theocritus, was born about 1550, at 
Leiria, in Portuguese Estremadura. He was 
distinguished while yet at the University. But 
little is known of his life. He is said to have 
travelled; but he passed the greater portion of 
his time in the country, occupied with study. 
He was drowned in attempting to cross the 
Tagus, which he had so often celebrated in his 
writings. 

Asa poet, Lobo has been ranked next to Saa 
de Miranda and Camoens. He wasa scholar of 
great erudition, and the services he rendered to 
the Portuguese language and style make an era 
in that literature. His principal prose work is 
the ‘“‘Corte na Aldea, e Noites de Inverno ” 
(the Court in the Country, and Winter Nights). 
He also wrote pastoral romances, in which were 
sntroduced sonnets, songs, redondilhas, &c., of 
great beauty ; and an epic poem, entitled, *¢O 
Condestable de Portugal,’ in which he chron- 
icled, in twenty mortal cantos, the exploits of 
Nuno Alvares Pereyra, the renowned constable 
of Portugal. He also composed a hundred ro- 
mances, or occasional poems, the greater portion 
of which are in the Spanish language. 


——=—_— 


SONNETS. 


Warers, which, pendent from your airy height, 

Dash on the heedless rocks and stones below, 

Whilst in your white uplifted foam ye show, 

Though vexed yourselves, your beauties much 
more bright, — 

Why, as ye know that changeless is their doom, 

Do ye, if weary, strive against them still? 

Year after year, as ye your course fulfil, 

Ye find them rugged nor less hard become. 

Return ye back unto the leafy grove, 

Through which your way ye may at pleasure 
roam, 

Until ye reach at last your longed-for home. 

How hid in mystery are the ways of Love! 

Ye, if ye wished, yet could not wander free :— 

Freedom, in my lorn state, is -valueless to me. 


How, lovely Tagus, different to our view 

Our past and present states do now appear! 
Muddy the stream, which I have seen so clear, — 
And sad the breast, which you contented knew. 
Thy banks o’erflowed, through unresisting plains 
Thy waters stray, by fitful tempests driven, — 
Lost is to me the object which had given 

A life of pleasures or a life of pains. 

As thus our sorrows such resemblance bear, 
May we of joy an equal cup partake ! 

But, ah, what favoring power to me can make 
Our fates alike ?—for spring, with soothing air, 
Shall to its former state thy stream restore , 


MANOEL DE FARIA E SOUZA. 


Turs voluminous author, whose writings be- 
long more to Spanish than to Portuguese litera- 
ture, was born in 1590. At the age of fifteen, 
he was appointed secretary by one of his rela- 
tions who held an office, and he soon displayed 
aremarkable capacity for business. Not having, 
however, obtained an appointment commensu- 
rate with his desires, he left his native country 
and went to Madrid. He was appointed to a 
place in the embassy to Rome ; but on his return 
to Madrid, withdrew from public affairs and de- 
voted himself to literature. He boasted that he 
filled every day twelve sheets of paper, each 
page containing thirty lines. He died in 1649. 

Souza’s historical works were written in Span- 
ish; the greater part of his poems are also in that 
language. In Portuguese he wrote only sonnets 
and eclogues. Some of the sonnets are of great 
beauty, but most of them abound in conceits, 
and extravagant figures of speech. He is also 
known in literature as the author of several 
critical treatises. 


———— 


SONNET. 


Now past for me are April’s maddening hours, 

Whose freshness feeds the vanity of youth ; 

A spring so utterly devoid of truth, 

Whose fruit is error, and deceit whose flowers. 

Gone, too, for me, 1s summer’s sultry time, 

When idly, reasonless, I sowed those seeds 

Yielding to manhood charms, now proving 
weeds, 

With gaudy colors, poisoning as they climb. 

And well I fancy that they both are flown, 

And that beyond their tyrant reach I ’m placed ; 

But yet | know not if I yet must taste 

Their vain attacks: my thoughts still make me 
own, 

That fruits of weeds deceitful do not die, 

When feelings sober not as years pass by. 


—_@-— 


VIOLANTE DO CEO. 


Tris poetess, who has been somewhat ex- 
travagantly called the Tenth Muse of Portu- 
gal, was born at Lisbon, in 1601. At the age of 
eighteen, she wrote a comedy in verse. She is 
said to have been a good singer and performer 
on the harp. Afterwards she devoted herself 
to a religious life, and entered a cloister. She 
lived to the age of ninety-two, dying in 1693. 

Violante do Ceo wrote in Portuguese and 
Spanish. Her poems were not collected until 
after her death. Her writings are marked by 
the characteristic faults of her age. They are 
full of far-fetched antitheses, conceits, and, in 
general, of the affectations of the Géngora and 


Marini schools. 


Whilst hid if I again may be as heretofore. 
95 


Se 


olla os iol alae INE ee 


SONNET. 


Tov, who amidst the world’s alluring toil 
|| Liv’st joyous, and neglectful of thy state, — 
Take here a warning, ere it be too late, 


Which thy expected conquests all should foil. 


Ponder; again to earth resigned the trust, 
Lies one whose beauty bore the praise of all ; — 
Think that whate’er has life is naught but dust, — 
That thy existence, too, is less than small. 

Let this my tomb instruct, — Death comes, and 
| then 

E’en beauty bows before his rigorous power ; 
And skill avails not to avert the hour, 

To all appointed, but uncertain when. 

Live as thou ought’st; be mindful that thy fate 
Is fixed, — although unknown if soon or late. 


WHILE TO BETHLEM WE ARE GOING. 


““ WuiLe to Bethlem we are going, 
Tell me, Blas, to cheer the road, 

Tell me why this lovely infant 
Quitted his divine abode.” 

‘From that world to bring to this 
Peace, which, of all earthly blisses, 

Is the brightest, purest bliss.” 


‘“¢ Wherefore from his throne exalted 
Came he on this earth to dwell, — 
All his pomp a humble manger, 
All his court a narrow cell?” 
“From that world to bring to this 
Peace, which, of all earthly blisses, 
Is the brightest, purest bliss.” 


‘“‘Why did he, the Lord Eternal, 
Mortal pilgrim deign to be, — 

He who fashioned for his glory 
Boundless immortality ?” 

“‘From that world to bring to this 
Peace, which, of all earthly blisses 

Is the brightest, purest bliss.” 


Well, then, let us haste to Bethlem, — 
Thither let us haste and rest: 

For, of all Heaven’s gifts, the sweetest, 
Sure, is peace, — the sweetest, best. 


__ 


NIGHT OF MARVELS, 


” Iv such a marvellous night, so fair, 

Tht te And full of wonder strange and new, 
i ne Ye shepherds of the vale, declare, 

4 HH Who saw the greatest wonder? Who? 
ws iff 2 


* 


—_ 


FIRST, 
I saw the trembling fire look wan. 


_ 


SECOND, 
I saw the sun shed tears of blood. 


THIRD. 
I saw a God become a man. 


FOURTH. 
I saw a man become a God. 


“ 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
Sais ated ae ii SRN Ek 


O wondrous marvels! at the thought, 
The bosom’s awe and reverence move. 
But who such prodigies has wrought? 
What gave such wonders birth? 
' love! 


’"T was 


What called from heaven that flame divine 
Which streams in glory from above ; 
And bid it o’er earth’s bosom shine, 


And bless us with its brightness? Love! 


Who bid the glorious sun arrest 

His course, and o’er heaven’s concave move 
In tears, — the saddest, loneliest, 

Of the celestial orbs? ’T was love! 


Who raised the human race so high, 
E’en to the starry seats above, 

That, for our mortal progeny, 
A man became a God? ’T was love! 


Who humbled from the seats of light 

Their Lord, all human woes to prove ; 
Led the great source of day to night; 

And made of God aman? ’T was love! 


Yes! love has wrought, and love alone, 
The victories all, — beneath, above; 
And earth and heaven shall shout, as one, 

The all-triumphant song of love. 


The song through all heaven’s arches ran, 
And told the wondrous tales aloud: 

The trembling fire that looked so wan, — 
The weeping sun behind the cloud, — 

A God —a God — become a man! — 

A mortal man become a God! 


——_@——_. 


ANTONIO BARBOSA BACELLAR. 


Antonio Barsosa BacEeLtar was born at 
Lisbon, about 1610. He gave early manifesta- 
tions of talent, and acquired in his youth a 
knowledge of several sciences and languages, 
He was particularly noted for the excellence of 
his memory. He wrote with equal facility in 
Spanish and Portuguese. He studied the law 
at Coimbra, went afterwards to Lisbon, and 
was appointed to several high judicial stations 
in succession. He died at Lisbon, in 1663. 

Bacellar was an admirer and imitator of Ca- 
moens. His works, having long remained in 
manuscript, were published in 1716, in a col- 
lection entitled “A Fenix Renascida, ou Obras 
Poeticas dos melhores engenhos Portugueses.”’ 
He wrote many poems, called Saudades, or 
Complaints in Solitude. 


SONNET, 


Gay, gentle bird! thou pour’st forth sweetest 
strains, 

Although a captive, yet as thou wert free ; 

Like Orpheus singing to the winds with glee, 

And as of old Amphion charmed the plains. 


ie oe | supa 


BACELLAR.—VASCONCELLOS COUTINHO.—GARCAO. 755 


Near where the brooklet’s cooling waters lave | Seized on my heart, and I became his prize. 
The meads around, the traitorous snare was laid, | Yet liv’st thou gladsome, — whilst, with sorrow 
Which thee, unconscious of thy lot, betrayed, crossed, 

And to thy free enjoyment fetters gave. I linger sad. How different do we bear 

Just so with me, —my liberty I lost ; — The chains which Fate has fixed that we alike 
For Love, in ambush of soft beaming eyes, must wear! 


THIRD PERIOD.—FROM 1700 TO 1844. 


FRANCISCO DE VASCONCELLOS COU- TO A NIGHTINGALE. 


TINHO. 


O Narure’s sweet enchanter! Flower of Song! 
E’en joyous seem the notes you sing of grief, — 
Those plaintive strains afford to you relief ; 
Whilst weepings still my hapless loves prolong. 
For mine’s the grief that must in patience wait, 
While you your sorrows tell to whom you love ; 
You hope each hour some happy bliss to prove, 
While I each moment dread disastrous fate. 
We both now suffer from Love’s tyrant sway ; 
But cruel, ah, my lot, compared with thine! 
Tig | whom reason teaches to repine, 

But thou unconscious pourest forth thy lay; 
Thou sing’st of sorrows which do now assail, 

I present ills and those I fear bewail. 


Turs poet was born at Funchal, in Madeira. 
He belongs to the last part of the seventeenth, 
and the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
He studied at the University of Coimbra, and 
took the degree of Bachelor of Canon Law. 
His writings are less infected with extravagant 
mannerisms than those of most of his contem- 
poraries. He wrote a poem on the story of 
Polyphemus and Galatea. Many of his sonnets 
were published in “A Fenix Renascida.”’ 


—— 


SONNETS. 


‘ mein Pa 
To tell of sorrows doth the pangs increase, 


While silence dulls such feelings as oppress ; 


PEDRO ANTONIO CORREA GARCAO. 


So, if remembrance doubles loss of peace, 

The man who stifles thought will suffer less 
Silence may still the memory of pain, — 

Thus grief may be divested of its sting ; 

But if of woe the image back we bring, 

The wounds of sorrow become green again. 

If memory thus augments the force of woes, 
He, who that memory wakes, the more will feel 
Than he who puts upon his tongue the seal. 

In silence sorrows ofttimes find repose ; 

While he, whose feelings will not brook restraint, 
Renews his sorrows when he makes complaint. 


Turs poet is noted in the literary history of 
Portugal for his instrumentality in the formation 
of the Portuguese Arcadian Society, which was 
established about 1756. He belongs, therefore, 
to the middle and latter part of the eighteenth 
century. He formed his style on the model of 
Horace, and, since Ferreira, no writer had ap- 
proached so near the ancient prototype, so that 
he was called the Second Portuguese Horace. 
He even introduced into the Portuguese the 
ancient metres. Besides lyric poems, he wrote 
several plays, by which he endeavoured to form 
a more correct dramatic taste than then prevailed 
among his countrymen. Having given offence 
to the government, which was at that time ad- 
ministered by the rigid Pombal, he was thrown 
into prison, where he died miserably. 

The writings of Gargao are distinguished by 
purity of language, delicacy of taste, and fine- 
ness of tact. His ‘Cantata de Dido” is pro- 
nounced by Almeida Garrett ‘one of the most, 
sublime conceptions of human gemius, one of 
the most perfect works executed by the hand of 
man’’; a judgment far more patriotic than dis- 
criminating. 


O ruovenutiess bird, that thus, with carol 
sweet, 

From airy bough pour’st forth thy joyous tale, 

Regardless of the ills which may assail, 

When thou art absent from thy lone retreat ! 

Fly, quickly haste, — give heed, while I protest, 

If still thou tarriest here, that, sunk in woe, 

Thy tears eternally are doomed to flow, 

And wail thy young ones stolen, and spoiled thy 
nest. 

Ah, let my griefs thy slumbering feelings wake ! 

For I, while absent, trusting all to Fate, 


Lost the reward which I had sought to gain. 
Why dost thou yet delay, nor counsel take ? 
Soon by thy loss convinced, thou ’It mourn too 


—_— 


SONNETS. 


Tur gentle youth, who reads my hapless strain, 
And ne’er hath felt the shafts of frenzied Love, 


late, 
Though happy now thou pour 


’st thy lively strain. 


a 


“Eliza! mine Eliza!” ceaseless call. 


Upon the incense-fuming altars sees 
The sacred vases mantling with black scum, 


Transformed into abhorrent lakes of blood. 


Her silken tresses all dishevelled stream, 
And with uncertain foot, scarce conscious, she 


756 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


Nor knows the anguish he is doomed to prove, 

Whom vile deceit, when kept in beauty’s chain 

Torments, — if than a stone less hard his heart 

Would fly the sad recital of my woes; 

For faces firm the tale would discom pose 

Of Love’s deceptions causing so much smart. 

O, list, ye doomed to weep! while I display 

The drear and mournful scene in saddest plaint, 

The scaffold base and platform’s bloody way, — 

Where, dragged to death, behold a martyred 
saint ; — 

And where to shameful pain unto your view 

Love faithful and sincere condemned I show. 


Where she with melting heart 
Her faithless lover heard 
Whisper impassioned sighs and soft complaints. 


? 


? 


There the inhuman Fates before her sight, 

Hung o’er the gilded nuptial couch, displayed 

The Teucrian mantles, whose loose folds dis- 
closed ‘ 

The lustrous shield and the Dardanian sword. 

She started ; — suddenly, with hand convulsed, 

From out the sheath the glittering blade she 
snatched, 

And on the tempered, penetrating steel 

Her delicate, transparent bosom cast ; 

And murmuring, gushing, foaming, the warm 
blood 

Bursts in a fearful torrent from the wound ; 

And, from the encrimsoned rushes spotted red, 

Tremble the Doric columns of the hall. 


In Moorish galley chained, unhappy slave, 

Poor, weary Corydon, with grief oppressed, 

Upon his oar had crossed his hands in rest, 

Tired by the breeze which roughly kissed the 
wave. 

What time he slept and fondly thought him free, — 

Folded in sweet oblivion all his woes, — 

The beauteous Lilia on his view arose, 

Cleaving with snowy breast the rippled sea. 

The wishing lover trembled, as he strove 

To rise and meet the object of his love, 

To greet the maid, and catch the fond embrace: 

His cruel chains still fixed him to the place. 

In vain amidst the crew he sought relief: 

Each had to wai his own peculiar grief. 


Thrice she essayed to rise ; 
Thrice fainting on the bed she prostrate fell, 
And, writhing as she lay, to heaven upraised 
Her quenched and failing eyes. 
Then earnestly upon the lustrous mail 
Of Ilium’s fugitive 
Fixing her look, she uttered these last words ; 
And hovering ’midst the golden vaulted roofs, 
The tones, lugubrious and pitiful, 
In after days were often heard to moan: — 


‘‘ Ye precious memorials, 
Dear source of delight, 
Enrapturing my sight, 
Whilst relentless Fate 
Whilst the gods above, 
Seemed to bless my love, 
Of the wretched Dido 
The spirit receive ! 

From sorrows whose burden 
Her strength overpowers 
The lost one relieve ! 
The hapless Dido 

Not timelessly dies : 

The walls of her Carthage, 
Loved child of her care, 
High towering rise. 

Now a spirit bare, 

She flies the sun’s beam ; 
And Phlegethon’s dark 
And horrible stream, 

In Charon’s foul bark, 
She lonesomely ploughs.” 


DIDO.—A CANTATA. 

Atreapy in the ruddy east shine white 
The pregnant sails that speed the Trojan fleet: 
Now wafted on the pinions of the wind, 
They vanish midst the golden sea’s blue waves. 

The miserable Dido . 
Wanders loud shrieking through her regal halls, 
With dim and turbid eyes seeking in vain 

The fugitive Aneas. 
Only deserted streets and lonesome squares 
Her new-built Carthage offers to her gaze ; 
And frightfully along the naked shore 
The solitary billows roar i’ th’ night ; 
‘ And ’midst the gilded vanes 

Crowning the splendid domes 
Nocturnal birds hoot their ill auguries, 

In fancy now she hears, 

Amazed, the ashes cold 
Of dead Sichzus, from his marble tomb, 
In feeble accents mixed with heavy sighs, 


To the dread gods of hell 
A solemn sacrifice 
Prepares she; but, dismayed, 


—_¢— 


DOMINGOS DOS REIS QUITA. 


And the libation wine 


Tus poet, the son ofa tradesman, was born 
in 1717, at Lisbon. His father, being unfortu- 
nate in business, left Portugal for America when 
Domingos was only seven years old. For a 
time, the family was supported humbly by the 
remittances which Quita was able to send home 
from America. But these at length failing, 


Deliriously she raves ; 
Pale is her beauteous face, 


That happy chamber seeks, 


QUITA.—DA COSTA. 757 


Domingos was apprenticed to a hair-dresser, at | Along the shore Alcino lovelorn strayed, 
the age of thirteen. Having always been fond His woes the lone companions of his way ; 
of reading and poetry, he studied diligently the | And o’er the vast expanse of waters drear 
works of Camoens and Lobo, and imitated the | His eyes he cast, for there he found relief. 
best models in the language. His modesty was | Whilst heaved his sighs, and fast the trickling tear 
so great that he did not venture to show his | Paced his sad cheek, the youth thus told his 


verses to his friends as his own, but produced grief: 
them as the composition of a monk in the | “Ye waves, transport the tears which now I 
Azores. His talents became known to the weep, — 


| Conde de San Lourengo, whose patronage en- Ye winds, upon your breezes waft my sighs 
abled him to acquire the Spanish, Italian, and | To where my fondest hopes of comfort sleep, 
French languages ; and he studied all the best Where ye have borne the form of her I prize. 
authors in them, and as many of the Latin, | O, if ye can, have pity on my care ; 

German, and English, as were translated. He | Restore the bliss which ye removed so far 
was elected into the Portuguese Arcadia, a so- ne 

ciety formed for the restoration of polite litera- 
ture. The archbishop of Braga was desirous 
of taking him into his household, but some 
stupid bigot persuaded him that it would be un- 
becoming to have a man of wit about his person, 


and so the place was lost to the poet. The a : 

: oe Spoiled of their mantles green, the meadows 

marquis of Pombal, the great minister of Portu- Bi eke 
? 


al. proposed to reward him for his excellen : 
ee aa hae pate “nt | And headlong rushing o’er its bed, the stream 
character and abilities; but some malignant 1n- : 
: : ; - Its turbid course pursues. I equal deem 
fluence interfered, and deprived him of the | m 
: : The gloom of nature and my state forlorn. 
statesman’s favor. The earthquake of Lisbon | 5,4 winter’s reign is 0’er ; apa Gate 
stripped him of the little he possessed ; but he eae ride es Baas ies 
Cot Out alee cet edet ee Ty Beams forth its lustre, and its crystal range 
was kindly received into the house o ona 


: The river takes; no more the meadows sigh 
Theresa Theodora de Aloim, the wife of a phy- ¥ hb ; re 
ae But smiling Nature greets the lovely change. 
sician, named Balthazar Tara, and every atten- ; 


: é : ; : Not thus with me; no rest these eyes may know 
tion was bestowed upon him by these affectionate 

ih é From tears of sadness, caused by ceaseless Woe. 
friends. He lived with them many years ; but 


Amupst the storms which chilling winter brings, 

All horror seems, —the gladsome hours are past; 

The laboring sky, with darkening clouds o’er- 
cast, 

In mingling wind and rain its fury flings ; 


finally, from a sense of duty to his infirm and : 

aged mother, Domingos left the hospitable roof 

of his benefactors, and took a house, that she CLAUDIO MANOEL DA COSTA. 

might reside with him. He removed to his 

new home in 1770, but in a few weeks he was Tus poet flourished about the middle of the 

seized with a severe illness, which ended his | eighteenth century. He was born in Brazil, in 
| life, in the fifty-third year of his age. the province of Minas Geraes, where the princi- 


| Domingos wrote eclogues, idyls, odes, son- | pal occupation is the working of the mines. He 
nets, and tragedies, one of which, founded on | spent five years at the University of Coimbra. 
the story of Ignez de Castro, has been translated | While there, he applied himself to the study of 
into English. the older Italian poets, and composed sonnets in 

——— ‘mitation of Petrarch, in the Italian language. 
On his return to Brazil, he continued his poetic 
studies. He wrote sonnets, elegies, eclogues, 


Tue wretches, Love, who of thy laws complain, imitations of the Italian canzont, and various 


SONNETS. 


And, bold, conspire against thy fixed decree, other lyrical pieces. 

Have never felt the pleasure of that chain The style of this poet, unlike the literary fash- 
Whose sweet endearment binds my soul to thee, | ion of his day, is free from exaggeration and 
Those callous breasts, unbending to thy sway, affectation: his language is simple and elegant, 


Which ne’er have heaved with throbs of soft | and some of his sonnets have been ranked 


desire, among the best in Portuguese literature. His 
Have never seen those fond allurements play works were published at Coimbra, in 1768. 
Which fill my heart with flames of living fire. 

O, come, ye hapless railers! come, and see 

The bliss for whicli are raised my constant sighs, SONNET. 

And ye shall taste of Love the golden prize: — Siort were the hours which were 80 gayly 
But hold, ye railers! hold! — there must not be passed, 

A change in your hard fate, until those eyes When, Love, in thee my trust I fondly placed ; 


Possessed of all my soul desired to taste, 

I careless deemed they would for ever last:. 
ea Quite unsuspecting any fraud of thine; 

"Twas on atime,—the sun’s last glimmering ray | In that blessed state my time was thus em- 

In ocean sunk, —that, sore by Fate dismayed, ployed ; 


On their Alcino only shine with glee. 


3L 


ee ——————___—————n 


A 


Ot ee 
cz - en. P 


ih 
:| 


758 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


Each passing scene I proudly thus enjoyed, 
Thinking what truly happy lot was mine. 
The glittering veil removed, no Joys remain; 


The brilliant structure, which thou bad’st arise, 


Which fed my vanity, in ruin lies, 


What hapless end! in Love to trust how vain! 
But why surprised ?——the fate may soon be 


guessed 


Of hopes which in the hands of fickle beauty 


rest. ; 


—_—_— 


THE LYRE. 


Yrs! I have loved thee, O my Lyre! 
My day, my night-dream, loved thee long! 
When thou wouldst pour thy soul of song, 

When did I turn away? 


'T is thine, with thy bewitching wire, 
To charm my sorrow’s wildest mood, 
To calm again my feverish blood, 

Till peace resumes her sway. 


How oft with fond and flattering tone 

I wooed thee through the still midnight, 
And chasing slumbers with delight, 
Would vigils hold with thee ; 


Would tell thee I am all thine own ; 
That thou, sweet Lyre, shalt rule me stil] ; 
My love, my pride, through every ill, 

My world of bliss to me! 


Thine are those quenchless thoughts of fire, 
The beamings of a burning soul, 
That cannot brook the world’s control, 
Or breathe its sickening air; 


And thine the raptures that inspire 
With antique glow my trembling frame, 
That bid me nurse the wasting flame, 

And court my own despair. 


——_9@——. 


JOAO XAVIER DE MATOS. 


Tus poet belongs to the latter half of the 
eighteenth century. He was highly esteemed 
at Lisbon. His works consist of sonnets, odes, 
and other miscellaneous pieces, together with a 
translation of a tragedy by the Abbé Genest, and 
an original tragedy, entitled “ Viriacia,” on a 
subject drawn from the early history of Portugal. 


SONNET, 


Closes with slow approach the light of day ; 


And sober night, with hand of mantling gray, 
In gathering clouds obscures the fading view ; 
Scarce do I see my villa through the gloom, 
Or from the beech discern the cypress grave, 
All wears the stilly silence of the tomb, 

Save that the sound is heard of measured wave 


THE sun now sets; whilst twilicht’s misty hue 


above that of all the languages of the South.” 


Upon the neighbouring sand. With face erect, 
Looks raised to heaven, in anguish of my soul, 
From my sad eyes the frequent tear-drops roll ; 
And ifa comfort I might now select, 

"T would be that night usurp so long a reign, 
That never more should day appear againg 


——_@——— 


PAULINO CABRAL DE VASCONCEL- 
LOS. 


Pavutino Caprat pr VasconcEttos is known 
as the abbot of Jacente. He belongs to the lat- 
ter part of the eighteenth century. His works, 
consisting of sonnets and other poems, are writ- 
ten with polished elegance, and contributed to 
reclaim his countrymen from the extravagan- 
ces of the prevailing bad taste, to a clear and 
classical style. They were published at Oporto, 
in two volumes, 1786-87, 


ee 


SONNET. 


Love is a power which all controlling spurns, 
Nor youth nor age escape, nor high nor low ; 
When most concealed, more lively still it burns, 
And, least expected, strikes the fatal blow. 
K’en conquering heroes to its sway must yield, 
Disdains not it the humble cottage roof, 

Nor will it from the palace keep aloof, 

Nor offers wisdom’s mantle any shield. 
Against its shafts the convent’s awful fane 

No sacred shelter can to beauty give ; 

Naught is so strong against its force to live; 

It combats honor, and would virtue gain. 
Where’er its cruel banner is unfurled, 

It as its vassal binds the universal world. 


——— i 
J. A. DA CUNHA. 


J. A. pa Cunua is known chiefly as an emi- 
nent mathematician of the latter part of the 
eighteenth century. He is also placed high 
among the poets of his age. His poetical 
writings were collected in 1778, but remained 
in manuscript. Sismondi says, “*The manu- 
scripts have been in my possession; and so far 
from detecting in them any traces of that tame- 
ness, or want of vigor and imagination, which 
might be supposed to result from a long appli- 
cation to the exact sciences, I was surprised by 
their tender and imaginative character, and in 
particular by that deep tone of melancholy 
which seems peculiar to the Portuguese poetry 


LINES WRITTEN DURING SEVERE ILLNESS, 


O erizF beyond all other grief, 
Com’st thou the messenger of Death ? 

Then come! I court thy wished relief, 
And pour with joy this painful breath. 


But thou, my soul, what art thou? Where 
Wing’st thou thy flight, immortal flame ? 
Or fad’st thou into empty air, 
A lanip burnt out, a sigh, a name ? 


I reck not life, nor that with life 

The world and the world’s toys are o’er: 
But, ah, ’t is more than mortal strife 

To leave the loved, and love no more! 


To leave her thus ! — my fond soul torn 
From hers, without e’en time to tell 
Hers are these tears and sighs that burn, 

And hers this last and wild farewell! 


Yes! while, upon the awful brink 
Of fate, I look to worlds above, 
How happy, did I dare to think 


DA CUNHA.—VALADARES 


These last faint words might greet my love : 


« O ever loved, though loved in vain, 
With such a pure and ardent truth 

As grows but once, and ne’er again 
Renews the blossom of its youth ! 


«To breathe the oft repeated vow, 
To say my soul was always thine, 
Were idle here, Live happy thou, — 
As I had been, hadst thou been mine!” 


Now grief and anguish drown my voice, 
Fresh pangs invade my breast ; more dim 
Earth’s objects on my senses rise, 
And forms receding round me swim. 


Shroud me with thy dear guardian wings, 
Father of universal love * 

Be near me now, with faith that springs 
And joys that bloom in worlds above! 


A mourner at thine awful throne, 
I bring the sacrifice required, — 
A laden heart, its duties done, 
By simple truth and love inspired : 


Love, such as Heaven may well approve, 
Delighting most in others’ joy, 

Though mixed with errors such as love 
May pardon, when no crimes alloy. 


Come, friendship, with thy last sad rite, 
Thy pious office now fulfil! 

One tear and one plain stone requite 
Life’s tale of misery and ill. 


And thou, whose name is mingled thus 


Though love his fond regrets refuse, 
Let the soft voice of friendship rise, 


And gently whisper in thine ear, 
«¢ He loves no more who loved so well! 


Delicious scenes, where, first to tell 


The secrets of my glowing breast, 
I led thee to the shadiest bower, 
And at thy feet, absorbed, oppressed, 


With these last trembling thoughts and sighs, 


99 


And when thou wanderest through those dear, 


With faltering tongue confessed thy power, — 


Was ever breathed in 


And let one gush of tears avow 
That he who loved thee once was dear. 


Yet weep not bitterly, but say, 


«¢ He loved me not as 


century. 


My gentle love, — to bi 


Denied the gladdening 

Unjoyous hours and sa 

Now slowly falling dro 

The fountain pure, wh 
stream ; 


And parched and langui 


All nature, mourning, 
And weeps the memor 


prove, 


Which ceaseless pours 
ful love ! 


Through verdant meat 
view ! 
sides. 


A little songster, care 


Who ne’er of female 
The smart ;—but woe 
Its cruel wrongs, and 


Avixv, ye Nine! O, 
To quit your service, 


make 
In those together jour 


GAMBOA. 
la Ri sc a 


Then own no truer, holier vow 


Mine, only mine, ere called away, — 
Mine, only mine in heaven above !”’ 


—_@—_ 


JOAQUIM FORTUNATO DE VALA- 
DARES GAMBOA. 


Tus poet belonged to the latter half of the 


eighteenth and the beginning 
His poems were first published at 


Lisbon in 1779, and again in 1791. 
volume appeared in 1804. 


SONNETS. 


Which now in sadness a 
influence of thy face, | 


dness reign the while. 


That showed before the laughing garb of joy. 


E’en, at the dawning hour, in gl 
The purple east emits its cheering rays ; 


Judge, then, what pangs my 


— 


How calm and how serene yon river glides 


And upland slopes, which glow with sunny hue, 
And vales, with flowerets 


Now basking in yon elm, from loftiest spray 


And decks his plumes ; while to his 
From willow-bough, a chorister again 


Returns the lively song. 
Accordant joy and signs of sweet repose 5 
And he may well rejoice and glad appear, 


How deep the wound w 


Inspired by you, in gay and joyous strain, 


woman’s ear ; 


others love ; 


of the nineteenth 


A second 


d this valley smile, 
lroops, thy steps retrace ; 


ps alone employ 

ich flowed with copious 
: 4 

shing the meadows seem, | 

2ams less bright 


signs of grief displays, 


y of her past delight. 
stricken heart must 


for thee the sighs of faith- 


Js, that smiling meet my 


gemmed, adorn its 


less, pours his strain 
woodland lay, 


All bears around 


tyranny hath found 
to him, who hapless knows 
base deceit, and care! 


— 


how.much woe I prove, 
and your charms forsake ! 
hich distance far can 


aed by so much love! 


Of Love’s delights 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


I sang the pleasing lay ; 


But griefs, to which my soul is now a prey, 


Usurp their place, and fil 
Thrice envied he whom y 


Happy to live, nor feel the torments dire 


Which now so close 


With such a host of ills have I to strive, 
That, quitting you, I discontented live, 
And give to sad Tepose my silent lyre. 


Amon 
-guese poets who flourished 
last century is Antonio Diniz da Cruz. He be- 
adian Society, in which he 
the name of Elpino Nonacriense, 
He cultivated poetry in the midst of his duties 
for he held the office of a des- 
embargador or judge. His successful imitations 
ban poet have gained for 


longed to the Arc 
was known by 


pe 


as a magistrate ; 


SER SE SSIS 


of the style of the The 
him the n 


—— 
ANTONIO DINIZ DA CRUZ. 


ame of the Portuguese Pindar. 


is chiefly known to foreigners by a heroi-comic 
poem in eight cantos, entitled «“O 
Hyssop. Garrett affirms that « « 
is the most perfect heroij-co 
that has ever been 
if the ¢ Lutrin’ 
ness of diction, 


in the regularity of the structure, the di 


The oceasion which 


quarrel arose between 


a right, and comm 
to the metropolitan, 
“After his death, 


happened to be hj 
again, and obtained 


of Boileau was much in advance of his master,” 
gave risé to it is thus ex- 
plained by a writer in the « Quarterly Review ” 
(Vol.T., p. 244) : —« José Carlos de Lara, dean 
e sake of ingratiating him- 
self with his bishop, to attend him in person, 
with the hyssop, at the door of the chapter-house, 
Whenever he officiated. After a while, some 
them, and he then dis- 
continued this act of Supererogatory respect ; 
but he had practised it so long, that the bishop, 
and his party in the chapter, insisted upon it as 
anded him to continue it as a 
service he was bound to perform. He appealed 
and sentence wag given 
againstihim.’ This is the story of the poem. 
the dean’s successor, who 
8 nephew, tried the cause 
a reversal of the decree. A 
prophetic hope of this eventual triumph is given 


as, used, for th 


to the unsuccessful hero,” 


OnE time, when Love, 


SONNETS. 


lost, 


Wandered through 


streams wind, 


Sighing to each 


crossed, 


Inquiring still where he mi 


Undone the brace, his golden quiver fell: 
He, who not now for bow or arrow cares, 


SPS ee ee 


— : mo = 
se — en eg oS a. <= 


—- 


paeecrey Ds 


Sobs out what 


| aol aeaiia 
SS 
a es 


wp 


oat 
Sa 


ey 


——" 
ae 
oe 


7 " ~ - 
ee ee 
ee = 
_— 


some tidings of the goddess tell. 


anced her flock th 
His tears she dried 
Proffered to lead h 
When, risin 
While her sweet f; 


at Jonia tended there ; 

» and with a cheerful air 

im to the wished-for sight : 
gs, the urchin said, 

ice he kissed, —« Ah, gentle 


] my breast with pain. 
our endearments bless, 
g on his win 
and cruel round me press ! 


Who sees those eyes forgetteth Venus quite ! ” 


Herr, lonely in this cool and verd 


Gemmed with bright flowers the smiling mead- 


While herds dep 
I long to see m 
How pure and 
Now moving o 
As in yon poplar high th 
In soothing murmurs mourneth 
Joyous meanwhile, as if to bani 
The tuneful birds their Sweetest 
And lovely flowers their choicest 
But to my sorrows they giy 
For cruel tortures al] my 
Nor grant to hapless me 


asture in the neighbourin 
y torments all retreat. 
fresh this eve! how soft tlle wind 
er’s surface clear, 

e turtle near 


G the most’ distinguished of the Portu- 
about the end of the 


forth her mind! 


carols sing, 
fragrance fling: 
€ no relief; 
thoughts employ, 


te but one short hour of 
Hysope,”’ the 


The Hyssop ’ 
mic poem, of its kind, 
Written in any language ; 
exceeds it in severe correct. 
yet, in the design of the work, 


FROM O HYSOPE, 


[The Dean and the Padre Jubil 
of the statues of Monsieur P 


ado, in the garden, discourse 
aris and Madama Pena Lopez 


‘* Wuo is this Monsieur Paris 
ption on his pedestal 
judge, the name, 

and well dressed hair bespeak this 


as he ’s called 
In the inseri 


If from app 
Countenance, 


A Frenchman, and perh 
at inventor of hi 

The learned fi 
‘“‘ Nor Frenchma 
Was he this st 
One of Troy’s royal family, 

“If Frenchman he was not,”’ 


aps a cavalier, 

S own toupée.”’ 

ither cautiously replied, —s 
n, as you judge, nor cavalier, 
atue represents. 


the dean re- 


“Why called Monsieur?” And the ex-doctor 
Smiling, made answer : — 
Since at each step recurri 
At every corner 
Shamelessly treated 
Is now the fashion, and the f 
Be followed. 
We should convince th 


*¢ Let not that surprise, 
Now-a-days, 

, are we Portuguese 
as*Monsieurs. 


ashion must 
, Is *t requisite 
e world that we speak 


- “O Padre Jubilado,”’ 
“Ts ’t, then, of such imp 
That your proficiency y 
Must thus display ? 
Were neither wisdom 
For I must tell you here, 
The savage Boticudo’s j 
More unintelligible to 

** Do not confess it 
O times! O morals ! 
The father said. 


asked the dean, 
ortance to speak French, 
our reverences 

Without this sacrament, 
salvation yours 
under the rose, 
argon ’s not 

me than French.” 
, Sir; for in these times, — 
— French is all in all,” 


his beauteous mother 
fields where Tejo’s soft 


fair nymph whose path he 


ght Venus HET Desa 


thousand pleasures shall be theirs 


sa ei ask DT BB lH Ba I EE IR = 


tsb Sho nance poultice techn Seth SADA IAD AAAS 
—————. 


DINIZ DA CRUZ.—FRANCISCO 


MANOEL. 


tt 


ec etme 

“Of this audacity, this impudence, 

Raging unchecked amongst us, Sir the effects 
5 too) ? 9 

Most terrible, most noxious, those appear 


That fall on our chaste mother«tongue ; that 


- The eldest born of Latin, stood in need 


Se 


tongue, 
Wasted upon translations meriting 
Most richly to be burnt, is there defiled 
With thotisand Gallicisms of word and phrase. 


As though our language, beautiful and rich, 


Of foreign ornament,” 


« And at the loom, all weavers of those days 
Surpassing, on one web ten years she spent.” 

« What say you, father-master? Do youjest?” 
The astonished dean exclaimed. “ What! ten 

whole years, 

Warping and weaving at one single web, 
Did this Madama spend? And will you say 
She was a famous weaver? Why, my nurse — 
And she ’s decrepid —- spends not on one web 
More than nine months.” 


«« Even in this her great ability,” 
The father said, ‘consisted; since by night 
She carefully unravelled each day’s work.” 

«¢ Still worse and worse,’ rejoined the dean } 

“why, this 

Is going, crab-like, backwards. I would swear 
Upon an hundred pair of Gospels, she, 
Your famed Penelope, had lost her wits,” 


py 


FRANCISCO MANOEL DO NASCI. 
MENTO. 


Turs poet belonged to a distinguished Portu- 
guese family, and was born at Lisbon, in 1734. 
His taste for poetry was early manifested, anda 
youthful passion favored its further develop- 
ment. He was one of the number of Portu- 
guese scholars, who, about the middle of the 
last century, contributed to reform the national 
literature. The most remarkable incident in 
the life of Francisco Manoel was his escape 
in the great eatthquake of 17509. ‘6 He found 
himself,” says his biographer, Sané, ‘at this 
awful moment, in the patriarchal church, and 
owed his safety entirely to his speed, and to the 
fortunate rashness, with which, to gain the 
country, he leaped over streets blocked up with 
ruins, in the midst of a shower of stones, — 
many times thrown down by the agitations, and 
expecting to meet his death at every step.” 

After this disaster had been somewhat repaired 
by the energy of Pombal, Manoel devoted him- 
self anew to literature. Some of his works, 
being published by friends who thought more 
highly of them than he did himself, gave him 
much reputation. He studied the best models 
in the Latin, French, and English languages. 

His reputation excited the envy of the inferior 

writers; and the ridicule with which he treated 


the ignorance of the monks exposed him to the 
96 


Holy Office was sent to arrest him, July 4, 1778. 
Manoel suspected his errand, seized a dagger, 
and, threatening to stab him if he uttered a word, | 
wrapped 
enemy, and fled down the staircase. 
mained 
the 
made his escape on board a French 


for Havre de Grace. 


France, living by turns at Paris, Versailles, and 
Choisy, actively engaged in literature. He pub- 


hatred of that powerful body. At length, a 
translation of Molicre’s “ Tartufe ” appeared, || 
and was attributed to him. This determined 
the Inquisition to subject him to the punishment || 
of their dread tribunal; and a familiar of the 


himself in his cloak, locked up his 
He re- 
concealed in Lisbon eleven days, at 
of a French merchant, and then | 
ship bound 


house 


He took up his abode in 


several volumes of odes, satires, and 


He 


lished 
epistles, which show a high poetic talent. 


died at Paris, February 25, 1819. 


SONNETS. 
ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING To A CONVENT. 


Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim, here! 
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side ; 
Firm be thy step, thy beart unknown to fear ; 
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, 
So near the mansions of supreme delight: 
Pause not, but tread this consecrated road; 
'T is the dark basis of the heavenly height.’ 
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 
How many a fountain glitters down the hill! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, 
Bright sunshine guides, — and wilt thou linger 
still ? 
O, enter there, where, freed from human strife, 
Hope is reality, and time is life ! 


ss 


Descenp, O Joy! descend in brightest guise, 

Thou cherished hope to pining lovers dear ! 

More bright to me the sun, the day more clear, 

For thy inspiring looks and radiant eyes. 

When heard thy voice, — abashed, in anguish 
sad, 

Cruel Melancholy quails, — unhallowed Woe 

And Grief with doubting step together go, 

Their bosoms heaving at thy clarion glad. 

Through my tired frame a soft emotion steals, 

And in my veins a vital spirit springs, 

Chasing the blood, which cold and languid 
flowed ; 

The meadows laugh, and light the air now feels : 

For Marcia’s smile, when graciously bestowed, 

To me and all around contentment brings. 


—> 


As yet unpractised in the ways of Love, 

The vale I sought, — my sole intent to hear 
The nightingale pour forth those love-notes clear 
Which to his mate his fond affection prove. 

A tender imp I chanced encounter there, 

With golden hair, and eyes with cunning bright ; 
His naked feet with travel weary were, 


And, cold and pale, he seemed in piteous plight : 
3L* 


SS 


——— 


I took him to my breast and soothed his grief, 
Kissed his sad cheek, and proffered him relief. 
Who would believe that ‘neath his dealing fair 
Was hid such craft ?— the wily boy infused 
His poison, and, my confidence abused, 
Laughed in my face, and vanished in the air. 


FRAGMENT OF AN ODE. 
NEPTUNE TO THE PORTUGUESE. 


WAVE-WANDERING armadas people now 
The Antillean Ocean, 

And strands for centuries that desert lay. 
Lo! here D’Estaing the fearless, 

And there the prosperous Rodney, cuts the plains 
Subject to Amphitrite. 

Already, at each hostile banner’s sight, . 
Enkindles every spirit ; 

The sails are slacked, the cannon’s thunders roll ; 
From numberless volcanoes 

Death bursts, on scattering balls borne widely 

round, 

The rocks that tower sharp-pointed, 

Bristling the shore of many a neighbouring isle, 
Are with the din fear-shaken 

Of the hoarse brass rebellowing that roars. 
Tremulously the waters 

Amidst the placid grottos crystalline 
Proclaim the news of terror. 

Their green dishevelled tresses streaming far, 
The Nereids, affrighted, 

Fly to the shuddering ocean’s deepest abyss. 
Neptune, exasperated, 

Flings on his biped coursers’ necks the reing, 
And in his conch upstanding, 

With straining eyes the liquid azure field 
Explores, — seeking, but vainly, 

The bold, the conquest-loving Lusian ships. 
Lilies he sees, and Leopards, 

Of yore on ocean’s confines little known, 
Triumphantly now waving 

From frigid Thule to the ruddy East. 
He sees the dull Batavian 

In fragrant Ceylon, ard Malacca rich, 
His grasping laws. promulgate. 

“ Offspring of Gama and of Albuquerque!” 
Thus Neptune, deeply sighing, 

Exclaims, ‘‘encrimson ye with deathless shame! 
Where is the trident sceptre 

I gave to that adventurous hero, first 
Who ploughed with daring spirit 

The unknown oceans of the rosy morn? 
No-Lusitanian Argos, 

With heroes filled, in Mauritanian schools 
Created, trained, and hardened, 

Now furrows with bold nimbleness my realm.”’ 


eee 


MANOEL MARIA DE BARBOSA DU 
BOCAGE. 


Tuis famous improvvisatore and poet was 
born at Setubal, in 1766. He showed in his 


| PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
SE SE eee 


early years uncommon talent, and his parents 
spared no pains with his education. Quitting 
school, he received a commission in the infantry 
of Setubal, and not long after entered the naval 
service. He spent three years in Lisbon, and 
acquired a high reputation as an improvvisatore. 
At the age of twenty, he left Lisbon and em- 
barked for the Portuguese possessions in India. 
Arriving at Goa, he was appointed a lieutenant, 
and was wrecked on a voyage from that city 
to Macao, saving only the manuscript of the 
first volume of his works. His talents soon 
attracted the attention of persons in power; 
but the indulgence of his satirical vein exposed 
him to hatred, and even to the danger of losing 
his life, and he returned to Portugal after an 
absence of five years. He was‘well received 
on his arrival in Lisbon, but soon injured his 
reputation by associating with dissolute com 
pany, was thrown into jail, and imprisoned by 
the Inquisition. During this confinement, he 
translated the first book of Ovid’s “ Metamor- 
phoses.’’ He was released at the interposition 
of the Marquesses of Ponte de Lima and of 
Abrantes, but returned to his old habits and 
associates. He died December 21, 1805. 

The works of Bocage were collected and 
published at Lisbon, in 1812. 


SONNETS. 


Scarce was put off my infant swathing-band, 

Till o’er my senses crept the sacred fire ; 

The gentle Nine the youthful embers fanned, 

Moulding my timid heart to their desire. 

Faces angelic and serene, ere long, 

And beaming brightness of revolving eyes, 

Bade in my mind a thousand transports rise, 

Which I should breathe in soft and tender 
song, 

As time rolled on, the fervor greater was; 

The chains seemed harsh the infant god had 
forged, — 

Luckless the Muses’ gift ;— release I urged 

From their sad dowry, and from Cupid’s laws: 

But finding destiny had fixed my state, 

What could I do? —I yielded to my fate. 


Ir it is sweet, in summer’s gladsome day, 

To see the morn in spangling flowerets dressed, 

To see the sands and meadows gay caressed 

By river murmuring as it winds its way, — 

If sweet to hear, amidst the orchard grove, 

The winged lovers to each other chant, 

Warble the ardor of their fervent love, 

And in their songs their joyous bliss descant,— 

If it is sweet to view the sea serene, 

The sky’s cerulean brightness, and the charms 

Which Nature gives to gild this mortal scene, 

And fill each living thing with soft alarms: 

More sweet to see thee, conquered by my sighs, 

Deal out the sweetest death from thy soft yield- 
ing eyes. 


BOCAGE.—CONDE 


THE FALL OF GOA. 
Faten is the emporium of the Orient, 
That stern Alfonso’s arms in dread array 
Erst from the Tartar despot tore away, 
Shaming in war the god armipotent. 
Goa lies low! that fortress eminent, 
Dread of the haughty Nayre, the false Malay, 
Of many a barbarous tribe. What faint dismay 
In Lusian breasts the martial fire has spent? 
O bygone age of heroes! days of glory! 
Exalted men! ye, who, despite grim death, 
Still in tradition live, still live in story, 
Terrible Albuquerque, and Castro great, — 
And you, their peers, your deeds in memory’s 


breath 
Preserved, avenge the wrongs we bear from 
fate ! 


THE WOLF AND THE EWE. 


Once upon a time great friendship 
'Twixt a wolf and ewe there reigned : 
What saint’s influence wrought such marvel 
Has not rightly been explained. 


She forgot the guardian shepherd, 
Fold, flock, dog, she all forsook, 
And her way with her new comrade 

Through the tangled thicket took. 


Whilst-she with her fellows pastured, 
Galless she as turtle-dove ; 

But her new friend quickly taught her 
Cruel as himself to prove. 


And when the ferocious tutor 

_ Saw the poor perverted fool 

Make so marvellous a progress 
In his brutalizing school, 


Vanity with pleasure mingled, 
Till his heart within him danced ; 
And his fondness for his pupil 
Every murderous feast enhanced. 


But one day, that, almost famished, 
Master wolf pursued the chase, 
Of the victims he was seeking 
He discovered not a trace. 


Mountain, valley, plain, and forest, 

Up and down, and through and through, 
Vainly he explored; then empty 

To his den led back his ewe. 


There, his weary limbs outstretching, 
On the ground awhile he lies ; 

Then upon his weak companion 
Ravenously turns his eyes. 


Thus the traitor inly muses : 
«© Ne’er was known such agony ! 
And must I endure these tortures? 


Must I, out of friendship, die ? 


“¢ Shall I not obey the mandate 
Nature speaks within my breast? 

And is not self-preservation 
Nature’s holiest behest? 


DA BARCA. 


“Virtue, thou belong’st to reason, — 
Let proud man confess thy sway ! 

I’m by instinct merely governed, 
And its dictates must obey.” 


Thus decided, swift as lightning, 
Springs he on the hapless ewe ; 

Fangs and claws, deep in her entrails 
Plunging, stains a crimson hue. 

With a trembling voice, the victim 
Questions her disloyal friend: 

“© Why, ingrate, shouldst thou destroy me? 
When or how could | offend? 


“© By what law art thou so cruel, 
Since I never gave thee cause?” 

Greedily he cried, “I’m hungry: 
Hunger is the first of laws.” 


Mortals, learn from an example 

With such horrid sufferings fraught 
What dire evils an alliance 

With the false and cruel brought. 


If the wicked are your comrades, 
I engage you ’ll imitate 

Half their crimes, and will encounter 
Wolves like ours, or soon or late. 


—_—j~—— 


ANTONIO DE ARUAJO DE AZEVEDO 
PINTO PEREYRA, CONDE DA BARCA. 


Trrs nobleman was the contemporary, friend, 
and benefactor of Manoel do Nascimento. He 
was the ambassador of Portugal at several of 
the European courts, and was a person of promi- 
nent rank in his country. He united the study 
of letters with the cares of state. Among the 
services which he rendered to Portuguese lit- 
erature, his translation of Dryden’s “ Alexan- 
der’s Feast,” and some of Gray’s odes and his 
“Elegy,” deserve to be specially mentioned. In 
1807, he accompanied the Portuguese court to 
Rio de Janeiro, where he died in 1816. 


SONNET. 


You who, when maddened by the learned fire, 
Disdain the strict poetic laws, and rise 

Sublime beyond the ken of human eyes, 
Striking with happiest art the Horatian lyre, — 
Who streams of equal eloquence diffuse, 
Whether new Gamas or the old you praise, 
And with pure strain and loftiest language raise 
Majestic more the Lusitanian Muse : 

As the bold eagle in its towering flights 
Instructs its young to brave the solar blaze, 
Skim the blue sky, or balance on the wing, — 
So teach you me to gain those sacred heights, 
On famed Apollo’s secrets let me gaze, 

The waters let me quaff of Cabalinus’ spring ! 


764 


ANTONIO RIBEIRO DOS SANTOS. 


Amone the recent poets of Portugal, this au- 
thor is distinguished for the spirit and purity of 
his style. His ‘* Ode to the Infante Dom Hen- 
rique”’ is especially praised for its elegance. 
He was a member of the Arcadian Society, 
under the name of Elpino Duriense. His 
works were published in three volumes. 


— 


SONNET. 


Here cruel hands struck deep the deadly blow, 

Nor aught fair Ignez’ beauty might avail, — 

The spot, lest memory of the deed should fail, 

Graved on this rock the marks of blood still 
show. 

The mourning Nymphs, who viewed such hap- 
less woe, 

Did o’er her pallid corpse in sadness wail ; 

And fell those tears, which, telling aye the tale, 

Caused the pure waters of this fount to flow. 

Ye dwellers to this languid fountain near, 

Ye shepherds of Mondego, ah, beware, 

As of the stream ye taste! reflect in time ! 

Fly, fly from Love, whose rigorous fate decreed 

That innocence should here in Ignez bleed, 

Whose peerless beauty was her only crime! 


Ge 


DOMINGOS MAXIMIANO TORRES. 


THs poet was a contemporary of Francisco 
Manoel do Nascimento. He was a member of 
the Arcadian Society, in which he bore the 
name of Alfeno Cynthio. His works, though 
deficient in originality, are marked by purity 
and elegance. He died wretchedly, in the hos- 
pital of Trafaria, in 1809. He wrote eclogues, 
sonnets, and canzonets. — 


—— 


SONNET. 


Marita, dear, but, O, ungrateful fair ! 

Look on the sea serene and calmly bright, — 

The sky’s blue lustre and the sun’s clear light 

How on its bosom now reflected are ! 

A sudden storm comes on,—in mountains high 

By furious gusts the silvery billows driven, 

Seem as they would, while raging up to heaven, 

Blot the fair lamp of Pheebus from the sky. 

Dear one, how copied to the life in thee 

The same perfidious element I see, — 

The smile, the look, which fondest hopes can 
raise ! 

But let a false suspicion once arise, 

Thy face indignant sullen wrath betrays, 

Love claps his wings and all the softness flies. 


——_}--- 


BELCHIOR MANOEL CURVO SEMEDO. 


Curvo Semepo is one of the authors included 
in the “ Parnaso Lusitano”’ of Fonseca. He is 
specially noted for his dithyrambics. 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
2 RNR a veeae thd CURE E Se! FRET ETON ie NUL MOAI NRE E IOS 


SONNET. 


“Tr is a fearful night; a feeble glare 

Streams from the sick moon in the o’erclouded 
sky ; 

The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, 

Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare ; 

No bark the madness of the waves will dare ; 

The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high: 

Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die, 

Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair?” 

As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, 

I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 

A messenger of gladness, at my side: 

To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light ; 

And as we furrowed Tejo’s heaving tide, 

I never saw so beautiful a night. 


———¢—- 


JOAM BAPTISTA GOMEZ, 


THis poet, who died in the first quarter of the 


* present century, wasa writer of much merit. and 
b] ? 


his style is distinguished by elegance and _har- 
mony. He wrote a tragedy on the story of Ig- 
nez de Castro, which retains a high reputation. 
An analysis and criticism of this play may be 
found in ** Blackwood’s Magazine,” Vol. XXIII. 


__ 


FROM THE TRAGEDY OF IGNEZ DE CASTRO. 


IGNEZ AND KING ALFONSO. 


IGNEZ. 
Apvancr with me, my children, and embrace 
Your royal grandsire’s knees; upon his hand 
Plant your first kisses. Mighty prince, behold 
The offspring of thy son, who come with tears 
To implore thy pity for their hapless mother !— 
Weep, weep with me, my children, — intercede 
For me with your soft tears, — tears more ex- 
pressive 
Than words, of which your helpless infancy 
Is yet incapable! Aid my laments, 
My prayers, — obtain my pardon! — Clement 
king, 
Of thy descendants, lo! the unhappy mother, 
Embracing them, entreats that thou wouldst 
spare ; 
To them her wretched life. Too well I know 
Thou art prepared to doom my present death. 
I, envy’s victim, of intrigue the mark, 
Timid, unfortunate, and unprotected, 
Behold my death impending, — death unjust, 
That tyrannous, infuriate counsellors, 
Deceiving the compassion of thy soul, 
Thunder against me. What atrocity ! 
For what enormous crimes am I condemned? 
To love thy son, my liege, and be beloved, 
Is that esteemed a crime worthy of death ? 
I dare implore, I dare attest, thy justice. 
Merciful prince, consult thy clemency, 
Consult thy heart; ’t will tell thee that my death 
Is undeserved. 


GOMEZ.—MACEDO. 765 


KING. 
Arise, unhappy woman ! — 
O nature! O stern duties of a king ! — 
Arise, unhappy woman! Fatal cause 
Of all the cruel sorrows that surround me, 
Thine aspect irritates, yet touches me. 
The father would forgive, —the king may not. 


IGNEZ. 

Alas, my liege! to pardon the distressed 

Is of a monarch’s power the sweetest act, 

And highest. Follow thine heart’s impulses ; 

Let nature, let compassion, reign supreme ; 

Of pity thou shalt ne’er repent. O, rather, 

Shouldst thou pronounce my death-doom, shall 
remorse 

Torture thee evermore, — incessant anguish 

Consume thee! Portugal’s renown and hopes 

Would moulder on my tombstone. ‘To the 
grave 

With me wouldst thou behold, in thy despite, 

Thy son descend. My liege, destroying me, 

See whom thou slaughterest! Our wedded 
hearts 

Are so indissolubly joined, the blow 

That pierces mine must needs transfix thy son’s: 

Neither without the other can exist. 

For him, not for myself, life I implore ; 

Yes, once again I clasp thy royal feet, — 

Have pity on the consort of thy son! 

O, were it not for these sweet ties that force me 

To live, though miserable, and value life, 

I would not sue for ’t, —but, unmurmuring 


And calm, would wait my death-blow! But to 
leave 

For ever what I love! Iam a wife, 

A mother!— Heavens! I faint! — My precious 
babes, 


Unhappy orphans! thus deprived at once 

Of a fond mother, of the fondest father, 

What shall become of you? —O mighty king, 

If, to my tears inexorable, my fate 

Touch thee not, yet to nature’s cry give ear! 

Of these most innocent and tender victims, 

O, pity the impending desolation ! 

They are not guilty of my crimes. My liege, 

Forget that they ’re my sons, remembering only 

They are thy-grandsons. But thou weep’st ! — 
O sight 

Kind Heaven has heard my prayers! 
proclaim 

My pardon! Let thine accents quell my fears ! 

Speak, gracious monarch! say thou pardonest ! 


Thy tears 


KING. 
Vainly I struggle. O, were ’t possible 
Now to resign my sceptre! 


[Enter Coelho. 


COELHO. 

Gracious Sir, 

The council waits, and prays thine instant pres- 
ence ; 

The populace already mutiny. 


IGNEZ, 


O, I am lost! 


JOSE AGOSTINHO DE MACEDO. 


Tuis author is known as a voluminous writer 
in prose and verse. One of his principal poems 
is an gpic, entitled “OQ Oriente,’ on the same 
subject as the ‘ Lusiad.” Another poem of 
his, called “«A Meditagao,”’ is praised by Gar- 
rett for its sublimity and erudition, its copious 
style and great ideas. 


A MEDITATION. 


PortenTous Egypt! I in thee behold 

And studiously examine human-kind, — 

Learning to know me in mine origin, 

In the primeval and the social state. 

A cultivator first, man next obeyed 

Wise Nature’s voice internal, equal men 

Uniting, and to empire raising law, 

The expression of the universal will, 

That gives to virtue recompense, to crime 

Due punishment, and to the general good 

Bids private interest be sacrificed. 

In thee the exalted temple of the arts 

Was founded, high in thee they rose, in thee 

Long ages saw their proudest excellence. 

The Persian worshipper of sun or fire 

From thee derived his creed. The arts from 
thee 

Followed Sesostris’ arms to the utmost plains 

Of the scorched Orient, in caution where 

Lurks the Chinese. Thou wondrous Egypt! 
through 

Vast Hindostan thy worship and thy laws 

I trace. In thee to the inquirer’s gaze 

Nature uncovered first the ample breast 

Of science, that contemplates, measuring, 

Heaven’s vault, and tracks the bright stars’ 
circling course. 


——ll A EN RE SS 


From out the bosom of thine opulence 

And glory vast imagination spreads 

Her wings. In thine immortal works I find 
Proofs how sublime that human spirit is, 
Which the dull atheist, depreciating, 

Calls but an instinct of more perfect kind, 
More active, than the never-varying brute’s. 
More is my being, more. Flashes in me 
A ray reflected from the eternal light. 
All the philosophy my verses breathe, 
The imagination in their cadences, 
Result not from unconscious mechanism. 


Thebes is in ruins, Memphis is but dust, 
O’er polished Egypt savage Egypt lies. 
Midst deserts does the persevering hand 
Of skilful antiquary disinter 
Columns of splintered porphyry, remains 
Of ancient porticos; each single one 
Of greater worth, O thou immortal Rome, 
Than all thou from the desolating Goth, 
And those worse Vandals of the Seine, hast 

saved ! 

Buried beneath light grains of arid sand, 


PORTUGUESE POETRY. 


The golden palaces, the aspiring towers, 

Of Meeris, Amasis, Sesostris lie ; 

And the immortal pyramids contend 

In durability against the world : 

Planted ’midst centuries’ shade, Time ’gainst 
their tops . 

Scarce grazes his ne’er-resting iron wing. 


In Egypt to perfection did the arts 
Attain; in Egypt they declined, they died : 
Of all that’s mortal such the unfailing lot; 
Only the light of science ’gainst Death’s law 
Eternally endures. The basis firm 
Of the fair temple of Geometry 
Was in portentous Egypt laid. 
Of vasty Nature by Geometry 
Are opened; to her fortress she conducts 
The sage. With her, beneath the fervid sun, 
The globe I measure; only by her aid 
Couldst thou, learned Kepler, the eternal laws 
Of the fixed stars discover; and with her 
Grasps the philosopher the ellipse immense, 
Eccentric, of the sad, and erst unknown, 
Far-wandering comet. Justly if I claim 
The name geometrician, certainly 
Matter inert is not what in me thinks. 


The doors 


a it 


JOAO EVANGELISTA DE MORAES 
SARMENTO. 


SARMENTO, a poet of the present century, 
wrote the following ‘Ode on War,” during the 
French invasion of Portugal. It is included in 
Fonseca’s “‘ Parnaso Lusitano.”’ 


ODE ON WAR. 


SHAKEN, convulsed with fear intemperate, 
Breaks my hoarse-sounding lyre ; 
And sinking on the chords, in woful state, 

See holy Peace expire ! 
Whilst yet far off tumultuously rave 
The progeny of Mars, cruel as brave. 


Their hot, white foam is by the chargers proud 
Scattered in fleece around ; 
Uprises from their nostrils a dense cloud; 
And as they paw the ground, 
A thick dust blackens the pure air like smoke, 
Through which sparks glimmer at each eager 
stroke. 


The stately cedar and the resinous pine 
No more, on mountain’s brow, 

The feathered mother and her nest enshrine ; 
Felled by rude hatchets now, 

The briny deep to people they repair, 

And for green leaves fling canvass on the air. 


War, monster dire! what baleful planet’s force 
Towards Lusia marks thy path? 

Away! away! quick measure back thy course! 
Glut upon those thy wrath 


Who joy in burnished mail, whose ruthless mood 
With blood bedews the earth, banquets on blood! 


But unavoidable if war’s alarms, 
Lusians, our cause is just! 
In battle will we crimson our bright arms; 
To battle’s lot intrust 
All hope of future years in joy to run; 
Only in battle may sweet peace be won. 


The Albuquerques and Castros from the tomb 
Arise on Lusia’s sight ; 
Although for centuries they ’ve lain in gloom 
Unvisited by light, 
Portugal they forget not, of whose story 
Their names and their achievements are the 
glory. 


—e-— 


J.B. LEITAO DE ALMEIDA GARRETT. 


ALMEIDA GARRETT is known in literature by 
a ‘¢ Historical Sketch of Portuguese Literature,” 
prefixed to Fonseca’s “ Parnaso Lusitano,”’ and 
by a poetical romance, in four cantos, entitled 
“« Adozinda,’”’ published in London, in 1828. 
An analysis of his ‘‘Adozinda,”’ with extracts, 
may be found in the “ Foreign Quarterly Re- 
view,’ Vol. X. 


eee 


FROM ADOZINDA. 


Lo! what crowds seek Landim Palace, 
Where it towers above the river ! 
Sounds of war and sounds of mirth 
Through its lofty walls are ringing ! 
Shakes the drawbridge, groans the earth, 
Under troops in armor bright ; 

Steeds, caparisoned for fight, 

Onward tramp; o’erhead high flinging 
Banners, where the red cross glows, 
Standard-bearers hurry near ; — 

Don Sisnando’s self is here ! 

From his breastplate flashes light ; 
Plumes that seem of mountain snow 
O’er his dazzling helmet wave ; 

"T is Sisnando, great and brave! 


“‘ Open, open, castle-portals ! 
Pages, damsels, swiftly move! 
Lo! from paynim lands returning 
Comes my husband, lord, and love!” 
Thus the fond Auzenda cries, 
Towards the portal as she flies. 
Gates are opened, shouts ring round ; 
And the ancient castle’s echo 
Wakens to the festive sound: 
‘“ Welcome! welcome! Don Sisnando!” 
Weeps her joy Auzenda meek, 
Streams of rapture sweetly flow; 
Down the never-changing cheek 
Of the warrior stout and stern, 
Steals a tear-drop all unheeded ; — 
Stronger far is joy than woe. 


APPENDIX. 


FROM THE GERMAN. 


——_@—— 
Page 238. 


ANONYMOUS. 


_— 


THE GERMAN NIGHT-WATCHMAN’S SONG. 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
The hour of Eight, good Sirs, has struck. 
Eight souls alone from death were kept, 
When God the earth with deluge swept : 
Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 

The hour of Nine, good Sirs, has struck. 

Nine lepers cleansed returned not ; — 

Be not thy blessings, man, forgot! 

Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 

Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 

The hour of Ten, good Sirs, has struck. 

Ten precepts show God’s holy will; — 

O, may we prove obedient still ! 

Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 

Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 

The hour Eleven, good Sirs, has struck. 

Eleven apostles remained true ; — 

May we be like that faithful few ! 

Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 

Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 

The hour of Twelve, good Sirs, has struck. 

Twelve is of Time the boundary ; — 

Man, think upon Eternity ! 

Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 

Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
The hour of One, good Sirs, has struck. 


One God alone reigns over all’; 

Naught can without his will befall : 

Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 

Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
The hour of Two, good Sirs, has struck. 
Two ways to walk has man been given; 
Teach me the right,—the path to heaven! 
Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 

The hour of Three, good Sirs, has struck. 

Three Gods in one, exalted most, 

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 

Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might, 
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 


Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
The hour of Four, good Sirs, has struck. 
Four seasons crown the farmer’s care ; — 
Thy heart with equal toil prepare + 
Up, up! awake, nor slumber on! 
The morn approaches, night is gone ! 
Thank God, who by his power and might 
Has watched and kept us through this night! 


Res 
Page 316. 


SCHILLER. 


——e 


FROM MARY STUART. 


[Scene.—The Park at Fotheringay. Trees in the fore- 
ground; a distant prospect behind. Mary advances from 
between the trees at a quick pace; Jean Kennedy slowly 
following her. ] 


KENNEDY. 
Sray, stay, dear lady! You are hurrying on 
As though you ’d wings ; —I cannot follow you. 


MARY. 
Let me renew the dear days of my childhood! 
Come, rejoice with me in Liberty’s ray ! 
O’er the gay-pansied turf, through the sweet- 
scented wildwood, 
Let ’s pursue, lightly bounding, our fetterless 
way ! 


ta 


See 


Have I emerged from the dungeon’s deep sad- 


ness? 
Have I escaped from the grave’s yawning 
night? 
O, let me sweep on, in this flood-tide of glad- 
ness, 


Drinking full, thirsty draughts of fresh free- 
dom and light! 


KENNEDY, 


Your prison only is enlarged a little. 

Yon thicket of deep trees alone prevents you 

From seeing the dark walls that stretch around 
us. 


MARY, 
Thanks to those trees which thus in dim se- 
clusion 
Conceal my prison, I may dream I’m free. 
Why wouldst thou wake me from the dear illu- 
sion? . 
Why call me back to thought and misery ? 
Does not heaven hold me in its soft embrace ? 
Do not these eyes, once more unfettered, 
rove 
Far through immeasurable realms of space, 
To greet each object of their earlier love? 
There, northwards, are my kingdom’s bounds 
appearing, — 
There, — where yon hills their misty tops 
advance ; 
And these light clouds, with the mid-day ca- 
reering, 
Seek the far ocean.of thine empire, France! 


Hastening clouds, ships of the sky, 
(Ah, could I sail in your ocean on high!) 
Greet with a blessing my youth’s cherished 
land! 
An exile I weep, in fetters I languish, — 
None nigh, but you, to bear note of my an- 
guish, 
Free-is your course over billow and strand ; 
You are not subject to this queen’s command. 


° 


KENNEDY. 


Alas! dear lady, you ’re beside yourself’; 
This long-withholden freedom makes you dream. 


MARY. 

A bark! a bark is in the gale! 
She scuds down yonder bay ! 

How swiftly might that slender sail 
Transport us far away ! 

The owner starves ; — what wealth he ’d get, 
Were he to waft us o’er! 

He ’d have a catch within his net 
No fisher had before. 


KENNEDY. 
O, forlorn wishes! See you not from far 
The spies that dodge us? A dark prohibition 


Has seared each pitying creature from our 
path. 


APPENDIX. 
Te 


MARY. 

No, Jean! Believe me, it is not without 

An object that my prison-doors are opened. 

This little favor is the harbinger 

Of greater happiness. I do not err. 

It is Love’s active hand I have to thank ; 

I recognize Lord Leicester’s influence in it. 

Yes! by degrees they will enlarge my prison, 

Through little boons accustom me to greater, 

Until, at length, I see the face of him 

Who ’ll loosen with his hand these bonds for 
ever. 


KENNEDY. 
I cannot reconcile these contradictions. 


But yesterday condemned to death, — and now - 


To live, and in the enjoyment of such free- 
dom ! 

Even so, I’ve heard, the chain is loosed from 
those 

Whom an eternal freedom is awaiting. 


MARY. 


Heard’st thou the hunters? 
and mead, 

Hark, how their bugles ring out ! 

Ah, could I vault on my spirited steed ! 
Ah, could I join the gay rout! 

Sounds of sweet, bitter-sweet recollection, — 
How glad were ye once to my ear, 

When the rocks of my native Schihallion 
Exultant sent back your loud cheer ! 


Through thicket 


oe 


FROM DON CARLOS. 


[Scene.—The king’s bed-chamber. Two lights are on a 
table. In the background several pages asleep on their 
knees. The king, half dressed, is standing before the 
table, with one arm leaning over a chair, in an attitude 
of thought. On a table lie a miniature and some papers. ] 


KING. 
Tat she was ever an enthusiast, — that 
Is certain. Never could I give her love: 
Yet seemed she e’er to feel the want? 
clear, — 
She ’s false. 


[He makes a movement that rouses him from his reverie, 
and looks up with surprise. 

Where am I? Is the king alone 

Awake here ?— What! the lights burnt down 

so low, 

And not yet day? I have foregone my sleep. 

Account it, nature, as received. A king 

Has not time to repair lost slumber. Now 

I am awake, — it must be day. 


"T is 


[He puts out the lights and opens a window-curtain. In 
walking up and down, he observes the sleeping pages, and 
stops for some time before them; he then rings the bell. 


Are all 
In the antechamber, too, asleep perhaps ? 
[Enter Count Lerma. 


LERMA (starting, as he observes the king.) 
Your Majesty ’s not well ? 


APPENDIX. 


tt ATI 


KING. 
In the left wing 


O’ th’ palace there was fire. You heard the 


alarm ? 
LERMA. 
No, Sire. 
KING. 
No? How? Have I, then, only dreamt? 
That cannot be mere chance. ’T is in that 
wing 


That sleeps the queen, —is ‘t not? 


LERMA. 


Yes, Sire. 


KING. 


The dream 

Affrights me. Let the guards be doubled there 

Hereafter, — hear you ? — as soon as ’t is 
night ; — 

But secretly, — quite secretly. —I will 

Not have it that.— You search me with your 
looks? 


LERMA. 
I see an eye inflamed, that begs for rest. 

May I be bold, and of a precious life 

Remind your Majesty, — remind you of 

Your subjects, who with pained surprise would 

read 
In such looks traces of a sleepless night. 
But two short morning hours of sleep 


KING. 
Sleep, sleep! 
I ll find it in the Escurial. The while 
He sleeps, the king has parted with his crown,— 
The man with his wife’s heart.—No, no! ’tis 
slander. 

Was ’t not a woman whispered it to me? 
Woman, thy name is slander! Till a man 
Vouches the crime, it is not certain. 

[To the pages, who in the mean time have woke up. 
Call 
Duke Alba. — Count, come nearer. 

[He stands before the count, looking at him intently. 
O, for one moment only of omniscience ! — 
Swear, —is it true? Am I betrayed? Am TI? 
Is ’t true? 


Is it true? 


LERMA. 


My noble, gracious king 


KING, 
King! king! 
Nothing but king! — No better answer than 
An empty, hollow echo? On this rock 
I strike, and ask for water, water for 
My fever-thirst ; — he gives me molten gold. 


LERMA. 
What’s true, my king? 
* KING. 
Naught, — naught. Now leave me. Go. 


[The count is going ; the king calls him back. 


Are a father? Yes? 
97 


You ’re married ? 


LERMA. 
Yes, Sire. 
KING. 
Married,— and dare you with your king to 
watch 
A night? Your hair is silvered, — yet you are 


So bold, and trust the honor of your wife ? 

Go home, — go home. You will just catch 
her in 

The incestuous embraces of your son. 

Believe your king. Go. — Startled are you? Me 

You look at with significance? Because 

I, I, too, have gray hairs? Bethink you, wretch! 

Queens stain their virtue not. You die, if you 

But doubt 


LERMA (with warmth). 
Who can do that? In all your realm, 
Who is so bold with poisonous distrust 
To breathe upon her angel purity ? 
The best of queens 


KING. 
The best? So, your best, too? 
She has warm friends around me, I perceive. 
That must have cost her much, — more than I 
knew 
She had to give. — You may retire. And send 
The duke. 


LERMA. 


I hear him in the antechamber. 
[Is about to go. 


KING (in a mild tone). 
Count, what you first remarked is true. 
brain 
Is heated from a sleepless night. Forget 
What in my waking dream I spoke. 
hear? 
Forget it. I am still your gracious king. 
[He reaches his hand to him to kiss. Lerma retires, and 
opens the door to the duke of Alba. 


My 


You 


ny 


FROM THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 


[Scene. — A saloon, terminated by a gallery which e«tends 
far into the background. — Wallenstein sitting at a table. 
The Swedish captain standing before him. ] 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Commenp me to your lord. I sympathize 
In his good fortune; and if you have seen me 
Deficient in the expressions of that joy 
Which such a victory might well demand, 
Attribute it to no lack of good-will, 
For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell, 
And for your trouble take my thanks. To- 

morrow 
The citadel shall be surrendered to you, 
On‘your arrival. 


[The Swedish captain retires. Wallenstein sits lost in 
thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained 
by his hand. The Countess Tertsky enters, stands before 
him awhile, unobserved by him; at length he starts, sees 
her and recollects himself. 


- 


_Is Jupiter. 


‘ga APPENDIX. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Comest thou from her? Is she restored? 
is she? 


How 


COUNTESS, 
My sister tells me, she was more collected 
After her conversation with the Swede. 
She has now retired to rest. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
The pang will soften. 
She will shed tears. 


COUNTESS. 
I find thee altered too, 
My brother! After such a victory, 
I had expected to have found in thee 
A cheerful spirit. O, remain thou firm! 
Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art, 
Our sun. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where ’s 
Thy husband ? 


COUNTESS. 
At a banquet, — he and Illo. 


WALLENSTEIN (rises and strides across the saloon). 
The night ’s far spent. Betake thee to thy 
chamber. 


COUNTESS. 
Bid me not go; O, let me stay with thee! 


WALLENSTEIN (moves to the window). 


There is a busy motion in the heaven: 

The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower ; 

Fast sweep the clouds; the sickle of the moon, 

Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light. 

No form of star is visible! That one 

White stain of light, that single glimmering 
yonder, 

Is from Cassiopeia, and therein 

[A pause.] But now 

The blackness of the troubled element hides 
him! 

{He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly 

into the distance. 


counTEss (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand). 


What art thou brooding on? 


WALLENSTEIN, 


Methinks, 

If I but saw him, ’t would be well with me. 
He is the star of my nativity, 

And often marvellously hath his aspect 
Shot strength into my heart. 


COUNTESS. 
Thou ’It see him again. 


WALLENSTEIN (remains for a while with absent mind, then 
assumes a livelier manner, and turns suddenly to the 
countess.) 


See him again? O, never, never again ! 


COUNTESS. 
How? 


WALLENSTEIN, 
He is gone, —is dust. 


‘ 


COUNTESS. 
Whom meanest thou then? 


WALLENSTEIN. 


He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished! 

For him there is no longer any future ! 

His life is bright, — bright without spot it was, 

And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour 

Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap. 

Far off is he, above desire and fear; 

No more submitted to the change and chance 

Of the unsteady planets. O, ’t is well 

With him! but who knows what the coming 
hour, 

Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us? 


COUNTESS. 
Thou speakest 
Of Piccolomini. What was his death? 
The courier had just left thee as I came. 


[ Wallenstein by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to 
be silent. 

Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view ; 

Let us look forward into sunny days. 

Welcome with joyous heart the victory ; 

Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day, 

For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead; 

To thee he died, when first he parted from thee. 


WALLENSTEIN, 
This anguish will be wearied down, I know: 
What pang is permanent with man?! From the 

highest, 

As from the vilest thing of every day, 
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours 
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life. 
For, O, he stood beside me, like my youth; 
Transformed for me the real to a dream, 
Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
With golden exhalations of the dawn ! 
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils, 
The beautiful is vanished, — and returns not. 


COUNTESS. 
O, be not treacherous to thy own power! 
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify 
Itself. Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him, 
The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold. 


WALLENSTEIN (stepping to the door). 
Who interrupts us now, at this late hour ? 


1A very inadequate translation of the original. 


Verschmerzen werd’ ich diesen Schlag, das weiss ich, 
Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch! 


Literally, — 


T shall grieve down this blow, of that I’m conscious : 
What does not man grieve down ? TR. 


He brings the keys 
’T is midnight. Leave me, 


It is the governor. 
Of the citadel. 


sister ! 


COUNTESS. 
O, ’t is so hard to me this night to leave thee! 
A boding fear possesses me ! 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Fear? Wherefore? 
COUNTESS. 
Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at 
waking 
Never more find thee! 
WALLENSTEIN. 
Fancies ! 
COUNTESS. 
O, my soul 
Has Jong been weighed down by these dark 
forebodings ! 


And if I combat and repel them waking, 

They still rash down upon my heart in dreams. 
I saw thee yesternight, with thy first wife, 

Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired. 


WALLENSTEIN, 
This was a dream of favorable omen, 
That marriage being the founder of my for- 
tunes. 


COUNTESS. 
To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee 
In thy own chamber. As I entered, lo! 
It was no more a chamber: the Chartreuse 
At Gitschin ’t was, which thou thyself hadst 
founded, 
And where it is thy will that thou shouldst be 
Interred. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Thy soul is busy with these thoughts. 


COUNTESS. 
What! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams 
A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us? 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Theré is no doubt that there exist such voices. 
Yet I would not call them 
Voices of warning, that announce to us 
Only the inevitable. As the sun, 
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image 
In the atmosphere, — so often do the spirits 
Of great events stride on before the events, 
And in to-day already walks to-morrow. 
That which we read of the fourth Henry’s 
death 
Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale 
Of my own future destiny. The king 
Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife, 


Long ere Ravaillac armed himself therewith. 
His quiet mind forsook him: the phantasma 
Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth 
Into the open air; like funeral knells 


I followed panting, but could not o’ertake thee ; 


APPENDIX. 77) 


Sounded that coronation festival ; 

And still with boding sense he heard the tread 
Of those feet that even then were seeking him 
Throughout the streets of Paris. 


And to thee 


COUNTESS. | 
The voice within thy soul bodes nothing ? | 


WALLENSTEIN. 
Nothing. 
Be wholly tranquil. 


COUNTESS. 
And another time 
I hastened after thee, and thou rann’st from me 
Through a long suite, through many a spacious 
hall; 
There seemed no end of it: doors creaked and 
clapped ; 


When on a sudden did I feel myself 

Grasped from behind, — the hand was cold that 
grasped me, — 

’'T was thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there 
seemed 

A crimson covering to envelope us. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber. 


COUNTESS (gazing on him). } 
If it should come to that, —if I should see thee, 
Who standest now before me in the fulness 


Of life 


[She falls on his breast and weeps. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
The emperor’s proclamation weighs upon thee. 
Alphabets wound not, —and he finds no hands 


COUNTESS. 
If he should find them, my resolve is taken: 
I bear about me my support and refuge. 
[Exit Countess. 


FROM THE DUTCH. 


=o 


Page 395. 


JACOB BELLAMY. 


Jacos Bretiamy was born at Flushing, in 
the year 1757. His boyhood was passed in 
humble circumstances, and he worked at the 
trade of a baker until he was fifteen years old. 
At this early age he acquired considerable rep- 
utation in his native city as a versifier. In 
1772, at the celebration of the second centen- | 
nial festival in commemoration of the founda 
tion of the republic, his genius was inspired by 
the patriotic enthusiasm that universally ae 


ae 


eee 


vailed. His productions were so well received, 
that he was enabled, by the generosity of a lib- 
eral patron, to study at the University of Utrecht, 
where he devoted part of his time to theology. 
He acquired a knowledge of Latin, studied the 
mother tongue with critical accuracy, and wrote 
several pieces of such excellence, that the Soci- 
ety of Arts at the Hague incorporated them into 
their collections. Among his poems, those 
most highly esteemed are the ‘* Vaderlandse 
Gezengen’”’ (Patriotic Songs). His later pieces 
are in amore melancholy tone. The death of 
this distinguished poet occurred in 1796. The 
works he left behind him entitle him to be 
placed with Bilderdijk, Helmers, Loos, and 
others, among the restorers of Dutch poetry. 


ODE TO GOD. 


For Thee, for Thee, my lyre I string, 
Who, by ten thousand worlds attended, 
Holdest thy course sublime and splendid 

Through heaven’s immeasurable ring ! 

I tremble ’neath the blazing throne 

Thy light eternal built upon, — 

Thy throne, as thou, all-radiant, — bearing 

Love’s day-beams of benignity : 

Yet, terrible is thine appearing 

To them who fear not thee. 


O, what is mortal man, that he 
May hear thy heavenly temple ringing 
With songs that heaven’s own choirs are sing- 
ing, 
And echo back the melody? 
My soul is wandering from its place ; 
Mine eyes are lost amidst the space 
Where thousand suns are rolled through heav- 
en, — 
Suns waked by thee from chaos’ sleep : 
But with the thought my soul is driven 
Down to a trackless deep. 


There was a moment ere thy plan 
Poured out Time’s stream of mortal glory, — 
Ere thy high wisdom tracked the story 
Of all the years since Time began: 
Bringing sweet peace from sorrow’s mine, 
And making misery — discipline ; 
The bitter waters of affliction 
Distilling into dews of peace, 
And kindling heavenly benediction 
From earth’s severe distress. 


Then did thine omnipresent eye, 
Earth’s million million wonders seeing, 
rack through the misty maze of being 
E’en my obscurest destiny : 
I, in those marvellous plans, though yet 
Unborn, had mine own portion set ; 
And thou hadst marked my path, though lowly : 
E’en to my meanness thou didst give 
Thy spirit, —thou, so high, so holy ; 
And I, thy creature, live. 


APPENDIX. 


So, through this trembling ball of clay, 
Thou to and fro dost kindly lead me; 
"Midst life’s vicissitudes I speed me, 

And quiet peace attends my way. 

And, O, what bliss it is to be — 

Though but an atom — formed by thee, — 
By thee, who in thy mercy pourest 

Rivers of grace, — to whom, indeed, 
The eternal oak-trees of the forest 

Are as the mustard-seed ! 


Up, then, my spirit! soar above 
This vale, where mists of darkness gather! 
Up to the high, eternal Father ! 
For thou wert fashioned by his love. 
Up to the heavens! away! away ! — 
No, —bend thee down to dust and clay : 
Heaven’s dazzling light will blind and burn thee; 
Thou canst not bear the awful blaze. 
No, — wouldst thou find the Godhead, turn thee 
On Nature’s face to gaze. 


There, in its every feature, thou 
May’st read the Almighty ; — every feature 
That ’s spread upon the face of Nature 

Is brightened with his holy glow: 

The rushing of the waterfall, 

The deep green valley, —silent all, — 
The waving grain, the roaring ocean, 

The woodland’s wandering melody, — 
All, — all that wakes the soul’s emotion, 

Creator, speaks of thee ! 


But, of thy works through sea and land 

Or the wide fields of ether wending, 

In man thy noblest thoughts are blénding; 
Man is the glory of thy hand ; — 
Man, — modelled in a form of grace, 
Where every beauty has its place ; 

A gentleness and glory sharing 
His spirit, where we may behold 

A higher aim, a nobler daring: 

"T is thine immortal mould. 


O wisdom! O unbounded might! 

I lose me in the light Elysian ; 

Mine eye is dimmed, and dark my vision : 
Who am I in this gloomy night? 
Eternal Being! let the ray 
Of thy high wisdom bear away 

My thoughts to thine abode sublimest ! 
But how shall grovelling passions rise 

To the proud temple where thou climbest 
The threshold of the skies ? 


Enough, if I a stammering hymn, 
My God, to thee may sing, — unworthy 
Of those sweet strains poured out before thee 
By heavenly hosts of cherubim: 
Despise me not, — one spark confer 
Worthy of thine own worshipper; 
And better songs and worthier praises 
Shall hallow thee, when ’midst the strain 
Of saints my voice its chorus raises,— 
Never to sink again. 


paket ae ci ila il a a ta a SL a aE fade 


APPENDIX. 


FROM THE* FRENCH. 


—_-4-—- 
Page 482. 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 


HOME. 


How my heart is ever turning 
To my distant birthplace fair ! 
Sister, in our France, the morning 
Smileth so rare! 
Home! my love is on thy shore 
For evermore ! 


Dost remember how our mother 
Oft, our cottage fire beside, 
Blessed the maiden and her brother, 
In her beart’s pride, — 
And they smoothed her silver hair 
With tender prayer? 


Dost remember, still, the palace 
Hanging o’er the river Dore ? 
And that giant of the valleys, 
The Moorish tower, 
Where the bell, at dawning gray, 
Did waken day ? 


And the lake, with trees that hide it, 
Where the swallow skimmeth low ? 
And the slender reeds beside it, 
That soft airs bow? 
How the sunshine of the west 
Loved its calm breast ! 


And Heéléne, that one beloved 
Friend of all my early hours, 
How through greenwood we two roved, 
Playing with flowers? 
Listening at the old oak’s feet, 
How two hearts beat! 


Give me back my oaks and meadows, 
And my dearly loved Héléne ; 
One and all are now but shadows, 
Bringing strange pain. 
Home! my love is on thy shore 
For evermore ! 


PROM TR iA LLAN: 


—_——}-—- 
Page 582. 


GIAMBATTISTA MARINI. 


— 


FADING BEAUTY.—SUPPLEMENTARY STANZAS. 


Tne translation of Marini’s *¢ Fading Beau- 
ty,” by Daniel, on p. 582, embraces little more 
than half of the ode. The following additional 
stanzas have been furnished by a friend, who 
has skilfully preserved the exact measure and 
the double rhymes of the original. 


stat sien cameo ' 


I. 
A LAmp’s uncertain splendor 
A wandering shadow hideth ; 
In fire or sun, the tender 
Snow into water glideth : 
Yet not so long abideth 
Youth’s swiftly fading blossom, 
Which doth at once \more joy and frailty too 
embosom. 


v. 
Foolish who sets his hoping 
On nature’s proud displaying, 
Which falls in merely coping 
With a light breeze’s playing : 
Passeth, passeth without staying, 
To-day’s delight unsteady, 
Which shows itself, and, while we look, is gone 
already. 
VI. 
Flies, flies the pleasant bevy 
Of amorous delighting ; 
And with weary foot and heavy 
Follow sorrow and despiting : 
To-day youth fears no blighting; 
To-morrow the year rangeth, 
And all the green of spring fer winter's snow 
exchangeth. 
VII. 
How swift thou disappearest, 
O treasure born for dying! 
How rapidly thou outwearest, 
O dowry, O Slory lying! 
The arrow swiftest flying, 
Which the blind archer wasteth, 
From a fair countenance’s bow not sooner 
hasteth. 


A sudden cloud-rack dashes; 
The fire’s high-blazing cleanness 
Is now but dust and ashes; 
The rude storm bursts, and crashes 
The smooth glass of the Ocean, 
Who only finds repose in his unresting motion. 


XI. 

Thus all its freshness loseth 

The spring-time of man’s living; 
Morning its green uncloseth, 

But night is unforgiving 5 

Flowers, whence the heart is hiving 
Its honey, frost surpriseth ; 

Each falls in turn, and, fallen, never riseth. 


XIII. 
How many kingdoms glorious, 
How many cities over, 
Ruin exults victorious, 
And sand and herbage cover! 
What boots strength? or how discover 
A buckler which protecteth 
’Gainst what doth level all that earth or flesh 
erecteth ? 


3mM* 


7: 
The sky’s now bright sereneness 
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Ye Suter gg I 
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naa —— ~ See ae 
Se a 


ene ae 


| For vanished years will be the marble, reared 


5 oe 
Of Time, with which she vieth, 

Beauty ’s the trophy after; 
Irrevocably flieth 

The sport, the joy, the laughter ; 

The cup, from which she quaffed her 
Short bliss, leaves naught that ’s lasting, 
But sorrow and regret for that poor moment’s 
tasting. 

2S 
Page 610. 


IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE. 


NIGHT. 


Nieut dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming 
star 
Its silent place assigns in yonder sky: 
The moon walks forth, and fields and groves 
afar, 

Touched by her light, in silver beauty lie. 
In solemn peace, that no sound comes to mar, 
Hamlets and peopled cities slumber nigh ; 

While on this rock, in meditation’s mien, 
Lord of the unconscious world, I sit unseen. 


How deep the quiet of this pensive hour! 
Nature bids labor cease, —and all obey. 

How sweet this stillness, in its magic power 
O’er hearts that know her voice and own her 

sway! 

Stillness unbroken, save when from the flower 
The whirring locust takes his upward way ; 

And murmuring o’er the verdant turf is heard 

The passing brook, —or leaf by breezes stirred. 


Borne on the pinions of Night’s freshening air, 

Unfettered thoughts with calm reflection come; 

And Fancy’s train, that shuns the daylight glare, 

To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens 
in gloom. 

New, tranquil joys, and hopes untouched by care, 
Within my bosom throng to seek a home; 
While far around the brooding darkness spreads, 

And o’er the soul its pleasing sadness sheds. 


——_o—_- 
Page 612. 


NICCOLO UGO FOSCOLO. 


THE SEPULCHRES. 


Brnnatn the cypress shade, or sculptured urn 
By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death 
Less heavy? When for me the sun no more 
Shall shine on earth, and bless with genial beams 
This beauteous race of beings animate, — 
When bright with flattering hues the future hours 
No longer dance before me, and I hear 

No more the magic of thy dulcet verse, 

Nor the sad, gentle harmony it breathes, — 
When mute within my breast the inspiring voice 
Of youthful Poesy, and Love, sole light 

To this my wandering life, — what guerdon then 


APPENDIX.: 


To mark my dust amid the countless throng 
Wherewith Death widely strews the land and 
sea? 


And thus itis! Hope, the last friend of man, 
Flies from the tomb, and dim Forgetfulness 
Wraps in its rayless night all mortal things. 
Change after change, unfelt, unheeded, takes 
Its tribute, —and o’er man, his sepulchres, 
His being’s lingering traces, and the relics 

Of earth and heaven, Time in. mockery treads. 


Yet why hath man, from immemorial years, 
Yearned for the illusive power which may retain 
The parted spirit on life’s threshold still ? 

Doth not the buried live, e’en though to him 
The day’s enchanted melody is mute, 

If yet fond thoughts and tender memories 

He wake in friendly breasts ? O, ’t is from heaven, 
This sweet communion of abiding love ! 

A boon celestial! By its charm we hold 

Full oft a solemn converse with the dead ; 

If yet the pious earth, which nourished once 
Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast 
Yielding a last asylum, shall protect 

Their sacred relics from insulting storms, 

Or step profane, — if some secluded stone 
Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave 
Its fragrant shade above their honored dust. 


But he who leaves no heritage of love 

Is heedless of an urn ; —and if he look 
Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost 
Among the wailmgs of infernal shores; 

Or hides its guilt beneath the sheltering wings 
Of God’s forgiving mercy ; while his bones 
Moulder unrecked-of on the desert sand, 
Where never loving woman pours her prayer, 
Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh 

Which mourning Nature sends us from the tomb. 


New laws now banish from our yearning gaze 

The hallowed sepulchres, and envious strip 

Their honors from the dead. Without a tomb 

Thy votary sleeps, Thalia! he who sung 

To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared 

His bays to weave a coronal for thee. 

And thou didst wreath with gracious smiles his 
lay, 

Which stung the Sardanapalus of our Jand, 4 

Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the 
lowing 

Of cattle pasturing in Ticino’s fields, 

His source of boasted wealth. O Muse inspired! 

Where art thou? No ambrosial air I breathe, 

Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers 

Where now I sigh for home. Here wert thou 
wont 

To smile on him beneath yon linden-tree, 

That now with scattered foliage seems to weep, 

Because it droops not o’er the old man’s urn, 

W ho once sought peace beneath its cooling shade. 

Perchance thou, Goddess, wandering among 
graves 


1 The Prince Belgiojoso, severely satirized in Parini’s 
poem of ‘*The Day.’ 


— 


APPENDIX. 775 


Pc en nee aEaEENIIREERNERTal 


Unhonored, vainly seek’st the spot where rests 
Parini’s sacred head! The city now 
To him no space affords within her walls, 
Nor monument, nor votive line. His bones, 
Perchance, lie sullied with some felon’s blood, 
Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved. 
Seest thou the lone wild dog, among the tombs, 
Howling with famine, roam, — raking the dust 
From mouldering bones? while from the skull, 
through which 
The moonlight streams, the noisy lapwing flies, 
And flaps his hateful wings above the field 
Spread with funereal crosses, —screaming shrill, 
As if to curse the light the holy stars 
Shed on neglected burial-grounds? In vain 
Dost thou invoke upon thy poet’s dust 
The sweet-distilling dews of silent night: 
There spring no flowers on graves by human 
praise 

Or tears of love unhallowed! 

From the days 
When first the nuptial feast and judgment-seat 
And altar softened our untutored race, 
And taught to man his own and others’ good, 
The living treasured from the bleaching stoym 
And savage brute those sad and poor remains, 
By Nature destined for a lofty fate. 
Then tombs became the witnesses of pride, 
And altars for the young:—thence gods invoked 
Uttered their solemn answers; and the oath 
Sworn on the father’s dust was thrice revered. 
Hence the devotion, which, with various rites, 
The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love, 
Transmits us through the countless lapse of years. 


Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave 
The temple-floors,—nor fumes of shrouded 
corpses, 
Mixed with the altar’s incense, smite with fear 
The suppliant worshipper, — nor cities frown, 
Ghastly with sculptured skeletons, — while 
leaped 
Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright, 
Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm, 
And listening for.the groans of wandering ghosts, 
Imploring vainly from their impious heirs 
Their gold-bought masses. But in living green, 
Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade 
O’er unforgotten graves, scattering in air 
Their grateful odors ; — vases rich received 
The mourners’ votive tears. There pious friends 
Enticed the day’s pure beam to gild the gloom 
Of monuments ; — for man his dying eye 
Turns ever to the sun, and every breast 
Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light. 
There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray, 
Watering sweet amaranths and violets - 
Upon the funeral sod; and he who came 
To commune with the dead breathed fragrance 
round, 


Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields. 
Sublime and fond illusion! this endears 
The rural burial-place to British maids, 


Who wander there to mourn a mother lost, — 
Or supplicate the hero’s safe return, 


Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled, 
To scoop from thence his own triumphal bier. ? 


Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds, 

And wealth and fear are ministers to life, 

Unhallowed images of things unseen, 

And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves 

And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar 
great, 

Italia’s pride and ornament, may boast 

Enduring tombs in costly palaces, 

With their sole praise — ancestral names — in- 
scribed. 

For us, my friends, be quiet couch prepared, 

Where Fate for once may weary of his storms, 

And Friendship gather from our urn no treasure 

Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm, 

And models of free song. 


Yes, Pindemonte ! 

The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds 

By great men’s monuments, —and they make fair 

And holy to the pilgrim’s eye the earth 

That has received their trust. When I beheld 

The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble 
genius, ® 

Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth’s 
kings, 

Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed 
the nations 

What tears and blood defiled them, — when I 
saw 

His mausoleum, who upreared in Rome 4 

A new Olympus to the Deity, — 

And his,® who ’neath heaven’s azure canopy 

Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved 

Irradiate countless systems, — treading first 

For Albion’s son, who soared on wings sublime, 

The shining pathways of the firmament, — 

“OQ, blest art thou, Etruria’s Queen,” I cried, 

‘For thy pure airs, so redolent of life, 

And the fresh streams thy mountain summits 
pour 

In homage at thy feet! In thy blue sky 

The glad moon walks, —and robes with silver 
light 

Thy vintage-smiling hills; and valleys fair, 

Studded with domes and olive-groves, send up 

To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers. 

Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine 

That cheered the Ghibelline’s ® indignant flight. 

And thou the kindred and sweet language gav’st 

To him, the chosen of Calliope,’ 

Who Love with purest veil adorning, — Love, 

That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome,— 

Restored him to a heavenly Venus’ lap. 

Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose 

Italia’s buried glories! — all, perchance, 

She e’er may boast! Since o’er the barrier frail 

Of Alpine rocks the overwhelming tide of Fate 


2 Nelson carried with him, some time before his death, a 
coffin made from the mainmast of the Orient, —that, when 
he had finished his military career in this world, he might 
be buried in one of his trophies. 

3 Niccolé Machiavelli. 5 Galileo. 

4 Michel Angelo. 6 Dante. 


7 Petrarch. 


Hath sweptin mighty wreck her 
Altars, and country, —and, save memory,—all!”’ 


Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds 
In daring minds, for Italy enslaved, 

Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs, 
In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft, — 
Indignant at his country, hither strayed 

O’er Arno’s desert plain, and looked abroad 
With silent longing on the field and sky: 

And when no living aspect soothed his grief, 
Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow 
There sat the paleness, with the hope of death. 
With them he dwells for ever; here his bones 
Murmur a patriot’s love. O, truly speaks 

A god from his abode of pious rest! 

The same which fired of old, in Grecian bosoms, 
Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon, 

Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone. 


The mariner since, whose white sails woo the 
winds , 

Before Eubcea’s isle, at deep midnight, 

Hath seen the lightning-flash of gleaming casques, 

And swift-encountering brands ; — seen blazing 
pyres 

Roll forth their volumed vapors 
warriors, 

Begirt with steel, and marching to the fight : 

While on Night’s silent ear, o’er distant shores, 

From those far airy phalanxes, was borne 

The clang of arms, and trumpet’s hoarse re- 
sponse, — 

The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs, 

Above the helmed deadsuas ned: mingling wild, 

Wails of the dying, hymns of victory, 

And, high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant. ® 


, —— phantom 


Happy, my friend, who in thine early years 
Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds! 
Ife’er the pilot steered thy wandering bark 
Beyond the Agean Isles, thou heard’st the shores 
Of Hellespont resound th ancient deeds ; 
And the proud surge exult, that bore of old 
Achilles’ armor to Rheteum’s shore, 

Where Ajax sleeps. To souls of generous mould 
Death righteously awards the meed of fame: 
Not subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave 

The perilous spoils to Ithaca, — when waves, 
Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods 


Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark. 


For me, whom years and love of high renown 

Impel! through far and various lands to roam, 

The Muses, gently waking in my breast 

Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead. 

They sit ‘ena "guard the sepulchres; and when 

Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to 
ruin, 

The gladdened desert echoes with their song, 

And its loud harmony subdues the silence 

Of noteless ages. 


Yet on [lium’s plain, 
Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes 


8 In allusion to a prevalent superstition. 


APPENDIX. 


arms, her wealth, 


Devout gleams star-like an eternal shrine, — 

Eternal for the Nymph espoused by Jove, 

Who gave her royal lord the son whence sprung 

Troy’s ancient city, and Assaracus, 

The fifty sons of Priam’s regal line, 

And the wide empire of the Latin race. 

She, listening to the Fates’ resistless call, 

That summoned her from vital airs of earth 

To choirs Elysian, of heaven’s sire besought 

One boon in dying : —‘O, if e’er to thee,” 

She cried, ‘this fading form, these locks were 
dear, 

And the soft cares of Love, — since Destiny 

Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least 

That thine Electra’s fame in death survive!” 

She prayed, and died. Then shook the Thun- 
derer’s throne, 

And, bending in assent, the immortal head 

Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks, 

To sanctify her tomb. — Ericthon there 

Reposes, — there the dust of Ilus lies. 

There Trojan matrons, with dishevelled hair, 

Sought vainly to avert impending fate 

From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassan- 
dra stood, 

Inspired with deity, and told the ruin 

That bung o’er Troy, —and poured her wailing 
song 

To solent shades, —and led the children forth, 

And taught to youthful lips the fond lament: 


Sighing, she said, ‘If e’er the Gods permit 


Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled slaves, 


Your hands shall feed your haughty conqueror’s 
steeds, 

Your country ye will seek in vain! Yon walls, 

By mighty Phoebus reared, shall cumber earth, 

In smouldering ruins. Yet the Gods of Troy 

Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs ; — 
Heaven grants 

One proud, last gift, — in griefa deathless name, 

Ye cypresses and palms, by princely hands 

Of Priam’s daughters peal dae: ye shall grow, 

Watered, alas! ‘by widows’ tea Guard ye 

My slumbering fathers! He a shall withhold 

The impious axe from your devoted trunks 

Shall feel less bitterly Azs stroke of grief, 

And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand. 

Guard ye my fathers! One day shall_-ye mark 

A sightless wanderer ’mid your ancient shades: 

Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace 

The hallowed urns, and question of their trust. 

Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply 

In hollow murmur, and give up the tale 

Of Troy twice razed to earth and twice rebuilt; 

Shining in grandeur on the desert plain, 

To make more lofty the last monument 

Raised for the sons of Peleus. There the bard, 

Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song, 

A glorious immortality shall give 

Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned, 

Which ancient Ocean wraps in his embrace 

And thou, too, Hector, shalt the meed receive 

Of pitying tears, where’er the patriot’s blood 

Ts prized or mourned, — so long as yonder sun 

Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woes.”’ 


Alamanni, Luigi 3 : . 2 : “ 5 559 
Alcazar, Baltasar del . 8 - 7 : : . 676 


imenawiitanio: "ls. as meta. ee GOL 


Alfonso the Second, King of Aragon . ; : . 634 
Alfonso the Tenth, Migs of Castile ; ; : 637 
Alfred, King 2 ; ; - : : Be 
Almeyda, Fernando de 
Alvares do Oriente, Fernao : . ie : 
Anduze, Claired’ . ; : f : é 5 431 
Anhalt, Heinrich, Herzog von . A : : LEYS 


Anslo, Reinier : 5 3 : : : 390 
Argensola, Bartolomé Looe ; ‘ : tL 
Argensola, Lupercio Leonardo 4 : ; 701 
Ariosto, Lodovico 2 ; : : 3 3 « BAT 
Arndt, Ernst Moritz 3 ; ; é 332 
Arriaza y Superviela, Juan Bawtigue de ; ‘ Bony p45) 
Ast, Dietmar von . 2 - : ‘ 4 a 196 
Athies, Hugues d’ : - 0 : : - . 425 
Atterbom, Per Daniel Amadeus . a ie é 170 
Auersperg, Anton Alexander von "i : : « 3856 
Auvergne, Pierre d’ 2 2 : , 5 435 
Bacellar, Antonio Barbosa ; ; i : » 154 
Baggesen, Jens : A 5 : : ‘ : 89 
Baif, Jean Antoine de ; ; . ; : » 451 
Barbe de Verrue ; : 4 > : 2 ; 427 
Barbier, Auguste : “ : : ; ‘ . 499 
Basso, Andrea del . - ; : F ; 543 


Bellamy, Jacob . : ; : 2 - - Taig! 
Bellay, Joachim du . ‘ : P 4 : ; 447 
Belleau, Remi. ; - : 3 A : . 450 


Bembo, Pietro 5 teas i : : : 546 
_ Bentivoglio, Cornelio - A ; r 5 . 592 
Béranger, Pierre-Jean de P F es: -43 i 435 
Berceo, Gonzalo de s : - , Z 3 it 630 
Bernardes, Diogo : 4 7 S . is 751 
Berni, Francesco, da Bibbiena ‘ & ; A 5 560 
Bertaut, Jean . A - c “ 5 453 
Biarke, Bodvar . - : : ; 5 - ati 
Bilderdijk, Willem . A ; A : 393 
Blazon, Thibaud de . 4 ; : 5 . 426 
Bocage, Manoel Maria de Barbee du” tae - ; 762 
Boccaccio, Giovanni . s : ; - ; ists 3} 
Bodmer, Johann Jacob . : ; : : fn 242 
Boileau Despréaux, Nicholas A F : ; . 464 


Bojardo, Matteo Maria. - ; : : ; 539 
Boner, Ulrich F 3 s é “ 3 ‘ s) 229 


Bonilla, Alonso de . 5 F ; ‘ - . 703 
Borger, Elias Anne. ; ‘ . : ar 309 
Borja y Esquilache, Francie de. ‘ ; ‘ 704 
Born, Bertrand de ECMO 4G) 5 Peis 
Borneil, Giraud de . x s ; A36 
Boscan Almogaver, Juan... Be eee 
Brandenburg, Otho, Margrave of —_— ‘ _ 98 
Brederode, Gerbrand . , one , f | 382 
Breslau, Heinrich, Herzog vo ee 199 


Broekhuizen, Jan van 
Brulez, Gace 


Brune, Jan de ; - A 2 
Buonarotti, Michel Angelo 
Biirger, Gottfried August 


Cabestaing, Guillaume de 
Cadalso, José de . , ; 
Czedmon 

Calderon de la Here) Bains 
Caminha, Pedro de Andrade 
Camoens, Luis de 

Cartagena, Alonso de 

Casa, Giovanni della - 
Casaregi, Giovanni Bartolommeo 
Casero, Cicala 

Castillejo, Cristéval de 

Castro y Anaya, Pedrode . 
Cats, Jacob 
Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de 
Chamisso, Ludolf Adalbert von 
Chancellor, The . - - 
Charles d’Orléans 

Chartier, Alain 


Chateaubriand, Frangois- ingests, Vicomte de 


Chénedollé, Charles de 

Chiabrera, Gabriello 

Chison, Jaques de 

Claudius, Matthias : ‘ , 
Colonna, Vittoria 
Contreras, Hierénimo de : 
Corneille, Pierre ; 
Costanzo, Angelo di : ; 
Cotta, Giovanni 

Coucy, Le Chatelain de 

Coutinho, Francisco de Vasronceltos 
Cretin, Guillaume . : “ 


Da Barca, Conde ; - ! 
Dach, Simon . ; 4 5 
Da Costa 4 FE : ‘ 


Da Costa, Claudio “Manoel 

Da Cruz, Antonio Diniz 

Da Cruz, Fra Agostinho 

Da Cunha, J. A. : 
Dalei, Benedikt ; n 
Daniel, Arnaud 

Dante Alighieri 

Decker, Jeremias de 

D’Huxatime 

Delavigne, Jean- Hiencols Caabsny 
Desportes, Philippe 3 " . 
Dingelstedt, Franz Yt 

Do vx; Violante 

Doete de Troies 

Dorat, Jean ’ ; 4 


Ehenleim, Goesli von s 
Enzi, Juan dela . 
Ercil y Zuniga, Alonso de 


. 


Eschenbach, Wolfram von 
Espinel. Vicente 
Evald, Johannes 


Faidit, Gaucelm 

Faria e Souza, Manoel de 
Ferreira, Antonio 
Figueroa, Francisco de 
Filicaja, Vincenzo da 
Firenzuola, Agnolo 
Follen, Adolf Ludwig 
Foscolo, Niccolo Ugo 
Foulques de Marseille 
Fracastoro, Girolamo 
Francois I. 
Freiligrath, Ferdinand 
Froissart, Jean 


Gamboa, Joaquim Fortunato de Valadares 
Gargad, Pedro Antonio Correa . 
Garrett, J. B. Leitad de Almeida 
Gellert, Christian Furchtegott . 
Gessner, Salomon 
Gianni, Lapo ; . 
Gleim, Johann Withelm Ladwis 
Gostha, Johann Wolfgang von 
Goldoni, Carlo ; 
Gomez, Joam Baptista ; 
Géngora y Argote, Luis de 
Gozzi, Carlo ; 3 
Grabbe, Dietrich Christian 
Gresset, Jean-Baptiste-Louis 
Groot, Huig de : ; 
Grossi, Tommaso A . 
Guarini, Giovanni Battista 
Guidi, Alessandro 

muidiccioni, Giovanni 
Guillaume, Comte de Poitou 
Guinicelli, Guido. 
Guittone d’ Arezzo, Fra 


| ‘Hadloub, Johann 
{ Hagedorn, Frederic 
| Haller, Albrecht von 
| FHiamle, Christian von 

Harald the Hardy 

Hebel, Johann Peter . 

Heiberg, Peter Andreas 

Heine, Heinrich 

Henri JI. ‘ 

Henri lV. . ‘ 3 
j—-Yenry, The Emperor g 
Herder, Johann Gottfried von 
Heredia, José Maria 
Heredia, Juan Fernandez de 
Herrera, Fernando de i 
Herwegh, Georg 4 ‘ 5 5 
Hihojosy’ y Carbajal, Alvaro de 


| 


Hohenfels, Burkhart von : : 
Hoélty, Ludwig Heinrich Christoph 
Hooft, Pieter Cornelis . : ‘ 
Hornklove, Thorbiérn 

Hugo, Victor-Marie 

Huijgens, Constantijn 


Iglesias de la Casa, José 
lagemann, Bernhard Severin 
Tsaure, Clémence 


Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Heinrich Ati udstind 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Jacobi, Johann Georg 

Jamyn, Amadis 

Jodelle, Etienne . : ; 
Jovellanos, Gaspar Melchior de 
Juan II., King.of Castile 


Kamphuyzen, Dirk Rafael 

Kellgren, Johan Henrik 

Kingo, Thomas : 

Kinker , 

Kirchberg, Eofrad von 

Kleist, Ewald Christian von 

KJopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb 

Knaust, Heinrich 

Knebel, Carl Ludwig von 

Korner, Karl Theodor 2 
Kosegarten, Ludwig Theobul . A . 
Kotzebue, August Friedrich Ferdinand von 


Labé, Louise . 5 

La Fontaine, Jean de 
Lamartine, Alphonse de . 
Ledesma, Alonso de 
Lenngren, Anna Maria 
Leon, Luis Ponce de 
Leopold, Carl Gustafaf . 
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 
Lichtenstein, Ulrich von 
Lobo, Francisco Rodriguez 
Lodbrock, Regner . A 
Loots . 4 - 
Lorenzo, Juan, de Aste 
Lorris, Guillen de . 
Luther, Martin 

Luzan, Ignacio de 


Macedo, José Agostinho de 
Maldonado, Lopez 4 
Manoel do Nascimento, Franeien 
Manrique, Jorge 

Manuel, Don Juan 

Manzoni, Alessandro . 
Marguerite de Valois, Reine de Naver 
Marie de France z ; ' 
Marie Stuart 

Marini, Giambattista . 

Marot, Clément ‘ 
Martial de Paris, dit D’ Kawbrans 
Martinez de la Rosa, Francisco 
Marveil, Arnaud de 

Matos, Joao Xavierde . 
Matthisson, Friedrich von 
Medici, Lorenzo de’ ° 
Melendez Valdes, Juan 

Mena, Juan de 

Mendoza, Diego Hurtado de 
Menzini, Benedetto 

Metastasio, Pietro : 
Millevoye, Charles-Hubert 
Miranda, Francisco de Saade . 
Moliére, Jean-Baptiste Pocquelin de 
Ve oa he nk, ie 


-l«e"LON ta 


Montemayor, Jorge de 
Monti, Winecoal \ 


Moraiin, Le \dez 


: andro Ferna}}, Jez cs 
Oratin, Nicolas Fernaj 
Morung, Heinrich von 

Mosen, Julius 


Miiller, Wilhelm 
ae 


———$—$—_— 


Neubeck, Valerius Wilhelm 
Niccolini, Giovanni Battista 
Nifen, Gottfried von . 


Ocana, Francisco de F “ 
Oehlenschlager, Adam Gottlob 


Padilla, Pedrode . 
Padron, Rodriguez del 
Parini, Giuseppe. 
Pellico, Silvio 
Petrarca, Francesco 
Pfeffel, Gottlieb Conrad 
Pfizer, Gustav 
Pihdemonte, Ippolito 
Pisan, Christine de 
Platen-Hallermiinde, August, Graf von — 
Poliziano, Angelo . 

Polo, Gaspar Gil » “ 
Provence, La Comtesse de 
Pulci, Luigi : 


Quevedo y Villegas, Francisco de 
Quita, Domingos dos Reis . ° 


Racine, Jean ; 

Rahbek, Knud Lyne 

Ramler, Carl Wilhelm . 
Raprechtsweil, Albrecht von 

Redi, Francesco . . 

Ribeiro dos Santos, Antonio 

Ribera, Juan de : ° 

Ribeyro, Bernardim 

Richard Ceur-de-Lion . 

Rioja, Francisco de 

Rispach, Heinrich von . : : 
Rivas, Duque de, Angel de Saavedra . 
Rogiers, Pierre 

Ronsard, Pierre de 

Rota, Bernardino 

Rothenberg, Rudolph von 
Rouget-de-l’Isle, Joseph 

Rickert, Friedrich . 

Rudel, Geoffroi 

Ruiz, Juan, de Hita . 


Semund R 

Saint-Gelais, Mellin de 

Salis, Johann Gaudenz von 

Sancta Oli ara, Abraham a 

San Jordi, Mossen Jordi de 

a iro, Jacopo Oy. 5 > 

Santa Teresa de Avila 

Santillana, Marques de, Lope de Te niohe 
Santob, or Santo, Rabbi Don ; 
Sarmento, Joao Evangelista de Moraes 
Savioli, Luigi Vittorio . : h 
Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich von. 
Schulze, Ernst Conrad Friedrich 
Semedo, Belchior Manoel Curvo 

Seven, Lutolt von . , 
Sgricci, Tommaso 
Silvestre, Gregorio 
Simrock, Karl . 
Sjogren, Eric (Vitalis) 


Skaldaspillar, Eyvind 

Smits, Dirk . : ° 

Soissons, Raoul, Comte de 
Stagnelius, Eric Johan . 

Steinmar . : : : 
Stolberg, Christian, Graf zu. : 
Stolberg, Friedrich Leopold, Graf zu 
Storm, Edward c . ; ‘ 
Surville; Clotilde de . 


| Suter, Halb ‘; 


Tansillo, Luigi . 

Tarsia, Galeazzo di 

Tasso, Bernardo 

Tasso, Torquato 

Tassoni, Alessandro 

Tastu, Amable a 
Tegnér, Esaias  . 

Thaarup, Thomas . : 
Thibaud, King of Navarre 
Thuringian, The . ° 
Tibaldeo, Antonio 

Tieck, Ludwig oo iare 
‘Tiedge, Christoph August 
Timoneda, Juan de 
Toggenburg, Count Kraft of 
Tollens, H. F ‘ - 
Tolomei, Claudio 

Tomiers . 4 : . 
Torres, Domingos Maximiano 
Tullin, Christian Brauman 


Uhland, Johann Ludwig. 


Van der Goes, Joannes Antonides 


UMafchi, Benedetto . «. 


Vasconcellos, Paulino Cabral de 
Vega Carpio, Lope Felix de 

Vega, Garcilaso de la 3 

Velasco, Francisco de 

Ventadour, Bernard de 

Vicente, Gil é . 

Vidal, Pierre 

Villegas, Antoniode . . 
Villegas, Estévan Manuel de . : 
Villon, Francois Corbueil, dit 


Vimioso, Conde do, Francisco de Portugal 


Visscher, Maria Tesselschade 
Vogelweide, Walther von der . 
Voltaire, Francois-Marie Arouet de . 
Vondel, Joost van den 

Voss, Johann Heinrich 


Wace, Robert . . 5 

Weber, Veit : : 
Werner, Friedrich Laws Zacharias 
Westerbaen, Jacob . : . 
Wieland, Christoph Martin . 
Winceslaus, King of Bohemia 
Withuis “ 

Wiirtzburg, Conrad von 


Yriarte, Tomasde . 


Zedlitz, Joseph Christian von 


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